“Well, you can’t just walk out there like that,” I said. “Haven’t you got some heavier clothes and some hiking boots? And if you’ve got a gun of any kind around, bring that along, too, with whatever in the way of a pack and extra clothing you can scrape up.”
“Oh, I’m all prepared,” Bill Gault said. “I’ve had things ready for some time, in case I did decide to leave.”
And you know—he had. He took me down the corridor to a room where he outfitted himself in synthetic wool and leather gear that filled me with envy. Evidently, this installation had been testing, among other things, various kinds of special-duty outerwear for the armed services. When he was done, he looked like an officer in the ski troops, lacking only the skis. The well-stuffed backpack he wore was a marvel; and he had both a revolver and the latest in army lightweight, automatic rifles.
I looked at the rifle particularly.
“You don’t have another one like that lying around, do you?” I asked.
“This is the only one,” he said. “But there’s a machine pistol, if you’d like it.”
I looked at him. He had looked so ready in his outdoor garb, it had been hard for me to remember that he had been boxed up here since the time storm had started. But one good innocent sentence like that brought back the realization in a hurry.
“You’ve got ammunition for it?”
“Lots of ammunition,” he said.
“And,” I said, “you were actually going to let us walk off without it? You were going to leave it behind?”
“Well, you’ve already got a rifle,” he said, nodding at the 30.06. “And a machine pistol’s not very practical for hunting.”
I shook my head.
“Get it,” I said, “and as much ammunition for it as you think I can reasonably carry.”
He did. It was an Uzi. And the damn fool would have left it behind.
“Let’s go,” I said, loading my pockets and belt with the spare clips he had brought, until I felt heavy enough to walk bow-legged. “That is, unless you’ve got some other useful surprises to spring on me.”
“Nothing I can think of,” he said. “Food-”
“Food’s no real problem,” I said. “There seems to be canned goods enough to last the few of us who’re left for the rest of our lifetimes. Come on.”
He led me out. The door opened this time when I pushed on it. We went down the stairs and out of the building; and I led him back to the mistwall.
“What should I expect?” he asked, as we came up to it.
His tone was so casual that, for a second, I did not understand. Then I looked at him and saw that his face was pale. Calm, but pale.
“You’re thinking of how it was when the time storm first caught you?” I said. He nodded. “It won’t be that bad. It seems to get easier with experience. Hang on to my belt, though, if you want; and if I feel you let go, I’ll put down the rifle and lug you through myself. But try and stay on your feet if you can, because we can use both these guns if we can get them out.”
He nodded again and reached out to hook fingers in my belt.
“You’ll have to close your eyes against the dust when we get close,” I said. “Just concentrate on keeping on your feet, and staying with me.”
We went into the mistwall then. It was not bad at all for me, this time; but I could imagine how it might be for him. I was so undisturbed by the passage through that I had attention to spare when I heard Marie’s voice on the far side of the mistwall, as we started to come out of the far side of it.
“…shoot it!” Marie was crying, almost hysterically. “No,” said another voice. “If you make them hurt him at all, I’ll shoot you!”
It was the girl talking and making the longest speech I had ever heard her utter.
13
I took a few more steps forward out of the dust and opened my eyes. There was a regular convention in session in the hollow where I had left just Marie, Wendy and the dogs. They, of course, were still there; and all the dogs were on guard position, not making a sound. Wendy was holding tight to her mother, and Marie was facing away from me.
Beyond Marie were the girl and Sunday. The girl sat cross-legged on the ground, with the .22 rifle aimed at Marie. The girl’s back was against the back of Sunday. He also was seated, on his haunches, and looking bored-but the tip of his tail was twitching ominously. He faced outward at a half-ring of figures, all with their rifles facing in Sunday’s direction but looking momentarily baffled. Tek and his gang had come visiting us again and, apparently, encountered a problem.
The appearance of myself and Bill Gault out of the mistwall did nothing to make their problem any easier. In fact, clearly it came as a severe jolt. They stared at us as if Bill and I were ghosts materializing before their eyes; and a sudden intuitive conclusion clicked into place in the back of my mind. Just as I once had, obviously they were in the habit of avoiding mistwalls. No doubt, everybody still on the face of the earth today avoided them, instinctively, remembering the emotional upset and discomfort of their first experience with any part of the time storm. And here were Bill and I, strolling out of this particular mistwall as casually as walking from one room into another.
Hard on the heels of that bit of understanding came another. The scrap of overheard conversation I had heard suddenly resolved itself. Clearly, the “it” Marie had been telling Tek and his men to shoot had been Sunday; and, just as clearly, Sunday and the girl had come here hunting me—which meant that Tek and company had probably been following them, as well as the dogs and us, all this time.
I had gotten this far with my thoughts, when the frozen moment in which the girl and Tek’s gang stared at me was abruptly and joyously smashed asunder by Sunday. Plainly, he heard, smelled, or otherwise recognized me in spite of his back being turned. He jumped to his feet, turned about, and came bounding at me like a kitten, purring like an outboard motor and stropping himself up against me with unrestrained enthusiasm.
I had a second to brace myself, but being braced did not help much. When a hundred and forty pound leopard throws an affectionate shoulder block into your midsection, you realize the advantages of four legs over two. At least when one cat makes loving demonstrations to another, the recipient has a couple of spare feet to prop himself upright with. I staggered and nearly went down. Meanwhile, Marie had turned around to see what was going on and saw me.
“Marc!” she cried.
There was so much desperate relief in her voice, I was almost ready to forget that she had seemed on the verge of entering into partnership with the enemy to get rid of Sunday and the girl. But our difficulties were not at an end, because now she also came to throw her arms around me.
“You’ve been gone for hours!” she said.
I had no time to point out that I had not even been gone one hour, at the most; because Sunday, seeing her coming, had already classed her as a potential attacker and finally decided to do something about her. I fended her off with one arm, while just managing to slap Sunday hard on the nose to check the lethal paw-swipe with which he would have turned our little reunion into a very real tragedy.