Ugundi leaned over Gilligan suspiciously, raising an eyelid. The Professor held his breath as the native examined the unconscious sailor. Gilligan's eyelid muscles did not tense up or respond to being handled, of course, being as paralyzed as the rest of him. The native studied his eye, then held his hand in front of Gilligan's nose. Gilligan was barely breathing, and fortunately, Ugundi kept that part of his examination brief. As an experienced hunter, he had seen the blankness of totally unresponsive eyes many times.
The native looked up at the Professor. "You speak truth. Gilligan now hunting on island in the sky." He turned away. "Will not fight challenge with dead man. The battle is over. Kalani, come!" It was a command. Kalani moved over to Gilligan, bursting into tears as she embraced his feet, and then she stepped back after a minute, resigned. She followed Ugundi meekly out of the clearing with the other two natives following them.
The Howells started to say something, but the Professor held out his hand firmly. Not until the natives had been gone for a few minutes did he allow himself to relax. "I think we pulled it off," he stated.
Mary Ann and Skipper both headed straight for Gilligan. "I hate seeing him just lying there like that," the young woman said.
Skipper nodded. "So, do I. How long do we have until he wakes up, Professor?"
The Professor looked at his watch. "About 45 minutes."
"You can't speed it up?" Skipper put one hand on his Little Buddy's shoulder.
"No, I'm sorry. I haven't got any antidote here. I was fortunate to be able to manufacture the poison itself; there are several plants that will yield it if properly processed."
Mrs. Howell stepped up and studied Gilligan through her lorgnette. "The poor boy. He was so brave."
"Yes, he was," Howell agreed. "When I think that I actually hit him today -"
"Twice," Skipper added. "But you had his best interests at heart, Howell. It's the thought that counts."
"I should have known the two of you would never rise to murdering a friend, but from just the little part of the conversation I heard, it did sound most suspicious."
"We understand," the Professor assured him. "Gilligan did, too. And yes, he was incredibly brave, refusing to let us all fight for him." As long as he lived, the Professor thought he would remember Gilligan's protest, "I can't let you all do that," and the way he had sat absolutely still, waiting, trusting later on the table and let the Professor inject him with a known poison.
He stepped up to the table, checking Gilligan's vitals again. They were the same, steady but very slow.
"Perhaps we should put a blanket on him," Mrs. Howell suggested. "It might help to keep the poor boy warm."
"It's 90 degrees out here," Skipper pointed out.
"All we can do is wait," the Professor stated.
So, they waited.
(GI)
"Any minute now." The Professor, one eye on his watch and the other on Gilligan, moved closer again. Skipper and Mary Ann still had a hand on each of Gilligan's shoulders, and all of the other castaways surged up to the table now, eager to see his eyes open and to hear his distinctive, fast speech as he demanded details too quickly at first to even listen to the others filling him in. Gilligan always was a bundle of nervous energy, and they were sure he would want an immediate recounting of all details, faster than it was possible to give them. They waited, ready.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Skipper frowned. "Isn't it past an hour?"
The Professor looked at his watch again needlessly; he was well aware of what the figures read. He must have checked it twenty times in the last ten extra minutes. "He's taking a little longer than I expected. But the drug can affect individuals slightly differently." He slipped the primitive stethoscope into his ears and checked once more, and ten eyes were glued to him as he put the bell against Gilligan's chest. "His heart is still beating, just very slowly." A hand under his nose revealed the same: faint respirations.
The Skipper was starting to get nearly as agitated as Gilligan could at times. "Is he okay, Professor? Why hasn't he woken up?"
"He seems the same." The Professor was fighting off his own increasing worry. "He's probably just extra sensitive to it." A feeling of helplessness washed over him, one he occasionally had had since their shipwreck but even stronger now. He wasn't a doctor. Granted, he was the closest they had available, and he had been forced to expand his boundaries in all sorts of ways that the American Medical Association would not have condoned in their years on the island. He knew when he got this idea that it would be playing with fire. Was this finally the time that his luck - that Gilligan's amazing luck as well - ran out?
He fought down the sinking feeling in his stomach. "Let's move him into my hut. I'd rather have him in a bed than out here on our table, and it's bound to be more comfortable." That last line was more hopeful than factual; Gilligan wasn't feeling anything at the moment. He could have been laid out on boulders, and it wouldn't have mattered to him. But the Professor suddenly wanted the comforting surroundings of his lab, of his books, and he could do more research in there.
Skipper waved the rest of them back. Easily picking up his Little Buddy, as if he weighed no more than a feather, he carried him gently into the Professor's hut, and the other five followed close behind.