She caught hold of him, hard little arms tight around him. Panting, breathing, silendy working, she unfastened his clothes, tugging them away from him. Her unceasing, relentless fingers ripped his shirt loose, buttons flying.
He shoved her away. And was caught, swept up in a tide of flesh that engulfed him completely. He choked, gasping frantically for breath. Suddenly her teeth sank into his neck, biting into his muscles. He shoved and she let go.
Carl stepped back. He wavered, his arms out. He fell slowly, sprawling down, outstretched onto the bed. Before he could get up she was on him, pressing him back. He was helpless. Her arms were like steel.
For a moment she hung in the darkness above him, holding him down. Carl braced himself, crying out in pain. Then silently, soundlessly, she descended over him, flowing onto him, a crushing, inexorable weight.
Her breath hissed in his face. Her knees dug into him. He lay back, gasping, a sightless, weak thing lost in the darkness. The darkness and the clinging weight shuddered against him, turning into warmth, glowing and smouldering around him.
He was surrounded by warmth. A restless warmth that moved unceasingly, flowing back and forth, on and on. His eyes closed. His body relaxed. He ceased to struggle.
The motion picked him up. He was carried away, swept into the warm tide that plucked and pulled at him. Sweeping and lashing around him, scalding hot.
Finally, he slept.
Later, when much time had passed, time that was lost in the unknowable, the unthinkable, and the day was making itself ready to appear, Carl heard a sound.
He opened his eyes, lifting up suddenly in the bed, alert. Beside him the sleeping woman lay unmoving. She did not stir.
Carl listened. Far off, the sound came again. It was like thunder, a firm constant motion, a rumbling, steady and insistent. It made the building shake. It made everything in the room rattle and vibrate. Carl sat, listening intently, fully awake. Gray light was beginning to filter under the shades into the room.
The sound was coming nearer. It was moving, moving along, closer and closer. Toward them.
At last Carl sank back in the bed. He closed his eyes. He knew what the sound was. But he did not care. He was too exhausted. He was drained, left empty. He would care later, perhaps. Later it would mean a great deal.
But now he was too tired to worry or think about it. Trucks were on the road, moving along the highway, trucks and motorcycles. An endless procession hurrying through the early hours of the morning. Men bent over their handlebars, goggles and helmets, men in uniforms bumping up and down.
But at this moment it did not matter. Perhaps in some dim, distant time he would care and be interested, and worry. But now he did not feel concerned.
He sank back, farther and farther, into the soft bed. Beside him the woman stirred a little.
Carl returned to sleep.
Epilogue
The young soldier got off his motorcycle and stumped over. He was short and heavy, loaded down with equipment. His back bulged with a metal case, a rifle, a flashlight, tools, and many small lumpy objects wrapped up and tied together. He wore the parts of several uniforms, the shirt too large for him, the cap much too small. His legs were wound with cloth.
Carl and Barbara and Verne watched silently. The young soldier came up to them and stopped in front of them. He bowed slightly, keeping his eyes one them. His face was flat and featureless, like a dish. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his papers.
“The others are following. They will be here in a few minutes.”
“We’re all ready to leave,” Verne said. “Our stuff is packed in the truck.”
“Good.” The young soldier bowed slightly again and turned to go back to his motorcycle.
Carl ran up to him and walked along beside him. “You don’t mind if I talk to you, do you? Can I ask you a couple of things?”
The young soldier glanced at him and nodded.
“What do you think of the place? All these buildings and machinery. You know, we’ve been her a long time. It feels strange to leave.”
The young soldier nodded noncommittally. He stopped at his motorcycle, looking around. The office building reared up at the edge of the road.
“That’s our office. Where we do all our paper work. Do you want to come inside and see it? The records are still stored there. In the closet. We didn’t take anything away. Everything is left for you. It’s no good to us. I guess you’ll want to set up your headquarters there.”
The young soldier nodded. He crossed the road and started up the steps. Carl followed him, up the steps and into the office.
“Kind of a gloomy day,” Carl said.
The young soldier wandered around the office. He stopped at the desk, examining the typewriter and all the papers scattered around. He opened the drawer and peered into it.
“You can clean all that out,” Carl said. “You’ll probably want to throw most of it away.”
“Yes.” The young soldier pulled the chair back and sat down at the desk. He stared impassively up at Carl. Carl began to feel a little uneasy. What was he thinking? It was impossible to tell. The man’s face was perfectly blank. Presently his gaze moved from Carl to what Carl held gripped in his hand.
Carl looked down. “This? This is a treatise. A treatise on ethics. Philosophy.”
The young soldier continued to gaze at the brown paper wrapped package in Carl’s hand.
“Are you interested in such things?” Carl asked. He looked out the window. Verne was backing the truck out of the shed, onto the road. “I have to be going in a minute. He’s getting the truck out. I don’t want to be left behind. There won’t be any other way to get out of here.”
The young soldier said nothing.
Carl moved away from the window. “I’ve always wanted to talk to one of you people. There are things I want to know. I’ve been trying to find them out. Working them out in my mind. But I can’t seem to get all of the answers. I can’t seem to get them straight.”
The soldier was watching him.
“I’ve been thinking a long time. Maybe you can help me. Maybe you know. Can I ask you?”
The soldier nodded.
“You people believe in force. Don’t you? Don’t you believe in force?” Carl rubbed his eyes, shaking his head wearily. “I’ll be going in a minute. You know about such things. Force. Violence. Are things like that right? How can you know? You use force. You use ruthless force to get what you want. To get things done. You think they have to be done. You’re completely ruthless about it. You let nothing stand in your way. You destroy everything in your way because it has to be done. Isn’t that so? Isn’t that what you do?”
Outside, beyond the office, the truck horn sounded harshly. Carl jumped a little. He moved toward the desk.
“But what if you’re wrong? How can you be sure? Is there some way to tell? Maybe you can give me the answer. Is a person right in using force? He thinks he’s doing the right thing. But maybe he’s wrong. How is he to know? How do you know you’re right? Maybe you’re wrong. You destroy everybody who stands in your way. Maybe you’re destroying too much. Maybe you’re making a mistake. How do you know? Do you know? Is there some way to tell?”
The young soldier said nothing.
“Can’t you tell me?” Carl asked.
Still the young soldier said nothing. He sat at the desk silently, his face bland and expressionless. Carl began to become angry.
“I’d like to know how you can be so sure you’re doing the right thing. I’d like to see what proof you have. Can’t you tell me in so many words? What do you go on? Where’s your sanction? How can you be certain you’re doing the right thing?”