“Not alone,” Da Silva corrected, and smiled. “You’ll have the girl here, and Wilson will probably practically live here until we get an answer to this, and she’s out of here.”
“I know. And looking at the two of them together will make me imagine all the sorts of things I’ll think you’re doing.”
“And you wouldn’t like that?”
“I’d hate it,” Astrea said simply.
“Good,” Da Silva said with masculine satisfaction. “I—”
There was the sound of the bedroom door being opened; Dr. Martins and Wilson came out, their faces troubled. For a split second Da Silva wondered what they were doing there, interrupting him in something he sensed to be very important, and then he remembered what they were all doing there. He came to his feet, shrugging his shoulders apologetically at Astrea, turning to face the doctor.
“Well?”
Dr. Martins looked at him thoughtfully. “You like to take chances, don’t you, Zé? They obviously gave her a heavy dose of sedative, most probably one of the barbiturates. She should have had immediate medical attention; right now she’s not in very good shape.”
“Her pulse was good, and—”
“The dose hadn’t hit her fully at that time. I’ll tell you this, her pulse isn’t so good right now. However, I’m sure we can save her, but if you’d waited a few more hours...”
“What are you doing about it?”
“I called the hospital from the bedroom; they’re sending over a Byrd respirator and all the equipment I’ll need for intravenous treatment. And a trained nurse to stay with her. Astrea won’t be enough; she’ll need watching twenty-four hours.”
Wilson broke in. “Would she be better off in a hospital?”
“Possibly. From what you’ve said, though, there would be some danger involved, and I can get the necessary equipment here and set it up just as well. It’s all portable today, thank the Lord. Just pray there isn’t a power shortage for the respirator.”
Da Silva frowned. “How long will she be unconscious? When will she be awake enough to make a statement?”
João Martins considered him quietly for several seconds before answering. “I have no idea. It’ll be quite a while, though. That’s if she pulls through at all, though I’m fairly sure we got her in time. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“She has to pull through,” Wilson said simply, and glanced at Da Silva. “I’m going to stay here, at least until the equipment comes and they get Jill settled. And probably after that, too. What are you going to do?”
Da Silva studied his friend’s face evenly. “There’s nothing useful you can accomplish by staying here. Dr. Martins will be here, and a trained nurse, and Astrea. I thought we might leave here and go to that party.”
“Go to a party? Tonight?” Wilson couldn’t believe his ears. “After all that’s happened? You must be out of your mind! If you want to get drunk—”
“I want some information! And I don’t feel like waiting another week to get it! Or even another day!” Da Silva’s voice was purposely harsh, biting, trying to snap Wilson out of his black mood. Astrea, watching silently, suddenly decided that while it might be fun to twit the captain from time to time, she would not like to get him really angry. Da Silva’s eyes bored into Wilson’s. “I have a deadline from the ministry to get to the bottom of this thing, and sitting here mooning over an unconscious girl isn’t going to do anything except waste time! I want your minerals attaché to give me a fast ten-minute course in radioactivity. And I want you there to introduce me. All right?”
Wilson took a deep breath. “Sorry. Of course, we’ll go to Crandall’s.” He glanced at his watch. “I only hope they aren’t all so drunk by the time we get there that it’s a wasted trip.”
Da Silva relaxed, smiling. “In that case we’ll just have to get drunk with them. It’ll put our discussion on an even basis.”
“Or help us forget the whole miserable mess!” Wilson said with a sudden return to savagery, and turned abruptly toward the door.
The party at Jack Crandall’s was in full swing as they drove up; the small street that had been so silent only three hours before now echoed with the insistent beat of a samba played from a hi-fi set with obviously excellent speakers. Wilson parked the car and the two men descended and stared upward; people lined the window railing, drinks in hand, apparently shouting at each other to be heard above the cacophony, although from the ground it appeared as a pantomime of puppets with only the raucous scream of the hi-fi issuing from the strained throats.
The two rose to the fifth floor in an elevator vibrating with the insistent sound from above, and left it to face the open doorway of the apartment. Da Silva shook his head with a smile. It was certain that all the neighbors had been invited, for otherwise the radio-patrula would definitely have been called a long time before.
Wilson led the way into the pack. In the large living room the buzz of conversation joined the hammering of the music, all of it spiced by a thick layer of cigarette smoke that refused to escape through the open windows, preferring to remain and kipper the guests. People stood around, each armed with a glass as if it were a weapon, trying desperately to say something intelligible — if not intelligent — to each other; waiters forced their way through the crowd carrying trays of drinks. Wilson halted the first white-jacketed figure with a tray, screamed something into his ear, and then turned to Da Silva, raising his voice to be heard.
“Standard fare at one of these things, is Scotch and water. God knows why” — he grinned — “actually God and me. Dear old PX! Anyway, I told him to bring us some decent cognac.”
“You mean we stand here until he gets back?”
“We do not,” Wilson said firmly. The party seemed to have removed his black mood; it was almost as if he were forcing himself to forget the problem of Jill. “He’ll find us. I don’t know how they manage, but they always do. Built-in radar, I guess.” He pushed ahead a few steps and then stopped. “There’s Jack over there. He looks like he’s trapped. Wait here, and I’ll drag him loose.”
Da Silva stood still as Wilson plunged into the crowd with an expertise developed at hundreds of similar affairs. He returned a few minutes later holding the arm of his host, who was trying to squeeze through without spilling his drink. He was a stocky man in his early forties, with a bristly halo of prematurely gray hair and a broad and smiling face. He nodded pleasantly at the tall Brazilian.
“Hello, Captain. Glad you could make it tonight. I’ve heard a lot about you; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He glanced about and grinned. “Some party, eh?”
“It seems very nice.”
Crandall’s grin broadened. “If your mother heard you say that, she’d wash your mouth out with soap — just for fibbing. The best you can say about one of these things is that they’re noisy. I have never figured out why anyone throws a party here in Rio, much less why anyone else ever attends them. Pure habit, I suppose.” He looked around. “Let me find a waiter and get you a drink. After a few good belts the noise seems to dull down.”
Da Silva laughed. “I think Wilson already arranged for some.”
“Good. Well, the food is in the dining room, if you can manage to fight your way in there, and the girls—” He waved an open hand, indicating the crowd in general. “There they are, God bless ’em, some accompanied and some not. Take your choice.” The hand came up again. “But remember, my responsibility ends with the food and drink.”
Wilson suddenly lunged, catching a familiar waiter by the arm and almost upsetting him. He took two brandies from the tray, handed one to Da Silva, and then turned back to his host.