ather himself. He felt nothing but weakness and
a blank mental stupor. That things had gone too far he knew, but to
whom should he address this complaint? He felt as low, though less
bitter and sharp-edged, as he had ever been in his life.

He had prayed, and not in the moment of fear and anguish, but in their
afterglow. This in itself was enough to show him that Dubcek had not
won a convert, though he was still probably right. But this sense of
wrongness and self-deprecation began to bring back bitterness. He shut
it off.

I'm sorry, Ivan, he said to himself. You're a good man and I know you
tried to keep me from being hurt. But I can't see the world through
your eyes, or I despair..... And I cannot do that yet. Not while
there is any hope.

With this a ghost inside him seemed to rest more easily. Or something.
The doctor drew back the screen and with a sleepy, objective and
infinitely forgettable manner began to examine him and ask him
questions, mildly rebuking him for not coming sooner.

"It is obvious that you are suffering from acute anxiety as well as the
virus, and that the two feeding off one another have brought you to
this state. I have been told you are here searching for your wife and
that is all fine and good, but you must take better care of yourself or
you will be of no use to anyone. I am going to give you an injection
for the virus and prescribe lozenges to help you sleep. Yes, yes I
know you do not like to take drugs into your body and if you sleep on
your own you will not need them. I want you to have them anyway. You
are to spend this night in hospital and the next two days off duty then
you may do as you like but if you have any sense you will put from your
mind what is beyond your control and guard your health more closely.
You are not the only one with problems and concerns in this time of
unrest, and though you are young....."

When she left Brunner turned his head to one side against the hard
pillow, still half upright, and let his thoughts and feeling sink down
like stirred silt in a stream. NILEMUD AND CROCODILES. He remembered
the phrase from "Portrait." What the hell did Nilemud have to do with
anything? And why was Joyce always writing about himself? Did he
imagine he was the only one who suffered? And why call Ireland a sow
that eats its fodder? Like murdering a sick patient.

Joyce. That was the Colonel's name as well. He wondered if they were
related, or