“Johnson’s been using his skin bleach again,” Hartman observed. “He’s gone from redbone to high yellow in a week. Wearing shoes, yet. The Eagle Flies on Friday Skin Pomade for some Sat’day-night fun.”

“It’s not only Saturdays,” Koestler said. “He goes through two dozen condoms a week. His hut is littered with the wrappers. He’s insatiable.”

“Well, at least you got that part through to him. Use a rubber.”

“Johnson is no dummy, Jules. He knows the score, believe me. He’s very germ conscious. That’s one thing. A compulsive handwasher. I trust him with my food absolutely.”

As Indiana spooned down the pudding, he looked nervously at Hartman, who was a bulky man and was glowering at him. “What’s this ‘redbone, high yellow’ stuff?” Indiana said.

Hartman said nothing and continued to stare at the young doctor. Indiana looked at the other men and then laughed, “Hey! What’s with this guy?”

Chicago picked up his pudding and began to eat. “And now for something completely different,” he said. “The evil eye.”

Hartman’s face brightened. He relaxed his shoulders and laughed softly. “I remember a doctor—an American, tropical medic—didn’t believe in the superstitions, and in the course of things he humiliated a traditional doctor. The old boy put a curse on this hotshot, and it wasn’t more than a week before the American stepped on a snake. I had to fly him to Jo’burg, since he was really messed up, was this chap. A year, fourteen months later he’s back, forty pounds lighter, and a rabid animal bites him on the second day in. It took us three weeks to get a rabies vaccine, and it came from a dubious source. He took the full treatment, but came down with the disease anyhow. Bitten on the face. Travels to the brain faster. Funny thing about rabies—makes a bloke restless. Nothing to do for it, either. Dr. Koestler, Johnson and I had to lock him up in one of those chain-link-fenced compartments in the warehouse.”

“Excessive scanning,” Koestler said. “Hypervigilance. You could see the whites of his eyes—”

“From top to bottom,” Hartman said. “Very paranoid, drinking in every sight and sound.”

“What made it worse,” Koestler said, “was the fact that he knew his prognosis.”