and he stopped short lest she see
He stood in the doorway, watching the slow rise of her breathing. Fresh, young, shapely—even in the crude cotton gown they had given her, even beneath the blue-white pallor of her skin—soon to become gray as a cloudy sky in a wintery twilight. Her lips moved slightly, and he backed a step away. They paused, parted moistly, showing thin white teeth. Her delicately carved face was thrown back slightly on the pillow. There was a sudden tightening of her jaw.
A weirdly pitched voice floated unexpectedly from down the hall, echoing the semisinging of Gregorian chant: “
As the sound came, the girl’s hands clenched into rigid fists beneath the sheet. Her eyes flared open to stare wildly at the ceiling. Clutching the bedclothes, she pressed the fists up against her face and cried out: “No! NOOOO! God, I won’t!”
Paul backed out of sight and pressed himself against the wall. A knot of desolation tightened in his stomach. He looked around nervously. A nun, hearing the outcry, came scurrying down the hall, murmuring anxiously to herself. A plump mother hen in a dozen yards of starched white cloth. She gave him a quick challenging glance and waddled inside.
“Child, my child, what’s wrong! Nightmares again?”
He heard Willie breathe a nervous moan of relief. Then her voice, weakly— “They… they made me… touch… Ooo, God! I want to cut off my hands!”
Paul fled, leaving the nun’s sympathetic reassurance to fade into a murmur behind him.
He spent the rest of the day and the night in his room. On the following day, Mendelhaus came with word that the boat was not yet ready. They needed to finish caulking and stock it with provisions. But the priest assured him that it should be afloat within twenty-four hours. Paul could not bring himself to ask about the girl.
A monk brought his food—unopened cans, still steaming from the sterilizer, and on a covered tray. The monk wore gloves and mask, and he had oiled his own skin. There were moments when Paul felt as if he were the diseased and contagious patient from whom the others protected themselves. Like Omar, he thought, wondering —“which is the Potter, pray, and which the Pot?”
Was Man, as Seevers implied, a terrorized ape-tribe fleeing illogically from the gray hands that only wanted to offer a blessing? How narrow was the line dividing blessing from curse, god from demon! The parasites came in a devil’s mask, the mask of disease. “Diseases have often killed me,” said Man. “All disease is therefore evil.” But was that necessarily true? Fire had often killed Man’s club-bearing ancestors, but later came to serve him. Even diseases had been used to good advantage—artificially induced typhoid and malaria to fight venereal infections.
But the gray skin… taste buds in the fingertips… alien microorganisms tampering with the nerves and the brain. Such concepts caused his scalp to bristle. Man—made over to suit the tastes of a bunch of supposedly beneficent parasites—was he still Man, or something else? Little bacteriological farmers imbedded in the skin, raising a crop of nerve cells—eat one, plant two, sow an old actor in a new field, reshuffle the feeder-fibers to the brain.
Monday brought a cold rain and stiff wind from the Gulf. He watched the water swirling through littered gutters in the street. Sitting in the window, he watched the gloom and waited, praying that the storm would not delay his departure. Mendelhaus smiled politely, through his doorway once. “Willie’s ankle seems healing nicely,” he said. “Swelling’s gone down so much we had to change casts. If only she would—”
“Thanks for the free report, Padre,” Paul growled irritably.
The priest shrugged and went away.
It was still raining when the sky darkened with evening. The monastic dock-crew had certainly been unable to finish. Tomorrow… perhaps.
After nightfall, he lit a candle and lay awake watching its unflickering yellow tongue until drowsiness lolled his head aside. He snuffed it out and went to bed.
Dreams assailed him, tormented him, stroked him with dark hands while he lay back, submitting freely. Small hands, soft, cool, tender—touching his forehead and his cheeks, while a voice whispered caresses.
He awoke suddenly to blackness. The feel of the dream-hands was still on his face. What had aroused him? A sound in the hall, a creaking hinge? The darkness was impenetrable. The rain had stopped—perhaps its cessation had disturbed him. He felt curiously tense as he lay listening to the humid, musty corridors. A… faint… rustle… and…
He let out a hoarse shriek that shattered the unearthly silence. A high-pitched scream of fright answered him! From a few feet away in the room. He groped toward it and fumbled against a bare wall. He roared curses, and tried to find first matches, then the shotgun. At last he found the gun, aimed at nothing across the room, and jerked the trigger. The explosion deafened him. The window shattered, and a sift of plaster rustled to the floor.
The brief flash had illuminated the room. It was empty. He stood frozen. Had he imagined it all? But no, the visitor’s startled scream had been real enough.
A cool draft fanned his face. The door was open. Had he forgotten to lock it again? A tumult of sound was beginning to arise from the lower floors. His shot had aroused the sleepers. But there was a closer sound—sobbing in the corridor, and an irregular creaking noise.
At last he found a match and rushed to the door. But the tiny flame revealed nothing within its limited aura. He heard a doorknob rattle in the distance; his visitor was escaping via the outside stairway. He thought of pursuit and vengeance. But instead, he rushed to the washbasin and began scrubbing himself thoroughly with harsh brown soap. Had his visitor touched him—or had the hands been only dream-stuff? He was frightened and sickened.
Voices were filling the corridor. The light of several candles was advancing toward his doorway. He turned to see monks’ faces peering anxiously inside. Father Mendelhaus shouldered his way through the others, glanced at the window, the wall, then at Paul.
“What—”
“Safety, eh?” Paul hissed. “Well, I had a prowler! A woman! I think I’ve been touched.”
The priest turned and spoke to a monk. “Go to the stairway and call for the Mother Superior. Ask her to make an immediate inspection of the sisters’ quarters. If any nuns have been out of their rooms—”
A shrill voice called from down the hallway: “Father, Father! The girl with the injured ankle! She’s not in her bed! She’s gone!”
“Willie!” Paul gasped.
A small nun with a candle scurried up and panted to recover her breath for a moment. “She’s gone, Father. I was on night duty. I heard the shot, and I went to see if it disturbed her. She wasn’t there!”
The priest grumbled incredulously. “How could she get out? She can’t walk with that cast.”
“Crutches, Father. We told her she could get up in a few days. While she was still irrational, she kept saying they were going to amputate her leg. We brought the crutches in to prove she’d be up soon. It’s my fault, Father. I should have—”
“Never mind! Search the building for her.”
Paul dried his wet skin and faced the priest angrily. “What can I do to disinfect myself?” he demanded.
Mendelhaus called out into the hallway where a crowd had gathered. “Someone please get Doctor Seevers.”
“I’m here, preacher,” grunted the scientist. The monastics parted ranks to make way for his short chubby body. He grinned amusedly at Paul. “So, you decided to make your home here after all, eh?”
Paul croaked an insult at him. “Have you got any effective—”
“Disinfectants? Afraid not. Nitric acid will do the trick on one or two local spots. Where were you touched?”
“I don’t know. I was asleep.”
Seevers’ grin widened. “Well, you can’t take a bath in nitric acid. We’ll try something else, but I doubt if it’ll
