"Throw a disposal over that," he directed Abner. The younger man went to his pack and returned with the disposal unit. One of the disposal wafers took care of the mess Phillips had made.
"What's wrong with him?" Abner asked, completely bewildered.
MacMartree searched his memory for the word. "Sick," he said at last. "Phillips is sick."
"Sick?" Cole echoed.
"What's that?" Abner wanted to know.
"I don't know, exactly. I've only read about it, in my books. A long time ago, men got sick, like this."
"But why?" Abner and Cole said it together.
"I don't know." He bent down over Phillips. "Are you going to do that anymore?" he asked.
Phillips looked up at him dully. "I ... I don't think so," he said, weakly and breathlessly.
"Lie back," MacMartree commanded. "Close your eyes. Sleep if you can. Maybe we can help you."