CHAPTER XXII
WHEN Triona after many dim day-dreams and relapses into nothingness, at last recovered consciousness, he found himself in a narrow sort of cubicle, staring upwards at a mile away ceiling. He was tightly bound, body and legs. He had a vague memory of a super-juggernaut of a thing killing him; therefore he sagely concluded that he was dead and this was the next world. It occurred to him that the next world had been singularly over-rated, being devoid of any interest for an intelligent being. Later, when the familiar figure of a nurse popped round the screen, he recognized, with some relief, the old universe. He was alive; but where he was, he had no notion.
Only gradually did he learn what had befallen him; that he had laid for weeks unconscious; that he had a broken thigh and crushed ribs; that most of the time he had hovered between life and death; that even now he was a very sick man who must lie quiet and do exactly what nurses and doctors told him. This sufficed for a time, while his brain still worked dully. But soon there came a morning when all the memories surged back. He questioned the nurse:
“When do you think I can start for Poland?”
“Perhaps in six months,” she replied soothingly.
He groaned. “I want to go there now.”
“What for?”
“To join the Polish Army.”
She had nursed through the war, and knew that men in his plight were of no further use in armies. Gently she told him so. He stared uncomprehensively on an empty world.
“What can I do when I leave here?”