Avery staggered on with his burden at a jog-trot for about a couple of hundred yards. Then his strength gave out, and they both fell in a heap.
Barbara had only been winded. For a few seconds, they lay groaning and gulping in the cool air with their heads close together. Then Avery sat up and listened. He could hear nothing. Nothing but the breeze in the trees.
‘Can you walk?’ he croaked.
‘I…I think so. It will have to be slow. They took my shoes.’
He stood up. ‘Put an arm round my neck and lean on me. I’ll carry you a bit more when I’ve pulled myself together. We’ve got to get as far away as we can…. Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t think so. Are you?’
‘No. Come on. We’ll nurse each other later.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Barbara.
It was so wonderful to hear it. There was really nothing more to be said.
They hobbled along for a while, with Avery half supporting her. Presently, he carried her for a spell. Then they hobbled some more.
They seemed to have been struggling on for a long time—but Avery judged that they had not covered more than a couple of miles—when Barbara began to cry.
‘What is it?’
‘Sorry, Richard…. I don’t think I can go any farther.’
‘I’ll carry you, then.’
‘No, please…. I—I’m feeling all shaken up.’
‘This is a hell of a time to be feeling all shaken up,’ he said with sudden savagery. ‘Walk, damn you! Or at least let me carry you. I’ll be civilized tomorrow, but tonight it’s a question of survival.’
She let him carry her, but the crying became a sobbing. Presently he put her down.
‘What is it?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Goddammit, you must be hurt! ’
‘Oh, darling,’ she moaned, ‘I’m not hurt. At least, I hope I’m not hurt…. I wanted so much to tell you— but not like this…. It feels strange and—and…’ the sobbing stopped her.
‘Sweetheart, what is it?’ His voice was tender this time. ‘We’re all right now. We can stay here if you like. Somehow, I don’t think they will come looking for us yet. They’ve got enough on their hands.’
‘Oh, my dear one,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant, and I’m afraid for the baby….’ She shuddered. ‘It feels all wrong, as if something has happened.’
He held her in his arms. He held her and murmured tender, meaningless things.
‘Don’t be afraid, my love,’ he whispered finally, though he, too, was now afraid. ‘We’ll rest here. And as soon as there is a glimmer of light, I’ll take you home.’ The use of the word ‘home’ did not sound odd in his ears. Home was a place of love and security, a place of comfort and known smells and routines that had become rituals. Home was Camp Two and Tom and Mary. Home was a concept whose meaning he had only learned to understand on a strange planet light-years away from Earth…
They did not sleep. Presently he told her how Tom had got back, and how he had pulled the javelin out. Then, to take their minds off their own troubles, they looked at the stars—now known and friendly stars—and divided them up into constellations and played at naming them…. And they thought of their child, and prayed simply that they would not lose it….
They whispered to each other of many things, but they did not talk about the golden people. With the first sign of light, they stretched their weary and aching limbs and stumbled on in the rough direction of Camp Two.
The feelings of unrest in Barbara’s stomach had subsided. She began to feel happier. But when, in the early light, she saw the strange symbols that had been painted on her body, she was suddenly and violently sick.
TWENTY-FOUR
They did not get back to Camp Two until a little after midday. Avery had given Barbara his mud-caked shirt. They had started on the last leg of the journey shortly before dawn; but they were stiff and weary and depressed, and the going was slow. Instead of making directly towards camp, they headed towards the sea. Barbara was obsessed with the thought of bathing. It meant more to her than washing off the paint with which she had been daubed: it meant a symbolic cleansing after her ordeal at the hands of the golden people. For Avery, it had a purely practical value. He was covered with the gritty remains of the mud. It was all over his face, arms, body—in the creases of his skin and even in his hair. It made him itch. He thought longingly of the cool sea water.
Presently, unaccountably, their spirits rose. They could even look at each other and laugh. The warm sunlight seemed to diminish their tiredness and gave them strength enough to rejoice in each other. They became alive once more and were glad they could still share the adventure of living.
They came to the sea at last, and it was bright with the gold of early morning. They tumbled into it joyously. This was a baptism to wash away all the terrors of the night.
It took Barbara a long time to get rid of the blue symbols on her body—and she did not manage it entirely. After a few minutes both her breasts and her stomach became sore with the rubbing. Eventually she had to stop. All that remained was a pale blue outline of the symbols and red, angry patches of soreness.
They dried themselves simply by walking along the shore until the sun and wind had done the job for them. Then Barbara put on the shirt once more and they trekked back to camp.
There was a pleasant surprise waiting for them. Tom had already become—as he himself described it—a walking and talking case. His body, hardened by plenty of exercise and a relatively uncomplicated existence, had recovered far more rapidly than it would have done from a similar wound a year ago. But he was a camp prisoner, for he had neither the stamina nor the nerve to try to get down the ladder.
He saw them coming along the shore, and waved and shouted excitedly—hurting himself in the process. Mary ran cautiously to greet them—for the child inside her was big enough to reduce her to a kind of sedate scamper. She and Barbara flung their arms round each other and, like a reflex action, immediately began laughing and crying. Avery was amused at the spectacle. Tom fumed impotently and impatiently from his perch on the rock.
Both Barbara and Avery were ravenously hungry. There was no meat in camp, but they took the edge off their hunger with fruit. Then, while Barbara finished telling their story, Avery went to gather some crabs—the most immediately convenient source of meat—for a main course. Presendy, with the crab meat cooked and greedily devoured, they allowed themselves the luxury of whisky. There was not much whisky left, and Tom i*ad disposed of another of the few remaining bottles for what he described apologetically as impurely medicinal purposes.
But Barbara did not need to use whisky to lean on any more. She had something stronger.
Mary seemed to sum it up rather neatly when, not entirely as a result of her second glass, she made an oddly formal toast. ‘To the four of us—and to a kind of love that seems to split four ways.’
To Avery, it was a remarkably perceptive description. Obviously, in the deep sense, he could not love either Mary or Tom as he loved Barbara; but he loved them just as surely. They had become his friends and his family. They belonged to him. Without them, he felt, he could not be entirely human. He was even glad to ack-aowledge his dependence, and raised his glass in salute.
During the afternoon, Avery went on a brief hunting expedition to replenish the meat supply. Although he did not say anything about it to the others, and although he, too, was still elated at being able to bring Barbara back safely, he was convinced that the struggle with the golden people was by no means over. Certainly they had taken a beating, and one of their number was perhaps dead or seriously injured; but, from what he already knew of them, Avery was of the opinion that they would hardly care to let the situation stay as it was. They were a proud and arrogant people, glorying in their physical strength and contemptuous of what they regarded as lesser beings. The rescue must have hurt them spiritually as well as physically. They would not be content to let matters stand. For them, what had happened would be merely round two of the contest. Sooner or later, they would try for a conclusion. Above all, it would be necessary to their self-respect.