“Asleep?”
“Person asleep ordinarily doesn’t hold still that long.
I’m going up. Cover me. If that hand moves, yell.”
“You ought not to risk it, Rod.”
“You keep your eyes peeled.” He crept forward..
The owner of the hand was Jimmy Throxton, as Rod had suspected since hearing the description. Jimmy was not dead, but he was unconscious and Rod could not rouse him.
Jim lay in an aerie half natural, half artificial; Rod could see that Jim had cut small branches and improved the triple crotch formed by two limbs and trunk. He lay cradled in this eagle’s nest, one hand trailing out.
Getting him down was awkward; he weighed as much as Rod did. Rod put a sling under Jim’s armpits and took a turn around a branch, checking the line by friction to lower him but the hard part was getting Jim out of his musty bed without dropping him.
Halfway down the burden fouled and Jack had to climb and free it. But with much sweat all three reached the ground and Jim was still breathing.
Rod had to carry him. Jack offered to take turns but the disparity in sizes was obvious; Rod said angrily for Jack to cover them, front, rear, all sides; Rod would be helpless if they had the luck to be surprised by one of the pseudolions.
The worst part was the climbing traverse over loose shale up to the cave. Rod was fagged from carrying the limp and heavy load more than a kilometer over rough ground; he had to rest before he could tackle it. When he did, Jack said anxiously, “Don’t drop him in the drink! It won’t be worthwhile fishing him out I know.”
“So do I. Don’t give silly advice.”
“Sorry.”
Rod started up, as much worried for his own hide as for Jim’s. He did not know what it was that lived in that stream; he did know that it was hungry. There was a bad time when he reached the spot where the jutting limestone made it necessary to stoop to reach the shelf. He got down as low as possible, attempted it, felt the burden on his back catch on the rock, started to slip.
Jack’s hand steadied him and shoved him from behind. Then they were sprawled safe on the shelf and Rod gasped and tried to stop the trembling of his abused muscles.
They bedded Jimmy down and Jack took his pulse. “Fast and thready. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
“What medicines do you have?”
“Two of the neosulfas and verdomycin. But I don’t know what to give him.”
“Give him all three and pray.
“He might be allergic to one of them.”
“He’ll be more allergic to dying. I’ll bet he’s running six degrees of fever. Come on.”
Rod supported Jim’s shoulders, pinched his ear lobe, brought him partly out of coma. Between them they managed to get the capsules into Jim’s mouth, got him to drink and wash them down. After that there was nothing they could do but let him rest.
They took turns watching him through the night. About dawn his fever broke, he roused and asked for water. Rod held him while Jack handled the waterskin. Jim drank deeply, then went back to sleep.
They never left him alone. Jack did the nursing and Rod hunted each day, trying to find items young and tender and suited to an invalid’s palate. By the second day Jim, although weak and helpless, was able to talk without drifting off to sleep in the middle. Rod returned in the afternoon with the carcass of a small animal which seemed to be a clumsy cross between a cat and a rabbit. He encountered Jack heading down to fill the water skin. “Hi.”
‘Hi. I see you had luck. Say, Rod, go easy when you skin it. We need a new water bag. Is it cut much?”
“Not at all. I knocked it over with a rock.”
“Good!”
“How’s the patient?”
“Healthier by the minute. I’ll be up shortly.”
“Want me to cover you while you fill the skin?”
“I’ll be careful. Go up to Jim.”
Rod went up, laid his kill on the shelf, crawled inside. “Feeling better?”