He awoke as a boot caught the side of his head. He rolled across the
ground, the pain exploding inside his head. The boot found him again.
Another time, above his eyes. He moaned, trying to make his muscles
work, but it was as though he were still caught in a nightmare.
"Filthy damned swine," he heard, and his eyes watched a fist come out
of the misty air to smash against his cheek. He rolled again, burying
his face against the ground, trying to hide, to protect himself until
he could find his senses and his coordination.
"You'll kill him." It was a woman's voice, saying this, a lilting
feminine voice that was very, very familiar. Caine tensed himself,
waiting for the next blow.
"Get up," a man said.
Caine felt the boot against his legs. He turned over slowly and pulled
himself to a sitting position. He shook his head, but the thick mist
that was in the morning air seemed to have gotten into his brain. His
arms and legs felt as though lead had been poured into his veins.
Slowly it came back to him. The woman. The Scotch. He searched the
fog-filled area in front of him. Fairchild, his mouth an ugly line,
watched him and in his hand was Caine's pistol. The woman was behind
Fairchild, still in the black gown, and Caine could see that it was
torn.
"I'd kill you right now," Fairchild said, his voice hoarse with rage,
"but I want that gem. Get up."
"Darling," the woman said to her husband, while her eyes danced at
Caine. "He's such a mess."
Caine tried to swallow and even that was difficult. Every part of
his body had been taken hold of by the drug that had been put into
his liquor, and each movement was a task he was certain he couldn't
complete. He raised a hand slowly to his face and his fingers came away
sticky.
"Get up!" Fairchild growled, his eyes vicious thin slits.
Caine got to his knees and fell flat again. He clutched at the ground,
waiting for the crushing boot. It came, and he tried again. He got
to his knees the second time and then, inch by inch, he stood up. For
a moment it seemed as though his head were floating away from his
shoulders, and he looked down at his body, thinking that what he saw
surely belonged to someone else, a limp, ragged body, cut and bruised
with no clothes. He was falling again.
Fairchild caught Caine's arm and jerked him upright. "I'll give you
two minutes to get your damned clothes on, Caine, and get behind the
controls of that ship."
He looked at Fairchild stupidly. The man shook him. Caine turned around
and searched for his clothes beside the dead fire. He staggered and
groped, and twice, blackness covered his eyes and he went to his knees.
Finally, he stood, weaving, clothed haphazardly, and he was vaguely
aware that blood was sliding down his chin, dripping onto his jacket.
He touched the blood with a finger and it didn't mean anything to him.