Two -The Dream-
Phil and Ed graduated together. They were not top in their class, but they did graduate with honors. Phil with a major in History and Ed in Business Administration. Both of their families were immensely proud.
Right after the graduation ceremony they gathered for the smaller R.O.T.C. commissioning ceremony. They were Second Lieutenant Beyer and Second Lieutenant Jensen. They had hoped that they would be assigned to the same training course. But, in its perverse way, the military assigned them to training courses far apart. Ed was to train in California and Phil in Ohio. Ed's unit was connected with security and Phil's with records. Each in their own way were a little sad, but also a bit excited. A new door had been open and both were determined to take advantage. Their friendship was at a level that required rather regular contact. And this they did, usually by phone and infrequently by letter.
The few months of training passed quickly. Ed was the first to get his assignment. He phoned Phil.
"Guess what, Ol' buddy? I'm going to Singapore! Embassy duty," tumbled out of his mouth.
"Singapore?"
"Yeah."
"You lucky son-of-a-bitch!"
"Ain't I though. Have you heard where you'll be posted?"
"No, I should though, in a day or two. . . . God damn, you're lucky . . . . . They'll probably send me to Gander, Newfoundland."
"There are worse places."
"Yeah, not many. . . maybe, Tule."
A week later it was Phil's turn.
With dead calm he told Ed, "I just got my assignment."
Slightly concerned, Ed said, "Yeah, where?"
"Changi Airport."
"WHAT?"
"Changi Airport," Phil repeated.
"Changi Airport, where in hell is that?"
"Don't you know?"
"No, you silly ass, where is it?"
Phil could contain himself no longer, "SINGAPORE!" he shouted.
"You're shitin' me!"
"No, it's for sure."
Ed let out a long , "Whoooopeeee."
Ed was waiting for Phil after he had cleared customs. He Had been in Singapore a full three weeks before Phil had arrived. They had not seen each other since after graduation, but had talked frequently on the Air-net phone.
Neither wore uniforms as this was part of the arrangement with Singapore. It was a warm tropical October day.
Ed's duty included embassy security and liaison for the numerous U.S. Naval craft that visited this busy harbor. Phil had been seconded to the Changi Airport which was utilized also by the burgeoning commercial air travel. He, too, performed liaison service and was assigned, because of his newly found, and trained knowledge of computers, to the Singapore airport.
"Jeeze, it's hot here."
"Yeah, but you'll get used to it. This is the tropics, ol' Bud."
They collected Phil's luggage, deposited it in the trunk of an embassy vehicle and started off down a palm lined avenue. Phil's eyes were darting about taking in all the new, exotic sights. Phil noted the colors, the odors of food, spices, the people: the Malay with their brightly colored sarong and equally bright colored shirt-tops (the women's sarongs were batik and the men wore brightly colored plaid-like sarong); the Indians, mostly mahogany colored Tamil, with their colorful, sensuous saris and the men in their baju Bengali (a Malay term); and the Chinese--the women mostly wore a loose, pajama-like outfit, usually silk, with a high Mandarin-necked top over loose pants.
Ed pointed all this out. He was enjoying playing tour guide--neophyte as he was.
He carefully maneuvered the car through the morning traffic. The profusion of all manner of vehicles was mind-boggling--the usual motor cars, lorries, horse-carts, human pulled and/or pushed carts, bicycles, trishaws and an occasional rickshaw. The windows were rolled all the way down and the incoming air offered some relief to the heat.
"How could you get use to driving on the wrong side of the street and all this crazy traffic?" Phil asked.
"Wasn't easy," Ed snorted, "all it takes is one time in the wrong lane and you learn really fast."
They turned right, at a busy intersection and headed towards the north side of the island.
"Where're the digs?" Phil asked.
"I stay at the Compound, but I got you an apartment near the Indian mosque."
"That should be fun!"
"Actually it's a great area. The apartment's over a book store. It's not bad and cheap. Your per diem will easily cover it."
The warm tropical clime had left its imprint on Phil. Dark sweat stains covered the front of his shirt and also his back. He leaned forward ruffling his shirt, looking for some relief. He sat back and grabbed the moist crotch-seam of his pants, jerking them downwards, again looking for some relief.
"Damn, it's hot!"
Ed laughed, "Yeah, that it is. Hey, ol' Bud, let me give you some advice. Get yourself some light-weight cotton pants and shirts. It's the only way. Also," he continued, "get some medicated powder for your crotch or you'll end up with a good case of the 'itching- jock-rot.'"
Phil laughed, "Speaking from experience?"
"You damned right. It only took me a week. Thought I'd go crazy. Went to the dispensary and the Doc gave me this salve, also told me about the powder. He also suggested that I wear either boxers or nothing. Guess briefs don't allow enough ventilation."
"Knowing how you like sleeping, you probably opted for 'nothing,'" Phil said with a snort.
"Damn right," was the answer.
Phil laughing-said, "Shit!"
It had been over five months since graduation, but the separation and separate training had not lessened their comfortable friendship. Ed pulled the car to curb in front of a 'colonial green' shop-house.
"Well here we are! This is your new home."
Within a couple of weeks Phil had acclimatized himself to the lush tropical environment of Singapore. His assignment at Changi was challenging and the learning process kept him thoroughly occupied during the week. His assignment, as Ed's, was considered 'good duty.' They wore their uniforms only for the required inspections in the Compound. Nonetheless, they were expected to comport themselves in accepted, efficient military manner on the job.
Phil usually took his lunch at the Changi cafeteria. During the first week, as he was sitting alone by one of the windows, looking at the incoming traffic when a carefully dressed young Tamil--maybe twenty-eight years old--came up to his table.
"May I join you?" he asked with a typical Indian lilt to his speech.
"Yeah, sure."
He placed his plate on the table mat, sat down and said, "How-do-you-do, I'm Balan Rajagopal," reaching his hand across the table.
Phil shook his hand. "Hi, I'm Phil Beyer."
"Pleased to met you Phil. You're the new American Naval liaison, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I'm with the Changi Airport Ministry. I imagine we'll be seeing each other a good-bit. How do you like Singapore, so far?"
"Fine. I like it. Except it's pretty hot. I hope that my Minnesota-blood gets use to it."
"I'm sure it will," and Balan smiled, a broad smile, symmetrical with white teeth. Phil couldn't remember ever seeing such a brilliant smile. Balan was near Phil's size, a bit thinner, maybe. His dark mahogany skin contrasted with the white of his eyes and flashing smile. His features were chiseled: strong brow, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes, a strong aquiline nose over an equally strong mouth, and a square, lightly dimpled chin. His hair was thick, black--the blackest Phil had ever seen--and slightly wavy. Again, Phil's attention was brought back to the smile.
He returned Balan's smile, "I hope so, and soon," and his smile widened.
They chatted as they ate. There was an immediate affinity sensed between the two as they talked. Nearly every day, from that point on, they took lunch together, learning about each other--their individual likes and dislikes, their families, their experiences, their job-problems. Balan had explained many of the customs of Singapore, the religious differences, the ethnic mixtures. He had been an excellent resource in helping Phil as well as Ed acculturate themselves into this exotic, tropical island-city.
By mid December, the three had become friends.
Phil, Ed and Balan had met a number of times at the Raffle's bar. Their conversations were always animated, frequently punctuated with raucous laughter. The three enjoyed each other's company and on a number of occasions noted that they had more in common as human beings than they had cultural differences.
Balan had invited them to a local soccer match. Soon, Ed and Phil became soccer aficionados. Balan, their entree to Singaporean culture and night-life, was often to be seen in Ed and Phil's company during the after-duty-hours. He introduced them to--as Balan called it--a 'special house,' known to the locals who had the money and the inclination. It was an establishment known to very few matsaleh. The women were special, very special as Ed and Phil had frequent occasion to find out.
One evening, in November they had met for dinner at a Punjabi restaurant in the Indian quarter. It was at Balan's invitation. He wanted to introduce them to his wife. In typical style, home and family were not shared lightly in Southeast Asia. It was not unusual for a friend to meet a wife or invited to a home after months, even years of association.
When they arrived, they were ushered to Balan's table. He introduced them to his wife, Raji. She was beautiful. Her dusky complexion was punctuated by her wide expressive eyes and perfectly formed mouth. She wore a royal-blue sari, shot with gold. She fit into Phil's mind's eye of his image of an Indian princess. "Spectacularly beautiful," he commented to himself.
Her voice was throaty. Her conversation sparkling. Raji was not the shy, retiring type. Phil supposed, as he soon learned, it was because of her schooling--as with Balan--in the 'U.K.' Raji had a way about her--she had the ability to make people feel at ease. Soon, there was unrestrained laughter floating from their table. Raji felt warm and a little proud being surrounded by three handsome, articulate men. And, she noted, with some amusement, the envious, maybe even disapproving glances of the other, more traditional, local ladies in the restaurant. It was a memorable evening.
After that, the four met frequently, enjoying each other's company, reveling in their burgeoning, mutual friendship. They picnicked on Sentosa Island, attended the races and occasionally went drinking and dancing at the Raffles Long Bar.
By mid December, they all had become the good of friends. They were comfortable in each other's company. Raji was also a source of bountiful information of where to purchase any and all of the treasures Singapore had to offer. Phil and Ed, on the other hand, often brought a bottle of liquor for Raji and Balan, as it was cheaply purchased at the Compound P.X. Liquor on the Singapore open market was expensive, and Raji and Balan enjoyed an occasional drink. Drinking 'spirits' was one of the ways that Raji and Balan differed from the more traditional Hindus. There were to be other ways, too, that they differed from tradition, Phil was find out. Raji and Balan were enlightened, undoubtedly due to their years in U.K. and also due to their both being raised in rather affluent, cosmopolitan families.
Ed and Phil invited Balan and Raji to the New Year's Eve party at the embassy. It was to be one of the highlights of the holiday season in Singapore.
The party was well underway when Phil saw Raji and Balan enter. He elbowed Ed and nodded towards their friends. Ed uttered a low, drawn-out whistle. Raji was spectacular!
She wore a shimmering gold evening-gown, in the Western-style, carefully cut, perfectly designed. Her long, black, silken hair was piled high on her head and held in place by several golden clips. She wore no other adornment except a blood-red, Burmese ruby ring on her right hand. She was a knock-out! Balan, too, had never look better. He wore an impeccably tailored, tropical linen suit. All heads turned and acknowledged the handsome couple as they entered.
Phil and Ed, in their close-cut, formal tropical uniforms, walked up to their friends, "Raji," Phil said, "You look great . . .good enough to eat."
Balan smiled appreciatively. Raji raised one of her expressive eye brows. "That sounds positively cannibalistic," she said with mock seriousness, and, punctuated her statement with one of her bright smiles.
Ed, with an exaggerated formal bow, said, "You'll have to excuse my friend, Madame. He's been living in the wilds of America for too long."
"Damn." Glancing at Ed, "You know what I mean, you crazy son-of-a . . . ." Phil caught himself in time and flushed. The four broke into bright laughter.
It was Raji's turn. "You two look positively handsome. Uniforms do something to a woman, you know," she purred the last statement, lightly touching their forearms.
"Enough of this," Balan said with a broad smile as he drew his wife closer. "I can see, I'm going to have to keep my eyes on you three all evening long," he said with a chuckle. Balan was not jealous, he was immensely proud of his wife.
As usual, they enjoyed each other's company. Phil and Ed danced a number of times with Raji, as did Balan. They toasted each other with champagne, at least two or three times. And, at the stroke of mid-night each placed a chaste kiss on Raji's cheek and shook each other's hand. It was a sparkling evening that they would long remember--or so they thought.
Early in the morning, as they were leaving, they made plans for late the next afternoon--a light picnic supper on the south beach of Sentosa. Ed saw Raji, Balan and Phil to the car and waved them off. Balan and Raji dropped Phil at his apartment on their way to their own. They smiled as they watched Phil, with unsteady motion, unlock the street level entrance to his apartment. Then they drove off bathed in the warmth of friendship.
Phil, undressed, fell into bed and immediately sank into a deep sleep.
The next thing he remembered was a loud knocking on his flat's door. He roused himself and focused on his bedside clock--eleven-fifteen. His room was bathed in pre-noon sunlight. The knocking continued, insistently. He grabbed his robe and padded down the hall to the door.
"Damn," he thought, "I forgot to lock the street door." He drew back the inner bolt and swung open the door.
"Lieutenant Beyer?" It was one of the embassy staff.
"Yes?"
"Sorry, sir, there's been an accident. Lieutenant Jensen's dead." Just like that, matter-of fact, no preamble, no preparation.
"What?" he questioned in a low, incredulous voice. The color drained from his face. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
It was as though he was struck with a sledge-hammer, "How?"
"Sir, Captain Olefsson wanted to go back to his ship, last night . . . ah . . . this morning after the party. Lieutenant Jensen volunteered to escort him. As the captain's launch was pulling away from the pier, a crane collapsed, hitting the launch. It was a freak accident . . . . only Lieutenant Jensen . . . . he was drowned, Sir. Mr. Collins would like you to come to the Compound . . . . to help . . . . to help make the necessary arrangements. You know his family, don't you, Sir?"
The shock was complete, blessedly complete and numbing. "Yes . . . yes, of course. Would you wait a moment? I'll dress," was said in a voice sapped of all emotion, flat and without any meaning other than those of the words transmitted.
The ride to the Compound was taken in silence. Phil sat mind-numbed, pole-axed.
James Collins, the chargé, met them at the entrance to the dispensary. "I'm sorry to bring you here under these circumstances, Lieutenant Beyer."
Phil merely nodded, pushed open the door and entered the small waiting room. Collins followed him in.
"Can I see him?" were the first words Phil uttered.
"Yes, yes of course. His body's in room two."
With leaded movement, Phil walked down the narrow hall, paused and carefully pushed open the door to 'room two.' The blinds were closed, bathing the room in half light. There were two hospital-style, single beds. A sheet-covered form was on one of the beds. Phil hesitated, stepped to the side of the bed and hesitated again. He fought for control, the initial veils of shock were beginning to fall away, releasing muted emotions. He reached up and folded back the sheet, revealing Ed's head and face--he seemed to be sleeping except the color was gone.
Without warning, tears flooded his eyes, brimmed over and poured down his cheeks. He stood there for long minutes, unable to move. There was a quiet knock on the door. Phil quickly wiped the tears from his face as it opened.
"Lieutenant Beyer, could you come to the office?" he asked quietly, knowing the ache that he was suffering, "there are a number of things that we must do."
Later, that afternoon, after what seemed like interminable hours, Phil was returned to his apartment. As an automaton, he unlocked the street door, mounted the stairs without closing it, unlocked and opened the apartment door, walked to the sofa and sat. Suddenly his body was racked with tearless, sobbing convulsions. Then the tears came, flooding his eyes and face. He cried openly and unashamedly. After long minutes, he became quiet. He sat motionless, the only movement was his shallow breathing. The shock had reasserted itself again. The death was simply too much to contemplate.
He didn't know how long he had been sitting there when, from some distant place he heard his name being called. He heard it again. He did not, could not react. Raji and Balan entered through the open door and stopped when they saw him. Both of their faces mirrored concern and pain. It was Raji who spoke first.
"Oh, Phil," she started, taking a step towards him, "we just came from the Compound . . . . Oh, we're so sorry." She sat beside Phil, fighting a losing battle with her tear moistened eyes. They brimmed and tears flooded down her cheeks.
All Balan could say was, "Phil," as he sat in the chair opposite the sofa. His eyes, too, were tearful. He searched his friends face, wanting to offer some kind of help, but not knowing what to say. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," was the flat, emotionless answer.
Raji reached and lightly touched Phil's arm, needing to make contact, needing somehow to communicate her feelings. "Is there anything we can do?"
"No," was the second, flat, emotionless answer.
Raji and Balan glanced knowingly at each other. They fought to keep their own pain and emotions in control.
"Are you sure, Phil?" asked Balan with real concern.
"Yes, I'm okay," came the obvious lie.
Again, his two friends exchanged perceptive looks.
Raji deftly wiped her cheeks with her already damp handkerchief, uttered a sigh and said, "I'll make some tea." She rose and went to the kitchen. She needed to be busy. This was not just a 'feminine nurturing' reaction.
Balan continued to search his friend's face, unable to speak.
Presently, Raji returned with three steaming cups on a small tray. She had purposely not placed them on saucers. She knew how much trouble Balan always had trying to balance cup and saucer and suspected that Phil suffered from the same condition.
She set the tray on the coffee table, deftly lifted one cup and offered it to Phil. He grasped it, full-handed, not registering any reaction to its hot surface. Her eyes widened, she knew how hot it was. Then Balan took his cup as did Raji and they both sipped the hot, soothing tea, but not Phil. After a moment he took one large gulp of the searing liquid and slowly replaced the cup on the tray.
Balan swung his small car into the circular drive. Phil waited at the curbside, opened the back door and accordioned his tall frame into the back seat.
"Hi, Raji, Balan,"he greeted them with forced enthusiasm.
"'Evening," replied Balan.
"How are you?" Raji asked. Her voice warm, but the concern was evident. "I'm glad you could come with us."
"Yeah, me too. Guess I've been a bit of problem."
It had been over three weeks since the accident. Phil had performed his duties, leadenly, but had always returned to his apartment, refusing the well meaning invitations of his friends and colleagues. It was only after Balan's insistence that he had acquiesced and accepted their invitation for dinner.
"It's understandable," she replied and then flashed her famous smile.
The rest of the time was consumed by the usual conversation between friends. They turned off Orchard Street and were able to park in front of the Golden Phoenix. Phil jumped out and opened the door for Raji. She was as always beautiful. Her red-orange silk dress shot with gold thread was set off by her dark complexion and the long gold chain about her neck. This evening her sleek, lustrous black hair hung unfettered down her back revealing her sparkling earrings.
"You look smashing," Phil said with obvious admiration.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Beyer, so do you," she replied, coquettishly.
"All right you two," Balan said, coming around the front of the car,"enough of this 'Mutual Admiration Society.'" The three laughed as the two men bracketed Raji and escorted her into the restaurant.
Dinner was light, they talked of many things, but avoided any reference of Ed. Phil seemed to have relaxed a bit. In part due to the company of friends and also in part to the bottle of wine they had consumed.
After they had finished dining, Raji suggested,"Lets go to the Raffles for a drink. They've got a great new band there."
"I don't know," Phil replied.
"Sure, it would be great fun, " said Balan as he clapped Phil on the shoulder, "besides, ol' chap, I'm driving."
A smile crossed Phil's face, "Okay. Just a couple of scotches, the wine has made be a bit dizzy." He couldn't dampen the evening. Balan and Raji had tried so hard to help him. "I guess I owe them," he thought to himself.
"Good!" Balan said, and then added "We'll watch over you."
Raji reached back between the front seats, squeezed Phil's hand and gave him another of her knee withering smiles.
"All right you two,"Balan said in mocked concern. The three laughed.
It was fated to be a most memorable night.
Slowly, the next morning Phil began to raise to consciousness. He still tasted scotch in his mouth. As he did so remnants of a kinetic dream, some fragments vivid others less so, flitted across his mind's eye. In the soft haze of half sleep these fragments presented a sensuousness that his erotic dreams had heretofore not offered. Limbs intertwined, androgynous, sweat glistened bodies, some light skinned while others darker, buttocks, searching hands, here and there an opulent breast, even an erect cock, all brought a warm afterglow of remembrance. A smile of erotic satisfaction crossed his face.
He tried to stretch his body in sensual reflection as he neared full wakefulness. But, it felt restrained, impeded from full, unrestricted motion. Other images appeared. These were not more vivid, but certainly more specific. Lips on lips, searching tongues partaking in an erotic serpent-like dance, hands and fingers caressing, fondling, searching, manipulating . . . cocks and balls, again searching tongues, but now slathering turgid, pulsating pricks and quaking testicles, lips encasing the swollen tubes. An arm cradling a head, another over a chest, thigh over thigh, a hand cupping balls another cupping a breast. These visual relicts, these sensual relicts seemed somehow different from his previous erotic dreams.
He was now fully awake and somewhat disquieted by these visual-kinetic-sensual images. He still felt imprisoned in soft, warm, velvet fetters. Slowly his eyelids parted. What he saw confused him even more. The fuzziness of awakening-focus brought a whirling sensation to his retinas.
"I guess it's 'cause all that scotch," he thought. The whirling slowly came into focus. A ceiling fan, brown bladed against white.
"I don't have a ceiling fan!"
Slowly his eyes dropped. Pale blue walls!
"This is not my room!"
He lifted his head, turned it slowly to the right and then to the left. His eyes widened, partly in disbelief, partly in a vain attempt to focus away what he beheld. It was not his room. Further, he was lying between Balan and Raji.
The dream became reality. As if in an out-of-body experience, he saw himself and the other two from above. The three were nude. His light form between two dark mahogany forms. He was on his back, slightly spread-eagled. Balan's head was cradled in his left arm, laying on his right side facing Phil. Raji, too was facing Phil, and his right arm encircled her head, under her right arm, her breast was cupped in his hand. Her right thigh crossed over Phil's thigh and Balan was cupping his balls in his left hand. His balls! Phil's balls!
"This can't be!" He slowly removed his right hand from Raji's full, warm, firm breast. The movement caused an sigh from her and she turned over. She shifted, moving her opulent, warm buttocks close to Phil and continued to sleep. Phil reached down and lifted Balan's left, cupping hand from his balls.
This too caused a similar reaction in Balan. He turned onto his left side with a satisfied "Hmm."
He lay there for several moments, trying to fathom the situation, the dream. Then slowly he raised himself to a seated position. Trying to will these surroundings away. He looked again at Raji's sleeping form, the sensuous curve of her hips, the fullness of her buttocks and her incredibly smooth skin. This he saw and noted. Then he turned his gaze to Balan. His lustrous, muscular form backed up to him--strong thighs, firm buttocks, broad back--they did not go away nor did Raji. This must be a dream!
Phil became aware of other things--the need to piss. Finally, after a deep sigh he edged over the foot of the bed, trying not to disturb the two nude, sleeping forms. He looked around for his clothes. They were nowhere to be found. The only things in the sleeping room was the large bed under a lightly curtained window, a silk Kashmiri carpet and a couple of empty chairs. He edged to the only door and quietly unlatched it. It opened to a narrow hall. Immediately to the right was the bathroom. He entered, latched the door, and pissed. The physical relief did not bring mental resolution.
His mind flew at ultra-sonic speed. Images, questions, sensations flashed over his mind's surface registering their impressions in nanoseconds. The kaleidoscopic images did not abate. They consumed his consciousness.
To allay his nudity and his feeling of decorum, he wrapped a used towel about his waist and reentered the hall. A few steps and he was the sitting room. There he saw his clothes, scattered here-and-there along with other pieces of clothing--they belonged to Balan and Raji. He found his briefs, slipped into them, then found and donned his pants. He was looking for his polo shirt when he heard a slight rustling behind him. He turned to see Balan.
His dark bronze, nude body glistened from the light sweat of tropical sleep. He rested his right shoulder against the door jamb and ran his fingers through his black curly hair. His dark eyes with the after-glow of deep sleep and his full lips curled into a broad smile revealing his brilliant white teeth.
"Are you all right?" he asked with the typical Indian lilt to voice.
"Yeah," was all Phil could say. He was not only disquieted, but thoroughly embarrassed. He was not uneasy just because of the presence of Balan's nude form, but because of the circumstance in which he found himself upon waking--not to mention the 'dream-images' he experienced.
"You sure?" Balan queried, scratching the light, black down on his chest.
Phil hesitated as Balan's hand dropped to his crotched, hefting his balls and scratching them in a typical 'male' manner. Phil couldn't help but visually follow his friends hand--noting the the pendulous ball sack and the soft, hooded, down hanging, bluish-purple cock nestled in a thick thatch of blue-black hair.
"Huh?"
"Phil, are you sure you're all right?" this time with real concern in his voice. "do you want something to eat?"
Phil pulled his mind away from 'the dream,' focused, and answered, "No, no. . . I'm Okay." Then added, "I've got to get back. I've got a lot of paper work to catch up on." It was a falsehood, but it was the only excuse that he could think of at the moment.
He needed to get out of there. He was confused, terribly confused. He picked up his sox and stuffed them into his pants pockets, slipped on his polo shirt and jammed his feet into his loafers. None of what he offered as an excuse was true, but Phil did need to get out of there. He needed to think, or maybe try to forget!
"Sure, I understand. Let me get dressed and give you a lift."
"No . . . . Thanks, I think that I'd like to walk just now," Phil said as he reached the apartment door.
"Okay," Balan answered giving Phil a friendly pat on the back, "See you later."
"Yeah, sure," and he closed the door behind him. The area where Balan had patted him burned and itched at the same time. He quickly ran down the flight of stairs to the ground level.
"Oh, God. Oh, my God!" It was a whispered supplication.