Free The Immortals by James Gunn Page B

Barbara’s voice was brittle and bell clear. “Wounded men are not my specialty. I like them like you, Officer—strong and able. But,” she added carelessly, “you can look if you want to.”
    The policeman chuckled. “Don’t tempt me. You’re not hiding him under your skirt, I bet. And there’s not much else in this buggy but engine. What’ll she do on a straightaway?”
    â€œI’ve had her up to two hundred myself,” Barbara said casually. “Two-fifty is supposed to be tops.”
    â€œI don’t believe it.” There was awe in his voice.
    â€œWatch this!”
    The car took off like a rocket. In a few seconds the tires began to hum. Sibert felt the car lighten as air rushing past the stubby, winglike stabilizer fins gave them lift. The acceleration continued long past the time he was sure it would stop.
    Was it going to be that easy? he thought.
    The acceleration slowed. They cruised along, wheels whining. It made a kind of lullaby that sang Sibert back to sleep.
    He woke with a start that hurt his chest. The car had stopped again, and the whine was gone.
    For the second time he thought: I’m going to die. The doctor had said so. With a clarity he had not known since the bullet had hit him, he thought: Missus Gentry’s bullet went through a lung. I’m bleeding to death inside. Every movement makes it more certain.
    He felt a petulant anger at Barbara, who held his life so lightly, who cared so little if he lived or died, who made him stagger blindly in search of a hiding place, dying on his feet.
    Prompt medical attention could have saved him. That’s what the doctor had implied.
    She had given him blood, true. But what was one pint of blood when the thick, red life fluid was leaking from him so persistently, so inevitably. Even the blood of an immortal.
    Futile anger rose higher. Damn her! he thought. I am dying, and she will live forever.
    Dying was a strange thing, much like birth, filled with long drowsings and gray, half-conscious awakenings. Each time the grayness lifted for a moment, Sibert was surprised that he was still alive. The remnants of life drifted away in a long doze, until at last he came finally, completely, to full, cool wakefulness.
    Gray light drifted through a dusty windowpane and lay across the many-colored squares of the heavy comforter that pressed down on him. I’m going to live, he thought.
    He turned his head. Barbara was asleep in a heavy chair beside his bed. Its old upholstery was ripped and torn; stuffing had pushed through, gray and ugly.
    Barbara’s face was haggard with fatigue and unattractive. Her clothing was wrinkled and dirty. Sibert disliked looking at her. He would have looked away, but her eyes opened, and he smiled.
    â€œYou’re better,” she said huskily. Her hand touched his forehead. “The fever’s gone. You’re going to get well.”
    â€œI think you’re right,” he said weakly. “Thanks to you. How long?”
    She understood. “It’s been a week. Go back to sleep now.”
    He nodded and closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dark, refreshing pool. The next time he woke, there was food, a rich chicken broth that went down smoothly and warmly, and gave strength—strength for more talk.
    â€œWhere are we?” he asked.
    â€œAn old dirt farm. Abandoned ten years or more, I imagine.”
    She had found time to wash and change her clothingfor a dress she must have discovered in a closet; it was old, but at least it was clean. “Hydroponics probably drove the farmer out of business. This road’s pretty deserted. I don’t think anyone saw me drive in. I hid the car in the barn. There are chickens nesting there. Who were those people you shot?”
    â€œLater,” he said. “First—do you remember your father?”
    She shook her head puzzledly. “I didn’t have a father. Not a real father. Does that