Free And the Angels Sing by Kate Wilhelm Page B

bitterly and considered his next move. She could be dead, or dying. Through the rain-streaked windshield the town appeared uninhabited. They didn't have a police station, a clinic or hospital, nothing. The nearest doctor was ten or twelve miles away, and in this weather... Finally he started the engine and headed for home. He would call the state police from there, he decided.
    Let them come and collect her.
    He drove up Hammer Hill to his own house and parked in the driveway at the walk that led to the front door. He would open the door first, he had decided, then come back and get the kid; either way he would get soaked, but there was little he could do about that. He moved fairly fast for a large man, but his fastest was not good enough to keep the rain off his face again. If it would come straight down, the way God meant rain to fall, he thought, fumbling with the key in the lock, he would be able to see something. He got the door open, flicked on the light switch, and went back to the car to collect the girl. She was as limp as before, and seemed to weigh nothing at all. The slicker she wore was hard to grasp, and he did not want her head to loll about, for her to brain herself on the porch rail or the door frame, but she was not easy to carry, and he grunted although her weight was insignificant. Finally he got her inside and kicked the door shut and made his way to the bedroom where he dumped her on the bed. Then he took off his hat that had been useless, and his glasses that had blinded him with running water, and the streaming raincoat that was leaving a trail of water with every step. He backed off the Navajo rug and out to the kitchen to put the wet coat on a chair, let it drip on the linoleum. He grabbed a handful of paper toweling and wiped his glasses, then returned to the bedroom.
    He reached down to remove the kid's raincoat and jerked his hand away again.
    "Jesus Christ!" he whispered, and backed away from her. He heard himself saying it again, and then again, and stopped. He had backed up to the wall, was pressed hard against it. Even from there he could see her clearly. Her face was smooth, without eyebrows, without eyelashes, her nose too small, her lips too narrow, hardly lips at all. What he had thought was a coat was part of her. It started on her head, where hair should have been, down the sides of her head where ears should have been, down her narrow shoulders, the backs of her arms that seemed too long and thin, almost boneless.
    She was on her side, one long leg stretched out, the other doubled up under her. Where there should have been genitalia, there was too much skin, folds of skin.
    Eddie felt his stomach spasm, a shudder passed over him. Before, he had wanted to shake her, wake her up, ask questions; now he thought that if she opened her eyes, he might pass out. And he was shivering with cold. Moving very cautiously, making no noise, he edged his way around the room to the door, then out, back to the kitchen where he pulled a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet and poured half a glass that he drank as fast as he could. He stared at his hand. It was shaking.
    Very quietly he took off his shoes, sodden, and placed them at the back door next to his waterproof boots that he invariably forgot to wear. As soundlessly as possible he crept to the bedroom door and looked at her again. She had moved under, was now drawn up in a huddle, as if she was as cold as he was. He took a deep breath and began to inch around the wall of the room toward the closet where he pulled out his slippers with one foot, and eased them on, and then tugged on a blanket on a shelf. He had to let his breath out then; it sounded explosive to his ears. The girl shuddered and made herself into a tighter ball. He moved toward her slowly, ready to turn and run, and finally was close enough to lay the blanket over her. She was shivering hard.
    He backed away from her again and this time went to the living room, leaving the door open so