"Stranger in a Strange Land" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert Anson)

As this rushed through her mind, it carried fear, awareness of peril through having stumbled onto this secret.

Smith got clumsily up from his chair, held out both hands and said, «Water brother!»

«Hello. Uh … how are you?»

«I am well. I am happy.» He added something in a strange, choking speech, corrected himself and said carefully, «You are here, my brother. You were away. Now you are here. I drink deep of you.»

Jill felt herself helplessly split between emotions, one that melted her heart — and icy fear of being caught. Smith did not notice. Instead he said, «See? I walk! I grow strong.» He took a few steps, then stopped, triumphant, breathless, and smiling.

She forced herself to smile. «We are making progress, aren't we? You keep growing stronger, that's the spirit! But I must go — I just stopped to say hello.»

His expression changed to distress. «Do not go!»

«Oh, I must!»

He looked woebegone, then added with tragic certainty, «I have hurted you. I did not know.»

«Hurt me? Oh, no, not at all! But I must go — and quickly!»

His face was without expression. He stated rather than asked. «Take me with you, my brother.»

«What? Oh, I can't. And I must go, at once. Look, don't tell anyone I was here, please!»

«Not tell that my water brother was here?»

«Yes. Don't tell anyone. Uh…I'll come back. You be a good boy and wait and don't tell anyone.»

Smith digested this, looked serene. «I will wait. I will not tell.»

«Good!» Jill wondered how she could keep her promise. She realized now that the «broken» lock had not been broken and her eye went to the corridor door — and saw why she had not been able to get in. A hand bolt had been screwed to the door. As was always the case, bathroom doors and other doors that could be bolted were arranged to open also by pass key, so that patients could not lock themselves in. Here the lock kept Smith in and a bolt of the sort not permitted in hospitals kept out even those with pass keys.

Jill opened the bolt. «You wait. I'll come back.»

«I shall waiting.»

When she got back to the watch room she heard the Tock! Tock! Ti-tock, tock! …Tock, tock! signal that Brush had said he would use; she hurried to let him in.

He burst in, saying savagely, «Where were you, Nurse? I knocked three times.» He glanced suspiciously at the inner door.

«I saw your patient turn over,» she lied quickly. «I was arranging her collar pillow.»

«Damn it, I told you simply to sit at my desk!»

Jill knew suddenly that the man was frightened; she coun terattacked. «Doctor,» she said coldly, «your patient is not my responsibility. But since you entrusted her to me, I did what seemed necessary. Since you questioned it, let's get the wing superintendent.»

«Huh? No, no — forget it.»

«No, sir. A patient that old can smother in a water bed. Some nurses will take any blame from a doctor — but not me. Let's call the superintendent.»

«What? Look, Miss Boardman, I popped off without thinking. I apologize.»

«Very well, Doctor,» Jill answered stiffly. «Is there anything more?»

«Uh? No, thank you. Thanks for standing by for me. Just… well, be sure not to mention it, will you?»

«I won't mention it.» You bet your sweet life I won't! But what do I do now? Oh, I wish Ben were in town! She went to her desk and pretended to look over papers. Finally she remembered to phone for the powered bed she had been after. Then she sent her assistant on an errand and tried to think.

Where was Ben? If he were in touch, she would take ten minutes relief, call him, and shift the worry onto his broad shoulders. But Ben, damn him, was off skyoodling and letting her carry the ball.

Or was he? A fret that had been burrowing in her subconscious finally surfaced. Ben would not have left town without letting her know the outcome of his attempt to see the Man from Mars. As a fellow conspirator it was her right — and Ben always played fair.

She could hear in her head something he had said: « — if anything goes wrong, you are my ace in the hole … honey, if you don't hear from me, you are on your own.»

She had not thought about it at the time, as she had not believed that anything could happen to Ben. Now she thought about it. There comes a time in the life of every human when he or she must decide to risk «his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor» on an outcome dubious. Jill Boardman encountered her challenge and accepted it at 3:47 that afternoon.

The Man from Mars sat down when Jill left. He did not pick up the picture book but simply waited in a fashion which may be described as «patient» only because human language does not embrace Martian attitudes. He held still with quiet happiness because his brother had said that he would return. He was prepared to wait, without moving, without doing anything, for several years.

He had no clear idea how long it had been since he had shared water with this brother; not only was this place curiously distorted in time and shape, with sequences of sights and sounds not yet grokked, but also the culture of his nest took a different grasp of time from that which is human. The difference lay not in longer lifetimes as counted in Earth years, but in basic attitude. «It is later than you think» could not be expressed in Martian — nor could «Haste makes waste,» though for a different reason: the first notion was inconceivable while the latter was an unexpressed Martian basic, as unnecessary as telling a fish to bathe. But «As it was in the Beginning, is now and ever shall be» was so Martian in mood that it could be translated more easily than «two plus two makes four» — which was not a truism on Mars.

Smith waited.

Brush came in and looked at him; Smith did not move and Brush went away.

When Smith heard a key in the outer door, he recalled that he had heard this sound somewhat before the last visit of his water brother, so he shifted his metabolism in preparation, in case the sequence occurred again. He was astonished when the outer door opened and Jill slipped in, as he had not been aware that it was a door. But he grokked it at once and gave himself over to the joyful fullness which comes only in the presence of one's nestlings, one's water brothers, and (under certain circumstances) in the presence of the Old Ones.

His joy was muted by awareness that his brother did not share it — he seemed more distressed than was possible save in one about to discorporate because of shameful lack or failure. But Smith had learned that these creatures could endure emotions dreadful to contemplate and not die. His Brother Mahmoud underwent a spiritual agony five times daily and not only did not die but had urged the agony on him as a needful thing. His Brother Captain van Tromp suffered terrifying spasms unpredictably, any one of which should have, by Smith's standards, produced immediate discorporation to end the conflict — yet that brother was still corporate so far as he knew.

So he ignored Jill's agitation.

Jill handed him a bundle. «Here, put these on. Hurry!»

Smith accepted the bundle and waited. Jill looked at him and said, «Oh, dear! All right, get your clothes off. I'll help.»

She was forced both to undress and dress him. He was wearing hospital gown, bathrobe, and slippers, not because he wanted to but because he had been told to. He could handle them by now, but not fast enough to suit Jill; she skinned him quickly. She being a nurse and he never having heard of the modesty taboo — nor would he have grasped it — they were not slowed by irrelevancies. He was delighted by false skins Jill drew over his legs. She gave him no time to cherish them, but taped the stockings to his thighs in lieu of garter belt. The nurse's uniform she dressed him in she had borrowed from a larger woman on the excuse that a cousin needed one for a masquerade. Jill hooked a nurse's cape around his neck and reflected that it covered most sex differences — at least she hoped so. Shoes were difficult; they did not fit well and Smith found walking in this gravity field an effort even barefooted.

But she got him covered and pinned a nurse's cap on his head. «Your hair isn't very long,» she said anxiously, «but it is as long as some girls wear it and will have to do.» Smith did not answer as he had not fully understood the remark. He tried to think his hair longer but realized that it would take time.

«Now,» said Jill. «Listen carefully. No matter what happens, don't say a word. Do you understand?»

«Don't talk. I will not talk.»

«Just come with me — I'll hold your hand. If you know any prayers,pray!»

«Pray?»

«Never mind. Just come along and don't talk.» She opened the outer door, glanced outside, and led him into the corridor.

Smith found the many strange configurations upsetting in the extreme; he was assaulted by images he could not bring into focus. He stumbled blindly along, with eyes and senses almost disconnected to protect himself against chaos.

She led him to the end of the corridor and stepped on a slide-away leading crosswise. He stumbled and would have fallen if Jill had not caught him. A chambermaid looked at them and Jill cursed under her breath — then was very careful in helping him off. They took an elevator to the roof, Jill being sure that she could never pilot him up a bounce tube.

There they encountered a crisis, though Smith was not aware. He was undergoing the keen delight of sky; he had not seen sky since Mars. This sky was bright and colorful and joyful — a typical overcast Washington day. Jill was looking for a taxi. The roof was deserted, as she had hoped since nurses going off duty when she did were already headed home and afternoon visitors were gone. But the taxis were gone too. She did not dare risk an air bus.

She was about to call a taxi when one headed in for a landing. She called to the roof attendant. «Jack! Is that cab taken?»

«It's one I called for Dr. Phipps.»

«Oh, dear! Jack, see how quick you can get me one, will you? This is my cousin Madge — works over in South Wing — and she has laryngitis and must get out of this wind.»

The attendant scratched his head. «Well … seeing it's you, Miss Boardman, you take this and I'll call another for Dr. Phipps.»

«Oh, Jack, you're a lamb! Madge, don't talk; I'll thank him. Her voice is gone; I'm going to bake it out with hot rum.»

«That ought to do it. Old-fashioned remedies are best, my mother used to say.» He reached into the cab and punched the combination for Jill's home from memory, then helped them in. Jill got in the way and covered up Smith's unfamiliarity with this ceremonial. «Thanks, Jack. Thanks loads.»

The cab took off and Jill took a deep breath. «You can talk now.»

«What should I say?»

«Huh? Whatever you like.»

Smith thought this over. The scope of the invitation called for a worthy answer, suitable to brothers. He thought of several, discarded them because he could not translate, settled on one which conveyed even in this strange, flat speech some of the warm growing-closer brothers should enjoy. «Let our eggs share the same nest.»

Jill looked startled. «Huh? What did you say?»

Smith felt distressed at the failure to respond in kind and interpreted it as failure on his own part. He realized miserably that, time after time, he brought agitation to these creatures when his purpose was to create oneness. He tried again, rearranging his sparse vocabulary to enfold the thought differently. «My nest is yours and your nest is mine.»

This time Jill smiled. «Why, how sweet! My dear, I am not sure I understand you, but that is the nicest offer I have had in a long time.» She added, «But right now we are up to our ears in trouble — so let's wait, shall we?»

Smith understood Jill hardly more than Jill understood him, but he caught his water brother's pleased mood and understood the suggestion to wait. Waiting he did without effort; he sat back, satisfied that all was well between himself and his brother, and enjoyed the scenery. It was the first he had seen and on every side there was richness of new things to try to grok. It occurred to him that the apportation used at home did not permit this delightful viewing of what lay between. This almost led him to a comparison of Martian and human methods not favorable to the Old Ones, but his mind shied away from heresy.

Jill kept quiet and tried to think. Suddenly she noticed that the cab was on the final leg toward her apartment house — and realized that home was the last place to go, it being the first place they would look once they figured out who had helped Smith to escape. While she knew nothing of police methods, she supposed that she must have left fingerprints in Smith's room, not to mention that people had seen them walk out. It was even possible (so she had heard) for a technician to read the tape in this cab's pilot and tell what trips it had made and where and when.

She slapped the keys, and cleared the instruction to go to her apartment house. The cab rose out of the lane and hovered. Where could she go? Where could she hide a grown man who was half idiot and could not even dress himself? — and was the most sought-after person on the globe? Oh, if Ben were only here! Ben …where are you?

She picked up the phone and rather hopelessly punched Ben's number. Her spirits jumped when a man answered — then slumped when she realized that it was not Ben but his major-domo. «Oh. Sorry, Mr. Kilgallen. This is Jill Boardman. I thought I had called Mr. Caxton's home.»

«You did. I have his calls relayed to the office when he is away more than twenty-four hours.»

«Then he is still away?»

«Yes. May I help you?»

«Uh, no. Mr. Kilgallen, isn't it strange that Ben should drop out of sight? Aren't you worried?»

«Eh? Not at all. His message said that he did not know how long he would be gone.»

«Isn't that odd?»

«Not in Mr. Caxton's work, Miss Boardman.»

«Well …I think there is something very odd about his absence! I think you ought to report it. You ought to spread it over every news service in the country — in the world!»

Even though the cab's phone had no vision circuit Jill felt Osbert Kilgallen draw himself up. «I'm afraid, Miss Boardman, that I must interpret my employer's instructions myself. Uh … if you don't mind my saying so, there is always some “good friend” phoning Mr. Caxton frantically whenever he's away.»

Some babe trying to get a hammer lock on him, Jill interpreted angrily — and this character thinks I'm the current one. It squelched any thought of asking Kilgallen for help; she switched off.

Where could she go? A solution popped into her mind. If Ben was missing — and the authorities had a hand in it — the last place they would expect to find Valentine Smith would be Ben's apartment … unless they connected her with Ben, which seemed unlikely.

They could dig a snack out of Ben's pantry and she could borrow clothes for her idiot child. She set the combination for Ben's apartment house; the cab picked the lane and dropped into it.

Outside Ben's flat Jill put her face to the hush box and said, «Karthago delenda est!»

Nothing happened. Oh damn! she said to herself; he's changed the combo. She stood there, knees weak, and kept her face away from Smith. Then she again spoke into the hush box. The same circuit actuated the door or announced callers; she announced herself on the forlorn chance that Ben might have returned. «Ben, this is Jill.»

The door slid open.

They went inside and the door closed. Jill thought that Ben had let them in, then realized that she had accidentally hit on his new door combination … intended, she guessed, as a compliment — she could have dispensed with the compliment to have avoided that awful panic.

Smith stood quietly at the edge of the thick green lawn and stared. Here was a place so new as not to be grokked at once but he felt immediately pleased. It was less exciting than the moving place they had been in, but more suited for enfolding the self. He looked with interest at the view window at one end but did not recognize it as such, mistaking it for a living picture like those at home … his suite at Bethesda had no windows, it being in a new wing; he had never acquired the idea of «window.»

He noticed with approval that simulation of depth and movement in the «picture» was perfect — some very great artist must have created it. Up to now he had seen nothing to cause him to think that these people possessed art; his grokking of them was increased by this new experience and he felt warmed.

A movement caught his eye; he turned to find his brother removing false skins and slippers from its legs.

Jill sighed and wiggled her toes in the grass. «Gosh, how my feet hurt!» She glanced up and saw Smith watching with that curiously disturbing baby-faced stare. «Do it yourself. You'll love it.»

He blinked. «How do?»

«I keep forgetting. Come here. I'll help.» She got his shoes off, untaped the stockings and peeled them off. «There, doesn't that feel good?»

Smith wiggled his toes in the grass, then said timidly, «But these live?»

«Sure, it's alive, it's real grass. Ben paid a lot to have it that way. Why, the special lighting circuits alone cost more than I make in a month. So walk around and let your feet enjoy it.»

Smith missed most of this but did understand that grass was living beings and that he was being invited to walk on them. «Walk on living things?» He asked with incredulous horror.

«Huh? Why not? It doesn't hurt this grass; it was specially developed for house rugs.»

Smith was forced to remind himself that a water brother could not lead him into wrongful action. He let himself be encouraged to walk around — and found that he did enjoy it and the living creatures did not protest. He set his sensitivity for such as high as possible; his brother was right, this was their proper being — to be walked on. He resolved to enfold and praise it, an effort like that of a human trying to appreciate the merits of cannibalism — a custom which Smith found proper.

Jill let out a sigh. «I must stop playing. I don't know how long we will be safe.»

«Safe?»

«We can't stay here. They may be checking on everything that left the Center.» She frowned in thought. Her place would not do, this place would not do — and Ben had intended to take him to Jubal Harshaw. But she did not know Harshaw, nor where he lived — somewhere in the Poconos, Ben had said. Well, she would have to find out; she had nowhere else to turn.

«Why are you not happy, my brother?»

Jill snapped out of it and looked at Smith. Why, the poor infant didn't know anything was wrong! She tried to look at it from his point of view. She failed, but did grasp that he had no notion that they were running away from … from what? The cops? The hospital authorities? She was not sure what she had done, what laws she had broken; she simply knew that she had pitted herself against the Big People, the Bosses.

How could she tell the Man from Mars what they were up against when she herself did not know? Did they have policemen on Mars? Half the time talking to him was like shouting down a rain barrel.

Heavens, did they even have rain barrels on Mars? Or rain?

«Never mind,» she said soberly. «You just do what I tell you to.»

«Yes.»

It was an unlimited acceptance, an eternal yea. Jill suddenly felt that Smith would jump out the window if she told him to — and she was correct; he would have jumped, enjoyed every second of the twenty-story drop, and accepted without surprise or resentment discorporation on impact. Nor would he have been unaware that such a fall would kill him; fear of death was an idea beyond him. If a water brother selected for him such strange discorporation, he would cherish it and try to grok.

«Well, we can't stand here. I've got to feed us, I've got to get you into different clothes, and we've got to leave. Take those off.» She left to check Ben's wardrobe.

She selected a travel suit, a beret, shirt, underclothes, shoes, then returned. Smith was snarled like a kitten in knitting; he had one arm prisoned and his face wrapped in the skirt. He had not removed the cape before trying to take off the dress.

Jill said, «Oh, dear!» and ran to help.

She got him loose from the clothes, then stuffed them down the oubliette … she would pay Etta Schere later and she did not want cops finding them — just in case. «You are going to have a bath, my good man, before I dress you in Ben's clean clothes. They've been neglecting you. Come along.» Being a nurse, she was inured to bad odors, but (being a nurse) she was fanatic about soap and water … and it seemed that no one had bathed this patient recently. While Smith did not stink, he did remind her of a horse on a hot day.

With delight he watched her fill the tub. There was a tub in the bathroom of suite K-12 but Smith had not known its use; bed baths were what he had had and not many of those; his trancelike withdrawals had interfered.

Jill tested the temperature. «All right, climb in.»

Smith looked puzzled.

«Hurry!» Jill said sharply. «Get in the water.»

The words were in his human vocabulary and Smith did as ordered, emotion shaking him. This brother wanted him to place his whole body in the water of life! No such honor had ever come to him; to the best of his knowledge no one had ever been offered such a privilege. Yet he had begun to understand that these others did have greater acquaintance with the stuff of life … a fact not grokked but which he must accept.

He placed one trembling foot in the water, then the other … slipped down until water covered him completely.

«Hey!» yelled Jill, and dragged his head above water — was shocked to find that she seemed to be handling a corpse. Good Lord! he couldn't drown, not in that time. But it frightened her, she shook him. «Smith! Wake up! Snap out of it.»

From far away Smith heard his brother call, and returned. His eyes ceased to be glazed, his heart speeded up, he resumed breathing. «Are you all right?» Jill demanded.

«I am all right. I am very happy … my brother.»

«You scared me. Look, don't get under the water again. Just sit up, the way you are now.»

«Yes, my brother.» Smith added something in a croaking meaningless to Jill, cupped a handful of water as if it were precious jewels and raised it to his lips. His mouth touched it, then he offered it to Jill.

«Hey, don't drink your bath water! Now, I don't want it, either.»

«Not drink?»

His defenseless hurt was such that Jill did not know what to do. She hesitated, then bent her head and touched her lips to the offering. «Thank you.»

«May you never thirst!»

«I hope you are never thirsty, too. But that's enough. If you want a drink, I'll get you one. Don't drink any more of this water.»

Smith seemed satisfied and sat quietly. By now Jill knew that he had never had a tub bath and did not know what was expected. No doubt she could coach him … but they were losing precious time.

Oh, well! It was not as bad as tending disturbed patients in N.P. wards. Her blouse was wet to the shoulders from dragging Smith off the bottom; she took it off and hung it up. She had been dressed for the street and was wearing a little pediskirt that floated around her knees. She glanced down. Although the pleats were permanized, it was silly to get it wet. She shrugged and zipped it off; it left her in brassière and panties.

Smith was staring with the interested eyes of a baby. Jill found herself blushing, which surprised her. She believed herself to be free of morbid modesty — she recalled suddenly that she had gone on her first bareskin swimming party at fifteen. But this childlike stare bothered her; she decided to put up with wet underwear rather than do the obvious.

She covered discomposure with heartiness. «Let's get busy and scrub the hide.» She knelt beside the tub, sprayed soap on him, and started working it into lather.

Presently Smith reached out and touched her right mammary gland. Jill drew back hastily. «Hey! None of that!»

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:

«OPEN UP-IN THERE!»

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,«Stay here!» then went into the living room. «Who is it?» she called out, striving to keep her voice normal.

«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 are the police. Are you Gillian Boardman?»

«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 anything.»

«Don't give me that. You got a trap door or something?»

«Where did he go?»

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 lub-dub, followed in four or five seconds by another.

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.»