and he, his own survivor.
The bus driver, a lean man in his thirties with a long and rather surprisingly pale face, stood in the weeds, too, hands deep in trouser pockets, watching him. 'So you would your own quietus make? Hey?' said the bus driver softly.
Mr. Gibson was inomeasurably startled. 'I botched it,' said he pettishly.
The bus driver poked out his lips and seemed to be touching his tongue up over his teeth. He moved back far enough to lean in at the door of the bus. 'This man sat halfway back on the right side, near the window, alone,' he bawled.
The four inside responded by gathering together on the right side of the bus. The driver came forward far enough to lean on the high yellow bus wall.
'You botched it, all right,' he said to Mr. Gibson. 'Hamlet made a mess of it, too. Hey? Going to try again?' He had sandy lashes.
'I doubt it,' snapped Mr. Gibson. 'I'll take what's coming to me.' He pulled back his shoulders.
'Gibson, hey? Teach at the college, don't you?' the man said. 'What do you teach?' 'Poetry.'
'Poetry! Hah!' The man grinned. 'There's a million poems about death, I guess.'
'And about love, too.' said Mr. Gibson with frozen-feeling lips. This was the oddest, the most unexpected conversation he had ever gotten into.
'Sure—love and death,' the bus driver said, 'and God and man—and all the real stuff.'
'Real?' Mr. Gibson blinked.
'You think it ain't?'' the bus driver said. 'Don't gimme that.'
The younger policeman came out of the bus. 'Nope,' he said. 'No soap. We'll look again in a few minutes.'
'Yeah?' said the driver. 'Whassa matter? Don't you trust yourselves?'
'Eyes can do funny tricks,' the policeman said stiffly.
'O.K. by me. I don't mind being out of service. Nice day.' The bus driver looked at Mr. Gibson again with contemplative eyes.
Rosemary jumped down out of the bus. 'What can we dor
Paul behind her, took her arm. 'Better go home, Rosie,' he murmured. 'The broadcast is the only hope, now. Nothing we can do but wait.'
'You remember him?' cried Rosemary to the bus driver.
'Sure do, ma'am.'
'Did you see the paper bag.'
'Might have,' said the bus driver, narrowing his eyes. 'Seems to me I get the impression he shifted a little package to his other hand when he put his fare in. It's just an impression but I got it. Might mean something.'
'Did you see it in his hand when he got off?'
'No, ma'am. People getting off have their backs to me.'
'Did you see who took the seat he'd been sitting in . . . ?'
'No, ma'am. Lessee. He got off at Lambert? Well, I had a little poker game with a green Pontiac there—where he got off. This Pontiac and me was outbluffing each other, so I paid no attention. . . .'
'Was the bus full?'
'No, ma'am. Not at that hour.'
'Do you understand?' said Rosemary. 'It's a deadly poison. In the wrong bottle. Do you understand that?'
The bus driver said sweetly, 'I understand.' Did you notice anyone getting off with a green paper
'I can't see their hands when they're getting off, ma'am,' he reminded her patiently.
Rosemary clasped her own hands and looked off across the field.
Paul said, 'Somebody picked it up and took it and there's no way of finding out who. . . . The broadcast warning will either reach him or it won't.'
The two cops were Ustening quietly. The older one shifted his weight.
'Maybe,' said Rosemary. 'Maybe there is something we can do. You were there,' she said to the bus driver. 'Did you recognize anybody else who was on the bus then?'
'Hey?' said the bus driver, wrinkling his brow.
'Anyone else we could find and ask? Somebody who was also there and might have noticed?'
'Wait a minute.' The driver seemed to bristle up. 'This stuff's poison, hey?'
Paul said, 'Damned dangerous,' and looked angry. 'He took it from my lab. He knew what it was. He should never . . . Oh, come home, Rosie.'
'A stranger,' said Rosemary, still addressing the bus driver, 'trusting iil a label. Some stranger to us, who doesn't want to die. People do trust labels. . . .'
