Dark Benediction

and whimpered while she taped the pad in place.

“There’s a tourniquet in there, too. Use it if the bleeding’s worse.”

She looked up to watch his silhouette against the darkening evening sky. “Thanks… thanks a lot, mister. I’m grateful. I promise not to touch you. Not if you don’t want me to.”

Shivering, he moved back to the cab. Why did they always get that insane idea that they were doing their victims a favor by giving them the neural plague? Not if you don’t want me to. He shuddered as he drove away. She felt that way now, while the pain robbed her of the craving, but later—unless he got rid of her quickly—she would come to feel that she owed it to him—as a favor. The disease perpetuated itself by arousing such strange delusions in its bearer. The microorganisms’ methods of survival were indeed highly specialized. Paul felt certain that such animalicules had not evolved on Earth.

A light gleamed here and there along the Alvin-Galveston highway—oil lamps, shining from lonely cottages whose occupants had not felt the pressing urgency of the crowded city. But he had no doubt that to approach one of the farmhouses would bring a rifle bullet as a welcome. Where could he find help for the girl? No one would touch her but another dermie. Perhaps he could unhitch the trailer and leave her in downtown Galveston, with a sign hung on the back—“Wounded dermie inside.” The plague victims would care for their own—if they found her.

He chided himself again for worrying about her. Saving her life didn’t make him responsible for her… did it?

After all, if she lived, and the leg healed, she would only prowl in search of healthy victims again. She would never be rid of the disease, nor would she ever die of it—so far as anyone knew. The death rate was high among dermies, but the cause was usually a bullet.

Paul passed a fork in the highway and knew that the bridge was just ahead. Beyond the channel lay Galveston Island, once brightly lit and laughing in its role as seaside resort—now immersed in darkness. The wind whipped at the truck from the southwest as the road led up onto the wide causeway. A faint glow in the east spoke of a moon about to rise. He saw the wide structure of the drawbridge just ahead.

Suddenly be clutched at the wheel, smashed furiously down on the brake, and tugged the emergency back. The tires howled ahead on the smooth concrete, and the force threw him forward over the wheel. Dusty water swirled far below where the upward folding gates of the drawbridge had once been. He skidded to a stop ten feet from the end. When he climbed out, the girl was calling weakly from the trailer, but he walked to the edge and looked over. Someone had done a job with dynamite.

Why, he wondered. To keep islanders on the island, or to keep mainlanders off? Had another Doctor Georgelle started his own small nation in Galveston? It seemed more likely that the lower island dwellers had done the demolition.

He looked back at the truck. An experienced truckster might be able to swing it around all right, but Paul was doubtful. Nevertheless, he climbed back in the cab and tried it. Half an hour later he was hopelessly jammed, with the trailer twisted aside and the cab wedged near the sheer drop to the water. He gave it up and went back to inspect his infected cargo.

She was asleep, but moaning faintly. He prodded her awake with the jack-handle. “Can you crawl, kid? If you can, come back to the door.”

She nodded, and began dragging herself toward the flashlight. She clenched her lip between her teeth to keep from whimpering, but her breath came as a voiced murmur… nnnng… nnnng…

She sagged weakly when she reached the entrance, and or a moment he thought she had fainted. Then she looked up. “What next, skipper?” she panted.

“I… I don’t know. Can you let yourself down to the pavement?”

She glanced over the edge and shook her head. “With a rope, maybe. There’s one back there someplace. If you’re scared of me, I’ll try to crawl and get it.”

“Hands to yourself?” he asked suspiciously; then he thanked the darkness for hiding the heat of shame that crawled to his face.

“I won’t…”

He scrambled into the trailer quickly and brought back the rope. “I’ll climb up on top and let it down in front of you. Grab hold and let yourself down.”

A few minutes later she was sitting on the concrete causeway looking at the wrecked draw. “Oh!” she muttered as he scrambled down from atop the trailer. “I thought you just wanted to dump me here. We’re stuck, huh?”

“Yeah! We might swim it, but doubt if you could make it.”

“I’d try…” She paused, cocking her head slightly. “There’s a boat moored under the bridge. Right over there.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Water lapping against wood. Listen.” Then she shook her head. “I forgot. You’re not hyper.”

“I’m not what?” Paul listened. The water sounds seemed homogeneous.

“Hyperacute. Sharp senses. You know, it’s one of the symptoms.”

He nodded, remembering vaguely that he’d heard something to that effect—but he’d chalked it up as hallucinatory phenomenon. He walked to the rail and shone his light toward the water. The boat was there—tugging its rope taut from the mooring as the tide swirled about it. The bottom was still fairly dry, indicating that a recent rower had crossed from the island to the mainland.

“Think you can hold onto the rope if I let you down?” he called.

She gave him a quick glance, then picked up the end she had previously touched and tied a loop about her waist. She began crawling toward the rail. Paul fought down a crazy urge to pick her up and carry her; plague be damned. But he had already left himself dangerously open to contagion. Still, he felt the drumming charges of conscience… depart from me, ye accursed, for I was sick and you visited me not…

He turned quickly away, and began knotting the end of the rope about the rail. He reminded himself that any sane person would desert her at once, and swim on to safety. Yet, he could not. In the oversized clothing she looked like a child, hurt and helpless. Paul knew the demanding arrogance that could possess the wounded

help me, you’ve got to help me, you damn merciless bastard!… No, don’t touch me there, damn you! Too many times, he had heard the sick curse the physician, and the injured curse the rescuer. Blind aggression, trying to strike back at pain.

But the girl made no complaint except the involuntary hurt sounds. She asked nothing, and accepted his aid with a wide-eyed gratitude that left him weak. He thought that it would be easier to leave her if she would only beg, or plead, or demand.

“Can you start me swinging a little?” she called as he lowered her toward the water.

Paul’s eyes probed the darkness below, trying to sort the shadows, to make certain which was the boat. He used both hands to feed out the rope, and the light laid on the rail only seemed to blind him. She began swinging herself pendulum-wise somewhere beneath him.

“When I say ‘ready,’ let me go!” she shrilled.

“You’re not going to drop!”

“Have to! Boat’s out further. Got to swing for it. I can’t swim, really.”

“But you’ll hurt your—”

“Ready!”

Paul still clung to the rope. “I’ll let you down into the water and you can hang onto the rope. I’ll dive, and then pull you into the boat.”

“Uh-uh! You’d have to touch me. You don’t want that, do you? Just a second now… one more swing… ready!”

He let the rope go. With a clatter and a thud, she hit the boat. Three sharp cries of pain clawed at him. Then—muffled sobbing.

“Are you all right?”

Sobs. She seemed not to hear him.

“Jeezis!” He sprinted for the brink of the drawbridge and dived out over the deep channel. How far… down… down…. Icy water stung his body with sharp whips, then opened to embrace him. He fought to the surface and swam toward the dark shadow of the boat. The sobbing had subsided. He grasped the prow and hauled himself