Clark understood at last. “You’re a psych, aren’t you?”
“Nope.”
“What then?”
“What’s the difference?”
Clark suddenly had all he could take. “Listen, if you don’t like this damned party, why the hell don’t you go home?”
The shaggy gent turned sad eyes on Clark. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m the host.”
It was waiting.
All she had to do was pick it up and pop off. As simple as all that.
Lois Sylvan watched the hands of the chronometer. It was already ten minutes past happy time. That was good. Ten minutes, and the anticipation had mounted inside her like a screaming rocket.
She wet her lips and eyed the vial, and then stared at the hands of the chron again. It was good this way. Oh, God, it was good this way.
How much longer could she put it off?
She’d wait. She’d wait, and then it would be better, then it would be sweeter, then it would really take her, really knock her, really fix her good. She’d doubled the load, and this one should really give her a jolt, send her way back, Jack, way, way back, Zach, all the way back, Mac.
On impulse, she kicked off her slippers and walked across the room barefoot. She wore a whispering gown belted at her waist. She saw herself in the mirror, and her eyes sought the tiny puncture marks on her thigh. She found the marks, and the excitement rose within her. Now, I’ll do it now. I’ll pop it now.
No! her mind shouted. No, wait. Wait. Wait.
She waited.
She clenched her hands together and began pacing the room. It roared in her blood now, the wanting, the longing, the extreme wanting, the wanting that was sweet with its painfulness. The light caught the metallic gleam of the vial, reflected it tauntingly across the room. She had begun to tremble. Her body shook, and her loins ached, and she wanted that needle with every fibre of her being, every atom of her existence.
She wanted it desperately, but she continued to pace the room, and the longing soared inside her, quickened her blood, pounded at her brain.
There was pain now, a real physical pain, a pain separate and apart from the sweet aching of her mind. It twisted at her stomach, tied her muscles into knots, kicked at her groin.
Good God, how I want it.
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes past happy. She’d never gone that long before. Never. Oh, it was good. She opened her mouth and sucked in a deep gulp of air.
The longing washed over her again, deep this time, stabbing at her, prodding her. It was overwhelming in its power. It engulfed her, flooded her, shoved her rudely across the room.
She picked up the vial.
Van Brant was in bed when the call came.
He rolled over and tried to shake the insistent buzzing away. When it became apparent the buzzing would not be shaken, he threw the covers back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and mumbled, “Now, who the hell...”
He crossed the room to the vid, snapped it on, and focused. There was no picture. He passed a hand over bleary eyes, tried the focus control once more. There was still no picture.
“All right,” he said harshly, “who’s playing games?”
“Van...”
The voice was weak, distant. He couldn’t place it. A woman’s voice.
“Who is it?” he asked. “I can’t see you.”
“Liz. It’s Liz, Van.” Brant heard a sharp intake of breath, and he stared at the vid, puzzled.
“What is it, Liz?”
“Bayer and One-Seven-Three, Van. Hurry. Please, please. Hurry.”
There was pain in the voice, and then a sharp exhalation of breath, as sharp as the intake had been.
“Liz! What’s wrong? What...”
There was no answer. He jiggled the operator toggle anxiously, and when the cool, precise voice came on, he said, “I’ve been sliced, operator.”
“Sorry, sir. What number were you calling?”
“I received the call.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
He waited impatiently. When the operator came back, he fairly leaped at her voice. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll click off, perhaps your party will call back.”
“Oh, rocks,” he said. He clicked off angrily, stared at the vid for a moment, and then walked swiftly to the closet. He threw on a pair of old breeches, debated a coat of alcojel, decided against it.
Bayer and One-Seven-Three, she’d said. If this was some kind of a gag...
When he spotted the chronometer on his dresser, he doubted that it was a gag.
It was 0300.
He found her lying on the floor of the booth.
Her skirt had been torn from her, and her underwear was gone. He blinked down at her, and when he saw the red smears on her breasts, he thought they were blood. He knelt down, realized the smears were lipstick.
“Liz,” he said.
He took her in his arms. Her body was cold, and he saw the bruises on her flesh now, ripe purple bruises that covered her, starting at her neck, working down over her bosom, onto her rib cage, her thighs, even her ankles.
“Good God, Liz, what happened? Liz!”
Her eyes fluttered open, and there was panic in them for an instant. She recognized Van then and gripped him tightly.
“You came,” she said in a rush. “You came, Van. Thank God, you came.”
“What happened, Liz?”
She shook her head, squeezed her eyelids down, forcing out the tears. She kept shaking her head, her mouth working mutely.
“You need a medic,” he said. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”
“No!” she screamed. “Van, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Van...”
“We’ll go to my place,” he said. She nodded, her fear subsiding. She was still trembling when he lifted her and took her to his tomic. He drove fast, sticking to the speed lanes, ignoring the robot policemen and their cameras clicking away at his license tab. He could squash those later. He pulled into the sub garage, carried Liz to the lift, and then into his apartment. He got her into bed, and then phoned the medic.
The medic was plainly annoyed when he arrived. Sleep still clung to his eyes, and he kept rubbing at his thick nose with his forefinger.
“Where is she?” he asked. He was a tall man, with a blond spade beard, and bright red hair. A hell of a combination, Van thought.
“In the bedroom.”
“You’re not Ree, are you?”
“Hell, no.”
“I wondered,” the medic said.
“She called me; I brought her here. I think she’s in shock.”
“Nobody asked you,” the medic said. Brant clenched his fists, feeling the same impotence he always felt in the presence of medical men. A superior breed, these illidges. Or so they thought.
“She’s in the bedroom,” he repeated coldly. “I’m not paying for small chop. You going to look at her?”
The medic snapped a cold glare at Van. He seemed to be debating whether or not he should leave. The chronometer said 0355, though, and he’d already been dragged out of bed. He blinked his eyes, and turned toward the bedroom. Van followed him.
“You can wait outside,” the medic said.
He was with her for ten minutes, and when he came out, he was still rubbing his thick nose.
“How is she?”
“Shell live.”
“I didn’t need you for that.”
“I gave her a sedative. The bruises are minor, nothing serious. She’s in bad shock. I’ll leave some of these pills. See that she takes them for the next few days. Every four hours... more often if she acts up.”
“Acts up?”
“She’s been through a harrowing experience. She may react violently when she begins remembering what happened.”
“What did happen?”