There was no technique.
Was pity, then, the activating force, pity for the neart-6reaat's what it is, pity and shame, and he hated himself for thinking it, and not because of the thought, but because he knew he lied...
He was too tired to think anyway.
His mind was woolly, fuzzy round the edges, his thoughts disjointed, uncontrolled.
Like everyone else's.
Even Andy Carpenter, the last man you would suspect of it-he felt that way, too, and admitted it....
He wondered what the Kapok Kid would have to say to this...
The Kid was probably wandering too, but wandering in his own way, back as always on the banks of the Thames.
He wondered what the girl in Henley was like.
Her name started with
'J', Joan, Jean, he didn't know: the Kapok Kid had a big golden 'J' on the right breast of his kapok suit, she had put it there.
But what was she like?
Blonde and gay, like the Kid himself?
Or dark and kind and gentle, like St. Francis of Assisi?
St. Francis of Assisi?
Why in the world did he-ah, yes, old Socrates had been talking about him.
Wasn't he the man of whom Axel Munthe...
"Nicholls!
Are you all right?" Vallery's voice was sharp with anxiety.
"Yes, of course, sir." Nicholls shook his head, as if to clear it. "Just gathering wool.
Where to now, sir?"
"Engineers' Flat, Damage Control parties, Switchboard, Number 3 Low Power room-no, of course, that's gone, Noyes was killed there, wasn't he?...
Hartley, I'd appreciate it if you'd let my feet touch the deck occasionally..."
All these places they visited in turn and a dozen others besides-not even the remotest corner, the most impossible of access, did Vallery pass by, if he knew a man was there, closed up to his action station.
They came at last to the engine and boiler-rooms, to the gulping pressure changes on unaccustomed eardrums as they went through the airlocks, to the antithetically breath-taking blast of heat as they passed inside.
In 'A'boiler-room, Nicholls insisted on Vallery's resting for some minutes.
He was grey with pain and weakness, his breathing very disH.U. 161 F tressed.
Nicholls noticed Hartley talking in a corner, was dimly aware of someone leaving the boiler-room.
Then his eyes caught sight of a burly, swarthy stoker, with bruised cheeks and the remnants of a gorgeous black eye, stalking across the floor.
He carried a canvas chair, set it down with a thump behind Vallery.
"A seat, sir," he growled.
"Thank you, thank you." Vallery lowered himself gratefully, then looked up in surprise. "Riley?" he murmured, then switched his glance to Hendry, the Chief Stoker. "Doing his duty with a minimum of grace, eh?"
Hendry stirred uncomfortably. "He did it off his own bat, sir."
"I'm sorry," Vallery said sincerely. "Forgive me, Riley. Thank you very much."
He stared after him in puzzled wonder, looked again at Hendry, eyebrows lifted in interrogation, Hendry shook his head.
"Search me, sir. I've no idea.
He's a queer fish.
Does things like that. He'd bend a lead pipe over your skull without batting an eyelid-and he's got a mania for looking after kittens and lame dogs.
Or if you get a bird with a broken wing-Riley's your man.
But he's got a low opinion of his fellowmen, sir."
Vallery nodded slowly, without speaking, leaned against the canvas back and closed his eyes in exhaustion.
Nicholls bent over him.
"Look, sir," he urged quietly, "why not give it up?
Frankly, sir, you're killing yourself.
Can't we finish this some other time?"
"I'm afraid not, my boy." Vallery was very patient. "You don't understand.' Some other time' will be too late."
He turned to Hendry.
"So you think you'll manage all right, Chief?"
"Don't you worry about us, sir."
The soft Devon voice was grim and gentle at the same time. "Just you look after yourself. The stokers won't let you down, sir."