Breaking his word, Stephen took her arm and led her out. She did not mind, really. At least this time he had a reason to touch her.
He took her to a corral where two cows and a half-grown heifer were eating hay. Far off to one side, there was another corral from which a bull stared at the cows.
"This place is full of babies and pregnant women," he said.
"We need plenty of milk." The heifer came over to them and he rubbed its broad face. "You can get a disease from drinking raw milk," Rane said.
"We know that. We're careful-although we're not sure we have to be. We don't seem to get other diseases once we have this one."
"It's not worth it!"
He looked surprised at her vehemence. "Rane, you'll be all right. Young women don't have anything to worry about. It's older women and all men who take the risk."
"So I've heard. That means my father could die. And, young or not, my sister will probably die sooner than she would have without you people. And me. What do I do if I live? Give birth to one little animal after another?"
He turned her around so that she faced him. "Our children are not animals!" he said. "We are not interested in hearing
them called animals."
She pulled free of him, not at all surprised that he let her. "I never cared much for the idea of aborting children," she said, "but if I thought for a moment that I was carrying another Jacob, I'd be willing to abort it with an old wire coat hanger!"
She had managed to horrify him-which was what she had intended. She was completely serious, and he, of all people, had to know it.
"You know they planned to give you to me," he said softly. "I suspected. So I wanted you to know how I felt."
"Your feelings will change. Ours did. The disease changes you." "Makes you like having four-legged kids?"
"Makes you like having kids. Makes you need to have them. And when they come, you love them. I wonder . . . What's
the chemical composition of love? Human babies are ugly even when they're normal, but we love them. If we didn't the species would die. Our babies here-well, if we didn't love them, if we weren't damned protective of them, the Clay's Ark organism on Earth would die. It isn't intelligent, but, Cod, is it ever built to survive."
"I won't change," Rane said.
He smiled and shook his head. "You're a strong girl, but you don't know what you're talking about." He paused. "You don't have to come to me until you want to. We're not rapists here. And you . . . Well, you're interesting right now, but not as interesting as you will be."
"What are you talking about?"
He put his arm around her. She was surprised that the gesture did not offend her. "You'll find out eventually. For now, it doesn't matter."
They walked away from the heifer and she mooed after them.
"Cows don't seem to get the disease," he commented. "Dogs get it and it kills them. It kills all the types of cold-blooded things that have bitten us-snakes, scorpions, insects . . . There may not be anything on Earth that can penetrate our flesh and come away unchanged. Except our own kind, of course. I can't prove it, but I'll bet those cows are carriers."
"The scope attachment of my father's bag could probably tell you that," Rane said. "Though he may not be in any mood
to use it."
"I can use it," he said.
She looked at his face, lineless in spite of his thinness. He was the youngest person she had seen so far-in his early twenties, perhaps, or his late teens. "You were in school before, weren't you," she guessed.
He nodded. "College. Music major. I got a little sidetracked taking biology and chemistry classes, though."
"What were you going to be?"
"A concert violinist. I've been playing since I was four."
"And now you're willing to give it all up and move back to the twentieth century?"
He stopped at a large wooden bin, opened it, and watched as a couple of dozen chickens came running and gathered around, clucking. He opened one of the six large metal barrels, took out a handful of cracked corn, and threw it to them. This was clearly what they were waiting for. They began pecking up the corn quickly before the newcomers who came in from every direction could take it from them. Stephen threw a little more of the corn, then closed the bin.
"It's almost sunset," he said. "You'd think they'd be too busy deciding where they were going to roost to watch the bin." "Don't you care that you're never going to be a musician?" she demanded.
He looked down at his hands, rubbed them together. "Yes."
His voice had dropped low into his own private pain. She stood silent, feeling awkward, for once not knowing what to say. Then he looked up at her, smiled faintly. "It was an old passion," he said. "I haven't touched a violin for months. I didn't know what that would be like."
"What is it like?" she asked.
He began to walk so that she almost missed his answer. "An amputation," he whispered.
She walked with him, let him lead her out to the garden, passing the Wagoneer on the way. The sight of it jarred her, reminded her that she should be watching for a way of escape.
"Did you ever see food growing?" he asked, bending to turn a deep green watermelon over and look at its yellow bottom. "Ripe," he commented. "You wouldn't believe how sweet they are." He was distracting. He moved from one
subject to another, drawing her with him, keeping her emotionally involved in whatever he chose.
"I don't care about food growing," she said. "Listen, Stephen, my father is a good doctor. Let him examine you-maybe the disease can be cured. If he can't help you himself, he'll know who can."
"We don't leave the ranch," he said, "except to bring in supplies and converts." "You'll never be a violinist here!"
"I'll never be a violinist," he said. "Don't you think I know that?" He never raised his voice. His expression changed only slightly. But she felt as though he had shouted at her. She watched him with fascination.
"Why?" she asked. "What's holding you here?" "I belong here. These are my people now."
"Why? Because they gave you a disease?"
"Yes."
"That doesn't make sense!" she said angrily. "It will."
His apparent passivity infuriated her. "You were probably nothing as a violinist. You probably didn't have anything to lose. That's why you don't care!"
His face froze over. "If you want to get rid of me," he said, "go on saying things like that."
In that moment, she realized she did not want to get rid of him. He seemed human and the others did not. Just a few minutes with him had made her want to cling to him and avoid the stick people and animal children who were her alternative. But she would not cling to him. She would not cling to anyone.
"I don't care what you do," she said. "I don't understand why anyone would want to stay here, and you haven't said anything to help me understand."
"Nothing I say would really help." He sighed. "When your symptoms start, you'll understand. That's all. But try this. I
was married. My wife played the piano-played it maybe better than I played the violin. We had a son who was only a year old when I saw him last. If I stay here, my wife can go on playing the piano. The world will go on being a place where people have time for music and beauty. My son can grow up and do whatever he wants to. My parents have some money. They'll see that he has his chance. But if I try to turn myself in, I know I'll lose control and spread the disease. I would begin the process of turning the world into a place with no time for anything but survival. In the end, Jacob and his kind would inherit everything. My son . . . might never live to be a man."