Her legs were before him, leading the way. He had never seen anything quite so lovely.
Soon he was sprawled upon the bank, and she was brushing things from him and stamping them into the muck.
"Come on!" she cried into his ear. "They're halfway across!"
No rest, no rest, though he was abominably tired. He strove to his feet and shook himself like a great hairy dog. The scratches on his face stung and the muscles of his arms refused to loosen. Somehow he found Sol's body and picked it up and slung it over his shoulders in the fireman's carry and lumbered up the steep hillside. He was panting, although he was hardly moving.
"Come on!" her voice was screaming thinly, over and over. "Come on! Comeoncomeon!" He saw her ahead of him wearing the pack,' the material of the tent jammed crudely inside and dripping onto her wet bottom. Fabulous bottom, he thought, and tried to fix his attention on that instead of the merciless weight upon his shoulders. It didn't work.
The retreat went on forever, a nightmare of exertion and fatigue. His legs pumped meaninglessly, numb stalks, stabbing into the ground but never conquering it. He fell, only to be roused by her pitiless screaming, and stumbled another futile thousand miles and fell again. And again. Furry snouts with glistening, blood-tinted teeth sped toward his eyes, his nostrils, his tongue; warm bodies crunched and squealed in agony under his colossal feet, so many bags of blood and cartilage; and stupendous, bone-white wings swirled like snowflakes wherever he looked.
And it was dark, and he was shivering on the soaking ground, a corpse beside him. He rolled over, wondering why death had not yet come-and there was a flutter of wings, brown wings flecked with yellow, and Stupid was sitting on his head.
"Bless you!" he whispered, knowing the moths would not get close tonight, and sank out of sight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Flickering light against his eyelids woke him again. Sot was lying next to him, living after all, and in the erratic glow from an outside fire he could see Sola sitting up, nude.
Then he realized that they were all naked. Sol had had minimal clothing since the dunking in the river, and the others- "On a line by the fire," she said. "You were shaking so badly I had to get the sopping stuff off you. Mine was wet, too."
"You were right," he said. He had been quick enough to subordinate Sol's modesty to need; the same applied to himself. He wondered how she had gotten the clothing off him; he was certainly too heavy for her to lift. There must have been a real chore, there.
"I think they're dry now," she said. "But the moths-"
He saw the material of the tent enclosing them. She had situated the fire so that it radiated through the light netting In front, heating the interior without flooding it with smoke. She had placed the two men prone, heads near the heat, while she kneeled between their feet at the far end, leaning over so that the sloping nylon did not touch her back. It could hardly be a comfortable position, though from this angle it showed her unsupported bosom off to advantage.
He rebuked himself for his preoccupation with her body at such an inappropriate time. Yet it always came to this; he could not look at her without turning physical, any time. This was the other fear of his erstwhile dream: that be would covet his companion's wife and be led to dishonor. Sola had acted with eminent common sense and dispatch, even courage, and it was an insult to put a sexual meaning on it. She was naked and desirable.. . and wore another man's bracelet.
"Maybe I can fetch the clothing," he said.
"No. The moths are everywhere-much thicker than before. Stupid is gorging himself-but we can't put a hand outside."
"I'll have to stoke up the fire pretty soon." It was cold outside, and his feet could feel it despite the greenhouse effect of the closed tent. He could see her shivering, since she was more distant from the blaze.
"We can lie together," she said. "It will keep us all warm, if you can stand my weight."
Again, it made sense. The tent was not wide enough for three, but if she lay on top of the two men there would be both room and a prism of warmth. Both were in urgent demand. She was being supremely businesslike about it; could he be less?
Her thigh rubbed against his foot, a silken contact as she adjusted her weight. Intimate messages ran up his leg.
"I think his fever is broken," she said. "If we can keep him warm tonight, he may improve tomorrow."
"Maybe the shrew venom counteracted the moth poison," he said, glad to change the subject. "Where are we now? I don't remember getting here."
"Over the pass, the other side of the river. I don't think they can catch up to us here. Not tonight. Do they travel at night?"
"I wouldn't think so. Not if they travel by day. They must sleep sometime." He paused. "Straight in from the river? That means we're that much farther into the badlands."
"But you said the radiation is gone."
"I said it is retreating. I don't know how far or fast. We could be in it now."
"I don't feel anything," she said' nervously.
"You can't feel it." But it was a pointless discussion. They had no way to escape it, if they were in the fringe zone. "If the plants haven't changed, it must be all right. It kills everything." But insects were a hundred times as tolerant as man, and there were more moths than ever.
The conversation lapsed. He knew what the problem was: though they had agreed on the necessity to conserve heat, and knew what was called for, it was awkward initiating the action. He could not boldly invite her to lay her generous breasts against his naked body, and she could not stretch upon him without some specific pretext. What was intellectually sensible remained socially awkward-the more so because the prospect of such contact excited him, practical as its purpose might be, and he war sure it would show. Perhaps it interested her as well, since they both knew that Sol would never embrace her.
"That was the bravest thing I ever saw," she said. "Going back for the tent like that."
"It had to be done. I don't remember much about it, except your screaming at me 'Come on! Come on!'" He realized that sounded ungracious. "You were right, of course. You kept me going. I didn't know what I was doing."
"I only yelled once."
So it had been in his head, along with the other phantasms. "But you guided me away from the shrews."
"I was afraid of them. You picked up Sol and ran after me. On and on. I don't know how you did it. I thought you were done when you tripped, but you kept getting up again."
"The books call it hysterical strength."
"Yes, you are very strong," she agreed, not understanding him. "Maybe not so quick with your hands as he is, but much stronger."
"Still, you carried the gear," he reminded her. "And you set all this up." He looked about the tent, knowing that she must have carved pegs to replace the ones lost when he uprooted the works amid the shrew invasion, and that she must have hammered them into the ground with a stone. The tent was not mounted evenly, and she had forgotten to dig a drainage trench around it, but the props were firm and the flaps tight. It was proof against the moths, with luck and vigilance, which was what counted, and could probably withstand rough use. The placement of the fire was a stroke of genius. "An excellent job, too. You have a lot more ability than I gave you credit for."
"Thank you," she said, looking down. "It had to be done."
There was silence again. The fire was sinking, and all he could see were the highlights of her face and the rounded upper contours of her breasts, all lovely. It was time to lie down together, but still they held back.
"Sometimes we camped out, when I was with my family," she said. "That's how I knew to pitch the tent on a rise, in case it rained." So she had been aware of the necessity for drainage. "We used to sing songs around the fire, my brothers and I, trying to see how late we could stay awake."