"Thanks, Click-toe!" he gasped. Then he passed out.
When he came to, he was back inside the house, lying on the soft mat. Click-toe had to have dragged him here.
The lobster wasn't in view, and he realized she must be back outside dragging the dead machine out of sight. There should not be a third one coming, but it was best to play safe.
His leg was burning. The bullet had passed through the calf, surely taking out a tendon and maybe some bone.
Obviously he would be unable to walk for some time. He hoped there wasn't an infection. He saw that it was bandaged; Click-toe's ministrations again.
He faded out. Next time he woke, he found his head supported by Click-toe's large pincers. She was trying to give him a drink from a gourd. He sipped the liquid, and it was pleasant and slightly effervescent, invigorating his mouth and throat. Then she fed him more of the tasty tuber, and settled down beside him, supporting and comforting him as he had done with her before.
"You are taking good care of me," he said, and faded again as she clicked in response.
Then a call of nature woke him. Click-toe was there solicitously the moment he stirred.
"You can't help me in this," he said. "I have to do it myself."
He tried to get up and crawl to the privy section, but immediately his leg radiated such intense pain that he couldn't. Here he had no magic to dull pain or promote healing, and he wasn't used to it. What was he to do?
But Click-toe knew something about this too. She brought a large empty tubular gourd and touched his covered groin with it. She was proffering him a collection bottle.
Well, that was the way it had to be. He tried to take it—and the slight motion of his body made the pain stab him again. He had to use one arm to support himself without moving, because any motion of his trunk translated to some leg motion. His leg was worse; there must be some infection. How far would that go?
Click-toe took the gourd back and held it in place. He opened his trousers one-handed and brought out his penis. Now he had to have both hands, and couldn't. "Obscenity!" he muttered. He couldn't even do it this way; he was half supine and the gourd was above him. The urine would pour out onto him as fast as it entered. He would have to shift position, to the side, and that would be intolerably painful.
Click-toe brought the gourd close, holding it with her large pincers, angling down between his spread legs. Then she took his penis with her small pincers, and guided it into the mouth of the gourd, and held it there, curved in a right angle turn, as was necessary in this position. She could readily cut it in half, but her touch was gentle. The position was awkward, but feasible. She must have had experience.
He let go and let the urine course into the gourd. It was a great relief; his bladder had filled uncomfortably.
When it finished, she removed his penis, wiped it with a bit of cloth, and took the gourd away for emptying. Fifth managed to close up his trousers.
He had just let a woman hold his member while it urinated. That was a first for him. Weft surely would have done it if she had thought of it, but she would have had a sexual motive. Click-toe was simply helping as necessary.
He was soon distracted as the pain of his leg became chronic, traveling up his thigh to his torso. His arms began to tingle. The infection was taking over his body. Click-toe clearly wanted to help, but did not know how. He was an alien; her remedies were unlikely to work.
She tried. She brought him a thick, foul-tasting syrup: medicine. He swallowed a mouthful—and immediately vomited. She retreated, clicking apology.
"Needless," he said. She was doing all she could.
He slept again. There was not much else to do.
But now the infection reached his brain, and he dreamed. He was walking across an alien landscape with Flame, speaking of love. It was not Charm, but somewhere else. Bands of colored magic floated in ribbons, forming random patterns. Most were Chroma zones, and the spaces between were nonChroma.
They paused at the margin of a swamp. There on a tree growing on a tiny island in the muck was a bright golden apple. "I will fetch you that apple," she said.
"Needless. Your presence is all I desire."
But she lifted from the ground and floated across to the islet. She landed beside the tree and lifted her hand to pick the apple. Her fingers touched it—and the tree became a monster with huge glowing eyes and a gaping maw.
The apple was the tip of its tongue. It was a trap with a lure, and they had fallen for it, like innocent fish.
"Flame!" he cried. "Get out of there!"
But before she could react, the awful wooden teeth closed on her lifted arm, holding it fast. "Fifth! My ikon! Put it in magic!"
He realized that he was standing in a Blue Chroma zone, stifling her ikon. He scrambled to get out of it, but it was encompassing him, clinging to him. Maybe this was part of the trap: a way to nullify a Glamor. He drew out the ikon, trying to extend his hand so that it was in nonChroma. But he fumbled it, and it dropped into the swamp.
"Chagrin!" How could he be so clumsy at this critical pass?
He got down and grabbed for it in the muck, but couldn't find it amidst the twigs and stems. Meanwhile Flame was screaming as the monster sank slowly down, submerging with its prey. It was carrying her with it.
Fifth spread his fingers and seined through the glop, but all he came up with was handfuls of weeds. The ikon was gone.
Flame gave one more cry as her head was drawn under the surface. Then there were only bubbles as the swamp filled in where the seeming isle had been.
"Flame! Flame!" he cried. "I love you!" As if that could bring her back. He woke, gasping and sweating. The pain of his leg was now matched by the pain of his dream.
A cool cloth wiped his face. Click-toe was holding him, tending to him, helping in the only way she could.
"Appreciation," he said, and drifted uneasily back to sleep.
It was full morning when he woke again. Click-toe brought him water and food, and he was able to drink and eat a little. The pain in his leg had declined to numbness. That was not completely reassuring.
There was a sound. Oh, no! Was another machine coming? They were in no condition to stop it.
Click-toe scuttled toward the entrance. "No!" Fifth cried. "You can't do it alone! You'll be killed."
"No she won't."
Fifth looked, startled. Flame had appeared. "Relief!" he exclaimed.
"Not yet. Most of the invading machines have been taken out, but a few remain, determined to do their jobs.
They are hiding, pouncing by surprise. I must continue circulating."
"We can't fend off another. We stopped two, but my leg is shot and Click-toe can't use the wire."
She got down to examine his leg. She put her hands on it, and he felt the pain diminish with her healing touch.
"We found another way. Hot water. Dump it on their heads, and it overheats their brain units, spoiling them." Her grip tightened, and he felt intense currents there. "You will be able to use it now, but don't overdo it."
"Flame—I think I was hallucinating. I dreamed you died through my neglect. I feel guilty."
"Let me read your mind."
He opened it to her, letting her explore everything in it. This was an act of exposure greater than any of the body.
All his most secret shames were revealed.
"Needless," she said after a moment. "You were afraid your injury would betray me by compromising our mission. In your fever you made it literal, with my dying because of your neglect. It is understandable. I know you love me; that is what counts. I have abated the infection. I must move on." She kissed him and disappeared.
He looked at the leg. The wound had largely healed, leaving a scar. He knew she would have eliminated that too, had she not been rushed. The general malaise was gone, and with it much of his horror of the dream. Her analysis was immensely reassuring.