He looked as if she had slapped him. «Not?» he said tragically.
«“Not,”» she agreed firmly, then looked at his face and added softly, «It's all right. Just don't distract me, I'm busy.»
Jill cut the bath short, letting water drain and having him stand while she showered him off. Then she dressed while the blast dried him. The warm air startled him and he began to tremble; she told him not to be afraid and had him hold the grab rail.
She helped him out of the tub. «There, you smell better and I bet you feel better.»
«Feel fine.»
«Good. Let's get clothes on you.» She led him into Ben's bedroom. But before she could explain, demonstrate, or assist in getting shorts on him a man's voice scared her almost out of her senses:
«
Jill dropped the shorts. Did they know anyone was inside? Yes, they must — else they would never have come here. That damned robocab must have given her away!
Should she answer? Or play-'ossum?
The shout over the announcing circuit was repeated. She whispered to Smith,«
«Open in the name of the law!»
«Open in the name of what law? Don't be silly. Tell me who you are before I call the police.»
«We
«Me? I'm Phyllis O'Toole and I'm waiting for Mr. Caxton. I'm going to call the police and report an invasion of privacy.»
«Miss Boardman, we have a warrant for your arrest. Open up or it will go hard with you.»
«I'm not “Miss Boardman” and I'm calling the police!»
The voice did not answer. Jill waited, swallowing. Shortly she felt radiant heat against her face. The door's lock began to glow red, then white; something crunched and the door slid open. Two men were there; one stepped in, grinned and said, «That's the babe! Johnson, look around and find him.»
«Okay, Mr. Berquist.»
Jill tried to be a road block. The man called Johnson brushed her aside and went toward the bedroom. Jill said shrilly, «Where's your warrant? This is an outrage!»
Berquist said soothingly, «Don't be difficult, sweetheart. Behave yourself and they might go easy on you.»
She kicked at his shin. He stepped back nimbly. «Naughty, naughty,» he chided. «Johnson! You find him?»
«He's here, Mr. Berquist. Naked as an oyster — three guesses what they were up to.»
«Never mind that. Bring him.»
Johnson reappeared, shoving Smith ahead, controlling him by twisting one arm. «He didn't want to come.»
«He'll come!»
Jill ducked past Berquist, threw herself at Johnson. He slapped her aside. «None of that, you little slut!»
Johnson did not hit Jill as hard as he used to hit his wife before she left him, not nearly as hard as he hit prisoners who were reluctant to talk. Until then Smith had shown no expression and had said nothing; he had simply let himself be forced along. He understood none of it and had tried to do nothing at all.
When he saw his water brother struck by this other, he twisted, got free — and reached toward Johnson —
-and Johnson was gone.
Only blades of grass, straightening up where his big feet had been, showed that he had ever been there. Jill stared at the spot and felt that she might faint.
Berquist closed his mouth, opened it, said hoarsely, «What did you do with him?» He looked at Jill.
«Me? I didn't do
«Don't give me that. You got a trap door or something?»
«Where did he
Berquist licked his lips. «I don't know.» He took a gun from under his coat. «But don't try your tricks on me. You stay here — I'm taking him.»
Smith had relapsed into passive waiting. Not understanding what it was about, he had done only the minimum he had to do. But guns he had seen, in the hands of men on Mars, and the expression of Jill's face at having one aimed at her he did not like. He grokked that this was one of the critical cusps in the growth of a being wherein contemplation must bring forth right action in order to permit further growth. He acted.
The Old Ones had taught him well. He stepped toward Berquist; the gun swung to cover him. He reached out — and Berquist was no longer there.
Jill screamed.
Smith's face had been blank. Now it became tragically forlorn as he realized that he must have chosen wrong action at cusp. He looked imploringly at Jill and began to tremble. His eyes rolled up; he slowly collapsed, pulled himself into a ball and was motionless.
Jill's hysteria chopped off. A patient needed her; she had no time for emotion, no time to wonder how men disappeared. She dropped to her knees and examined Smith.
She could not detect respiration, nor pulse; she pressed an ear to his ribs. She thought that heart action had stopped but, after a long time, she heard a lazy
The condition reminded her of schizoid withdrawal, but she had never seen a trance so deep, not even in class demonstrations of hypnoanesthesia. She had heard of such deathlike states among East Indian fakirs but had never really believed the reports.
Ordinarily she would not have tried to rouse a patient in such a state but would have sent for a doctor. These were not ordinary circumstances. Far from shaking her resolve, the last events made her more determined not to let Smith fall back into the hands of the authorities. But ten minutes of trying everything she knew convinced her that she could not rouse him.
In Ben's bedroom she found a battered flight case, too big for hand luggage, too small to be a trunk. She opened it, found it packed with voicewriter, toilet kit, an outfit of clothing, everything a busy reporter might need if called out of town — even a licensed audio link to patch into phone service. Jill reflected that this packed bag showed that Ben's absence was not what Kilgallen thought it was but she wasted no time on it; she emptied the bag and dragged it into the living room.
Smith outweighed her, but muscles acquired handling patients twice her size enabled her to dump him into the big bag. She had to refold him to close it. His muscles resisted force but under gentle steady pressure could be repositioned like putty. She padded the corners with some of Ben's clothes. She tried to punch air holes but the bag was glass laminate. She decided that he could not suffocate with respiration so minimal and metabolic rate as low as it must be.
She could barely lift the packed bag, straining with both hands, and she could not carry it. But it was equipped with «Red Cap» casters. They cut ugly scars in Ben's grass rug before she got it to the parquet of the entrance way.
She did not go to the roof; another cab was the last thing she wanted. She went out by the service door in the basement. There was no one there but a young man checking a kitchen delivery. He moved aside and let her roll the bag out onto the pavement. «Hi, sister. What you got in the keister?»
«A body,» she snapped.
He shrugged. «Ask a jerky question, get a jerky answer. I should learn.»
Part Two
