“Young woman,” Mrs. Thompson said with metallic distinctness, “You have been told that I have no interest in answering the questions of rattle-headed newspaper people and that I have no time for cranks who—”
“These men have police permission, Mrs. Thompson. I think you should see them.”
Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Don’t let ’em stay long, honey.”
Three men filed in. They were prosperous looking, a bit flashily dressed. They wore confident smiles.
The tallest one bowed. “Mrs. Thompson? I am Arthur Ledbetter. This is my partner, John Hungerford. Ledbetter and Hungerford, theatrical agents. And this other gentleman is Wilton Hisk, our attorney.”
“Pleased, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Thompson, visibly impressed.
Mr. Hisk wore glasses. He cleared his throat in passable imitation of a toy trumpet. “Mrs. Thompson, many, many obstacles were strewn in our path by those who would seek to isolate you from the world, calling your condition unfortunate.
“However, on your behalf I have forced the authorities to admit that there are no charges against you, that you are a free agent and that your liberty would not constitute a menace to this or any other community.”
“I’m sprung?” asked Mrs. Thompson.
“Ah — precisely. You may leave at any time.”
“But I’m a sick woman. Horrible accident. Damages, you know.”
“And how much do you expect to get?” Mr. Hisk asked softly.
Mrs. Thompson bit her lip. “Maybe as much as five thousand.”
Mr. Hisk bowed low to Mr. Ledbetter and said, “I think you should tell her.”
Mr. Ledbetter unstrapped his briefcase with the air of the court jeweler bringing emeralds to the queen. He took out stiff and official-looking contracts and laid them reverently by Mrs. Thompson’s elbow.
“What are these?”
“This top one is a contract with the Hawley Chain of Theaters. All you have to perform are a few small feats of strength. Sixteen weeks. When the curtain goes up you are sitting in a rocking chair. Same pose as Whistler’s Mother. You smile at the audience, pick up a horseshoe—”
“How much?”
“Ah — two thousand a week for sixteen weeks.”
Mrs. Thompson swallowed hard. “I... I...”
“And this contract is with Trans-East Video. Six months. One halfhour show a week. Total value of this one is twenty-six thousand, less of course our usual fifteen percent. This contract is for two weeks in the Garden with the Lombard Kirby International Circus. Five thousand a week.”
Mrs. Thompson said weakly, “A woman of my position and standing in the community. It isn’t dignified. I...” Her voice faltered and she licked her lips.
Mr. Hungerford spoke for the first time. “I assure you that each act will be staged with enormous dignity, Mrs. Thompson. And, as a small advance in consideration of your signature...” He took out a fat wallet, counted out four crisp five hundred dollar bills. He bowed as he handed her the pen.
Mrs. Thompson put her tongue in the corner of her mouth and signed. She giggled nervously. She looked at the pen and said, “This is one of those pens that writes under brandy, isn’t it? How absurd of me! I meant to say under water.”
The three dignified gentlemen joined in her nervous laughter.
The fenced enclosure of the Loma plant was lit by floodlights. But one corner was darker than the others. McGoran, crouching low, ran from one clump of shadow to the next. He paused and watched the fence, the area beyond.
At last he reached the fence itself. He thrust a hooked finger through the wire, ripped down. The thin steel parted with a faint singing sound.
In seconds he was across the open space and crouched at the base of the wall of the laboratory wing, his breathing unlabored, his face calm and confident.
The footsteps of the guard came close. As the guard rounded the corner McGoran jumped, bearing him to the ground. A steel-hard hand clamped across the man’s mouth before he could cry out.
McGoran leaned close, his lips almost touching the man’s ear, “I’m McGoran. Don’t struggle. Where are the others? The ones like me. The bus driver and Dorvan and the blonde.”
He cautiously released the pressure. “Go to—!” the guard grunted.
McGoran smiled without mirth and found the man’s hand. He slowly clamped down on it, stifling the scream of pain, feeling the bones give with the faint sound of a wooden matchbox slowly crumpled.
“Do you tell me or do I fix the other hand?”
“Next — building to the — left. Far end of it. Second floor.”
McGoran almost tenderly shifted the heel of his hand until it was under the guard’s chin. He pushed up. The guard lay with his dead eyes open, staring at the slow shift of the countless stars, the night breeze brushing his distorted face. McGoran took the man’s flashlight and hat.
Ten minutes later he crouched by Dorvan’s bed and shook Dorvan awake. Bill sat up, saying, “What goes on?”
“Shut up and listen.”
“Who’re you?”
“McGoran. You make a sound before I finish and I’ll kill you. Don’t think I can’t. I’ve got a proposition for you, Dorvan.”
“You’re crazy to come here, McGoran.”
“I can use you, Dorvan, and you can use me.”
Two hundred yards away Tom Bell-bight stood on the flat roof of the central transmission station. He leaned against the guard mesh of one of the huge cup-shaped transmitters. The starlight was bright, only slightly dimmed by the floodlights four stories below.
He tamped the tobacco down into his pipe with his thumb as he glanced at Jennilou Caswell who sat on the low concrete wall that bordered the roof. As he lit the pipe the puffing flames gleaming on the flat planes of his face, he kept watching her. The silhouette of brow and nose against the far panel of stars was very lovely indeed.
She said, “I forgot to thank you for the comb.”
“Friend of mine in a machine shop. Made it out of moly steel. Works, eh?”
She turned toward him and smiled. “Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Thought you were looking kempt. Is that a word?”
“We’ll call it a word. Tom, I don’t know what has happened to me.”
“I tried to tell you.”
“No, I mean on the inside. The whole world seems to have opened up just — well, just at the same time so many doors have been slammed in my face.” He chuckled. “Fine metaphors, Jennilou.”
He saw the new rigidity of her shoulders. She turned and held her hands out to him. Her voice was husky. “Tom, if it wasn’t impossible for us I couldn’t say this. I’d be too shy to say it. But now it is like we’re on opposite sides of a glass wall. Look but don’t touch.
“That’s the most important door that’s closed. You wouldn’t have liked me before, Tom I don’t like what I was. But now — now I’m alive and there isn’t anything for us, is there?”
“There’s this,” he said, indicating with a sweep of his hand the night and the stars.
“But it isn’t enough. I love you, Tom.”
“That’s a word with no adequate scientific definition. It has clinical and physiological symptoms. I hate to use loose words. But there isn’t any other. I love you too, Jennilou.”
Her laugh was too shrill. “But you can’t kiss me. To me you’re a creature made of tissue and slender sticks. Oh, Tom!”
He went to her and put his hands on the warm rigid marble of her shoulders.
The two men from New Mexico were silent as Dickinson drove his car toward the Loma plant.
“You sure Bellbight will be there?” the one called Sherman asked.
“He’ll be there.”
Another mile passed in silence. The other man, Lamont, leaned close to the windows and looked up at the stars. He laughed softly. “Think about it long enough and it’ll scare you to death.”