"It's my stomach," wheezed Packer. He squeezed his eyes up and contorted his face. "Oww! Help me!"

"We'll have to get you off the floor," said the nurse. "Can you get up?"

"I think so," panted Packer. "Oww!" He grabbed his middle and rolled on the floor.

"There, there. Easy now. We'll get you into bed and get some tests started. You'll be all right." She laid a hand on his forehead.

"You're not feverish; that's a good sign. Shall we try it again?" She put her hands under his shoulders and rolled him up into a sitting position.

With some effort they got him back up on his feet where he swayed precariously and moaned at intervals like a wounded bull moose. She led him into the next room containing three beds, and Packer dropped into the first one.

"Don't move. I'll be right back," the nurse told him and ran out of the room.

Packer waited until the door slid shut again and jumped up out of the bed. He approached the figure laying in the last bed.

"Kalnikov?" His voice was a harsh whisper. "Can you hear me?"

The man rolled over and opened his eyes slowly, His stare was dull and glassy. "You're not Kalnikov," he told the man.

Fearing he would be discovered Packer jumped back into his own bed and waited for the nurse to return. She came back in an instant and brought with her another nurse who carried a flat, triangular object which she placed on his chest. "Here, put this under your tongue," the second nurse instructed, pulling a small probe from the instrument.

Packer did as he was told and sighed now and again to add to the effect-as if he did not expect to tarry much longer in this world and did not greatly mind leaving.

"Normal, just as I thought."

Next he felt a prick on the inside of his arm just above the wrist. The nurse studied the machine on his chest and fiddled with a few knobs. "No trace of salmonella. How do you feel now?"

"A little weak," he said weakly. "But the pain is gone."

"Probably it was gas," replied the first nurse. "I'll bring the doctor in when he returns."

"Thank you, you're both kind. If I could just rest here for a moment I'm sure I'll be feeling better in a little while."

"Of course." The nurse packed up her instrument. "I'll check back shortly." She nodded to the first nurse. "She will stay with you for a few minutes."

"You're too kind," said Packer benignly.

"Nonsense." The nurse smiled prettily. "That's what we're here for."

Packer lay back and closed his eyes. The nurse sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. This will never do, thought Packer. I've got to get rid of her.

He belched loudly and allowed his eyelids to flutter open. "Could I have an antacid?" he asked. "I think it was gas."

"Just as I thought. Sometimes it can be very painful."

"Yes, I have a little heartburn now."

"I'll go get you something. I'll be right back."

As soon as the nurse left, he was out of bed and heading for the door to the next ward. The wards were clustered around the central nurse's station and could be entered by interconnecting doors without going through the station. The next ward was empty, and the next contained three young women who stopped talking and giggled when he tiptoed through. The third ward he looked into appeared empty at first, too. Then he saw a lone figure in the far bed, wrapped head to toe in a white sheet.

Packer, fearing the worst, crept up to the bed and pulled back the sheet. Kalnikov lay flat on his back, his face the color of putty.

"Kalnikov." He shook the man by the shoulder. There was no response. He reached out a hand and placed it against the side of the pilot's neck. The body was warm and a pulse beat regularly in the throat. He jostled the man again.

"Kalnikov, can you hear me?"

There was a slight murmur.

"Wake up! Kalnikov, I have to talk to you. Wake up. Please! " Packer glanced around quickly and went on trying to rouse the Russian. When he looked back Kalnikov's eyes were half open and bore the glazed expression of one heavily sedated.

"Listen," whispered Packer, "I know you can hear me. Don't try to talk. Just blink your eyes if you understand me. Okay?"

The pilot raised and lowered his eyelids slowly and heavily, like the curtain at a Russian opera.

"All right, here we go. One blink for yes, no blinks for no. Got it?"

There came a slow blink; Packer thought he had never seen a slower one. He wasted no time in getting right to the heart of his interrogation.

"Kalnikov, now listen carefully. Rumor has it that you were jumped by Reston and Rajwandhi-is that true?" No blink.

"Were you trying to help them?"

One blink.

"Hmmm. Were you injured in the fight?" No blink.

"What? Did you understand my question?" One blink.

"Then why are you here? To keep you quiet?" One blink.

Suddenly a voice called out behind Packer. A man's voice, and he was angry. "Just what do you think you're doing? Stop!"

Packer turned to see Dr. Williams striding toward him. Behind him were two security guards with tasers in their hands. The guards were frowning and the tasers were aimed at him.

… THEY STARTED OUT AT first light. Spence had not slept at all well. If not because of the hungry dogs that roamed in packs barking through the night, it was the sudden chilling expectation that Rikki the rat-catching python would mistake him for a rodent and strangle him. He was up and ready to be off as soon as dawn broke over the iron-blue, smoky skyline of Calcutta.

Gita had been up long before dawn making arrangements and seeing to last-minute details. He returned huffing excitedly and talking in gibberish, his round, dark moon face glowing with pride and good cheer.

"I have secured our passage," he announced. It sounded as if they were attempting a hazardous ocean crossing.

"How long will it take to reach Darjeeling?" Spence asked.

"A week. Maybe two if it rains." To Spence's look of amazement he hurriedly added, "You do not understand our roads. In the rain they dissolve and run away. They become rivers. It would take you a long time to swim to Darjeeling, and all uphill."

Gita scampered around his apartment throwing provisions and personal belongings into sacks and bundling them together. "One bundle for each," he explained. "That way if we must walk part of the way it will not cause too much strain."

Gita looked like a man who had lived most of his life investing in strain-avoidance schemes, and had become wealthy collecting the dividends.

"Is it really as bad as all that?" Spence asked, hardly keeping the naive bumpkin out of his voice.

"Traveling to Darjeeling will be like traveling back in time," Gita warned.

He had arranged for them to join a group of merchants camped about half a mile from his house. These men banded together to travel under the protection of armed soldiers, hired to defend them against the goondas and dakoos – bandits and outlaws living in the hill country. They would be moving at a snail's pace in rusty old gas-burning cars over once-smooth roads that had crumbled into little more than cattle tracks.

Spence and the others set out walking the few blocks to the caravan in the early morning light, tinged an oily brown from the smoke of ten million cooking fires throughout the city. They stepped carefully over the sleeping bodies of Calcutta's homeless who lined the streets like human pavement. Mange-ridden dogs ran yapping, poking here and there among mounds of putrefying garbage for morsels to eat. A hump-backed cow stood gazing at them with deep melancholy over a dead body where two crows perched on a stiffened arm, clucking their beaks in anticipation. Small children, already awake and crying, clung to their stillsleeping mothers, becoming quiet as the men passed.