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you?”
    â€œAs seriously as I would take the life or death of any human being put into my hands.”
    â€œBut his life or death isn’t in your hands at all, Adams. He is going to hang. There is nothing on earth that you can do to stop that or to change it. In this case, the decision has already been made—and by very powerful people, if I may say so. Why can’t you accept that and go through the formality of a defense?”
    â€œWould you, sir?”
    Kensington hesitated before he answered. “I deserve that. A physician is apt to forget about personal reservations. I’m a good deal older than you, Adams. It’s easier for me to indulge a formality.”
    â€œThat’s an evasion.”
    â€œHow the devil do I know what I would do in your place, Adams? Is this world so well ordered? Look around you at this happy land. It stinks of death! We’re at war. Every day thousands of young men die—strong, alert young men, full of hope and love and vitality. Do you want me to weep and wax philosophical over one twisted, distorted and wretched human being? A confessed murderer. A mind warped with hatred and fear. A personality diseased and damaged beyond hope of repair. Do you doubt for a moment that Winston deserves to die?”
    â€œI don’t know who deserves to die,” Adams answered slowly.
    â€œNow look, Adams,” Kensington said, marking his words with his pipe. “I am not a soldier. I am a physician, and for the big brass I have neither love nor admiration. But this war must be won. Even out here in this stinking backwash of jungle, that remains the central focus of my life. I console myself with the wee bit I contribute, and with the thought that this theater is a sort of pivot. In this pivot, my people and your people do not get along well. There is bad feeling. The Winston affair has brought that feeling to a head. If Winston’s death can shorten this war even by moments, it becomes the only positive fact of his life.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Adams asked sadly.
    â€œKnow? Know what?”
    â€œThat his death would be the only positive fact of his life?”
    Kensington stared at him, angrily at first—then uneasily. Then the major rose and stalked over to a window.
    â€œYou’ll want some lunch before your train,” Kensington said. “I suppose you’ll want to look about for a bit.” He didn’t turn around.
    â€œI want something else, sir.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œI want you to testify at the court-martial.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I feel that your testimony is pertinent.”
    â€œI don’t feel that it is pertinent or of any importance.”
    â€œYou will have to let me decide that, Major.”
    â€œYou have Winston’s confession. Sergeant Johnson has been called by the prosecution.”
    â€œI feel that I require your testimony, sir.”
    Kensington whirled on him. “Damn you, Adams, what are you trying to do?”
    â€œWhat I have to do.”
    Kensington said slowly, “Can’t you understand what it would mean for me to repeat the things I said to you? Don’t you understand that?”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir.”
    Kensington walked over to his chair and slumped into it. Outside, a steam whistle blew. “That’s sick call,” Kensington explained with a sigh. “You’ll have to excuse me for the time being.”
    â€œI don’t want to have to force you to appear, sir.”
    â€œI’ll come,” Kensington said. “When do you want me?”
    â€œMonday morning. Nine o’clock—at the Judge Advocate Building.”

Thursday 4.20 P.M .
    The narrow gauge was only twenty minutes late. When the train pulled into the Chaterje Station and the screaming mob rushed toward it and the constables beat them back with their long sticks, Barney Adams had a strange feeling of confusion and unreality. On the