nude figure of a girl was struggling between taut ropes held by green-shirted guards. She was a pretty girl, with a tousled mop of chestnut hair and clean white limbs—clean except for her forearms, which appeared dipped in dark stain. Then he saw the dark irregular splotch across her flank, like a splash of ink not quite washed clean. She was a dermie.
Paul ducked close to the ground so that his face was hidden by a clump of grass at the corner. A man—the leader of the group—had left the girl, and was advancing up the street toward Paul, who prepared to roll under the building out of sight. But in the middle of the block, the man stopped. He lifted a manhole cover in the pavement, then went back for the girl’s clothing, which he dragged at the end of a fishing pole with a wire hook at its tip. He dropped the clothing, one piece at a time into the manhole. A cloud of white dust arose from it, and the man stepped back to avoid the dust. Quicklime, Paul guessed.
Then the leader cupped his hands to his mouth and called back to the others. “Okay, drag her on up here!” He drew his revolver and waited while they tugged the struggling girl toward the manhole.
Paul felt suddenly ill. He had seen dermies shot in self-defense by fugitives from their deathly gray hands, but here was cold and efficient elimination. Here was Dachau and Buchenwald and the nameless camps of Siberia. He turned and bolted for the truck.
The sound of its engine starting brought a halt to the disposal of the pest-girl. The leader appeared at the intersection and stared uncertainly at the truck, as Paul nosed it away from the building. He fidgeted with his revolver doubtfully, and called something over his shoulder to the others. Then he began walking out into the street and signaling for the truck to stop. Paul let it crawl slowly ahead, and leaned out the window to eye the man questioningly.
“How the hell you get that started?” the leader called excitedly. He was still holding the pistol, but it dangled almost unnoticed in his hand. Paul suddenly fed fuel to the diesel and swerved sharply toward the surprised guardsman.
The leader yelped and dived for safety, but the fender caught his hips, spun him off balance, and smashed him down against the pavement. As the truck thundered around the corner toward the girl and her captors, he glanced in the mirror to see the hurt man weakly trying to crawl out of the street. Paul was certain that he was not mortally wounded.
As the truck lumbered on, the girl threw herself prone before it, since the ropes prevented any escape. Paul swerved erratically, sending the girl’s captors scurrying for the alley. Then he aimed the wheels to straddle her body. She glanced up, screamed, then hugged the pavement as the behemoth thundered overhead. A bullet ploughed a furrow across the hood. Paul ducked low in the seat and jammed the brake pedal down, as soon as he thought she was clear.
There were several shots, but apparently they were shooting at the girl. Paul counted three seconds, then gunned the engine again. If she hadn’t climbed aboard, it was just tough luck, he thought grimly. He shouldn’t have tried to save her anyway. But continued shooting told him that she had managed to get inside. The trailer was heaped with clothing, and he trusted the mound of material to halt the barrage of bullets. He heard the explosion of a blowout as he swung around the next corner, and the trailer lurched dangerously. It swayed from side to side as he gathered speed down the wide and trafficless avenue. But the truck had double wheels, and soon the dangerous lurching ceased.
He roared on through the metropolitan area, staying on the same street and gathering speed. An occasional scrounger or cyclist stopped to stare, but they seemed too surprised to act. And they could not have known what had transpired a few blocks away.
Paul could not stop to see if he had a passenger, or if she was still alive. She was more dangerous than the gunmen. Any gratitude she might feel toward her rescuer would be quickly buried beneath her craving to spread the disease. He wished fervently that he had let the patrolmen kill her. Now he was faced with the problem of getting rid of her. He noticed, however, that mirrors were mounted on both sides of the cab. If he stopped the truck, and if she climbed out, he could see, and move away again before she had a chance to approach him. But he decided to wait until they were out of the city.
Soon he saw a highway marker, then a sign that said “Galveston—58 miles.” He bore ahead, thinking that perhaps the island-city would provide good scrounging, without the regimentation of Doctor Georgelle’s efficient system with its plans for “glorious recovery.”
Twenty miles beyond the city limits, he stopped the truck, let the engine idle, and waited for his passenger to climb out. He locked the doors and laid a jack-handle across the seat as an added precaution. Nothing happened. He rolled down the window and shouted toward the rear.
“All passengers off the bus! Last stop! Everybody out!”
Still the girl did not appear. Then he heard something—a light tap from the trailer, and a murmur… or a moan. She was there all right. He called again, but she made no response. It was nearly dark outside.
At last he seized the jack-handle, opened the door, and stepped out of the cab. Wary of a trick, he skirted wide around the trailer and approached it from the rear. One door was closed, while the other swung free. He stopped a few yards away and peered inside. At first he saw nothing.
“Get out, but keep away or I’ll kill you.”
Then he saw her move. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against a heap of clothing, a dozen feet from the entrance. He stepped forward cautiously and flung open the other door. She turned her head to look at him peculiarly, but said nothing. He could see that she had donned some of the clothing, but one trouser-leg was rolled up, and she had tied a rag tightly about her ankle.
“Are you hurt?”
She nodded. “Bullet…” She rolled her head dizzily and moaned.
Paul went back to the cab to search for a first aid kit. He found one, together with a flashlight and spare batteries in the glove compartment. He made certain that the cells were not corroded and that the light would burn feebly. Then he returned to the trailer, chiding himself for a prize fool. A sensible human would haul the dermie out at the end of a towing chain and leave her sitting by the side of the road.
“If you try to touch me, I’ll brain you!” he warned, as he clambered into the trailer.
She looked up again. “Would you feel… like enjoying anything… if you were bleeding like this?” she muttered weakly. The flashlight beam caught the glitter of pain in here eyes, and accentuated the pallor of her small face. She was a pretty girl—scarcely older than twenty but Paul was in no mood to appreciate pretty women, especially dermies.
“So that’s how you think of it, eh? Enjoying yourself!” She said nothing. She dropped her forehead against her knee and rolled it slowly.
“Where are you hit? Just the foot?”
“Ankle…”
“All right, take the rag off. Let’s see.”
“The wound’s in back.”
“All right, lie down on your stomach, and keep your hands under your head.”
She stretched out weakly, and he shone the light over her leg, to make certain its skin was clear of neuroderm. Then he looked at the ankle, and said nothing for a time. The bullet had missed the joint, but had neatly severed the Achilles’ tendon just above the heel.
“You’re a plucky kid,” he grunted, wondering how she had endured the self-torture of getting the shoe off and clothing herself.
“It was cold back here—without clothes,” she muttered.
Paul opened the first aid packet and found an envelope of sulfa powder. Without touching her, he emptied it into the wound, which was beginning to bleed again. There was nothing else he could do. The tendon had pulled apart and would require surgical stitching to bring it together until it could heal. Such attention was out of the question.
She broke the silence. “I… I’m going to be crippled, aren’t I?”
“Oh, not crippled,” he heard himself telling her. “If we can get you to a doctor, anyway. Tendons can be sutured with wire. He’ll probably put your foot in a cast, and you might get a stiff ankle from it.”
She lay breathing quietly, denying his hopeful words by her silence.
“Here!” he said. “Here’s a gauze pad and some tape. Can you manage it yourself?”
She started to sit up. He placed the first aid pack beside her, and backed to the door. She fumbled in the kit,
