MARTHA and her five kids rode the double chairlift that serviced the north face of Hightower Mountain, rising up over meadows of spun-sugar snow and slopes that were dotted with skiers carving tracks. Martha rode with Lila Simms, George and Chicken had the chairs up ahead, while Pam and Linda rode behind. Below them the countryside stretched out in a checkerboard pattern of blacks and whites, its geometry broken by a snaking river and the coil of the highway that bent around the base of the hill. It was their first trip of the day up the mountain, and it was the sort of day that skiers cherish: fresh powder, clear skies, and an edge to the cold that sets the blood singing. A plume of snow from a neighboring peak was a feather in the cap of the day.
Lila, sitting next to Martha on the lift, pointed to the slope below where a pair of skiers were carving patterns. "Look at that," she said excitedly. "Fresh powder there. I want some of that."
"You'll get it," Martha assured her. "It isn't going anywhere." "
You get enough skiers on it and they'll pack it down to nothing." The girl was dressed all in blue: ski pants, parka, and knitted cap. Even her skis and boots were the same shade of blue. She waved her arm in an exuberant circle to take in the mountain, the sky, and the snow. "Fresh powder, I love it. Powder up to the hips, that's heaven."
"If you want really deep powder, you have to go west. Ever skied out there?"
Lila's face lit up. "No, but I'd love to. Do you ever take groups there?"
"Uh…" Martha had to recall her role as a guide. "Sure, once in a while."
"Do you think I could come along sometimes?" Lila flashed a bouncy grin. "I'd love to ski Aspen, or Vail, or one of those places."
The girl's good humor was infectious, and Martha smiled back. "Hey, we just got here. Let's do this mountain first."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound greedy. I know how lucky I was to get this trip, and everyone's been so friendly. Pam, and Linda, and George… and Chicken."
Martha picked up the hesitation. "Any problems with Chicken?"
"No, not at all. It's just that he's different."
That's for sure, thought Martha. "How do you mean?"
"Well, he's cute, but he's sort of crazy, too."
Cute? Chicken? What does this kid use for brains?
"He keeps looking at me all the time."
Great. I'm supposed to be keeping this virgin intacto, and one of my team has the hots for her. "Let me know if he bothers you. I'll keep him in line."
"He doesn't bother me." The sunny smile was back. "I sort of like him. He reminds me of someone I once knew."
And if he puts one finger on you I'll turn him into a soprano.
Lila giggled. "Not a person, actually. It was a puppy I once had. He was a cute little fella, but sort of crazy. Always peeing on the carpet or barking in the middle of the night. Crazy, but cute."
"And Chicken reminds you of…?"
"He has the same sort of look on his face sometimes."
"Some puppy," Martha said, laughing. "Look, I don't want to sound pompous, but we tend to discourage personal relationships on these trips. You know?"
Lila nodded solemnly, but Martha knew that the message had not gotten through. It was a disquieting thought, for a romance was the last thing that she needed right now. Getting Lila out of Rockhill had been the obvious opening move in a defense against Sextant, but Martha knew that the girl's vulnerability had only been lessened, not eliminated. She knew that she was up against an accomplished professional, and that any defense she might mount against Sextant would be no more effective than the tools she had to work with: four teenage kids without field experience. She damned the Agency for giving them a job with such unattractive odds, but she comforted herself with the manner in which most of the kids were conducting themselves. Pam and Linda had quickly formed a female bond with Lila, and George had assumed the role of the considerate, if disinterested, older brother.
The weak link was Chicken, who was so out of tune with the others. On the basis of his record at the Center, he had no business being on the job. His grades were poor, his attitude indifferent, and, most important, he was losing his ability to work head-to-head. Along with the other members of his class, he had arrived at the Center at the age of eleven with all the latent abilities of a sensitive, but during the past year, when those abilities should have been peaking, they had started to ebb. Often he could not hear what the others were saying when they went head-to-head, often he couldn't get through when he tried to speak to them that way, and always the effort was accompanied by a severe pain at the base of his skull. Chicken was on his way to becoming a deuce, a failed ace.
The physicians at the Center had language to explain the erosion of Chicken's skills. They spoke about the neurological imbalance that lay at the core of a sensitive's ability, and how, in some few cases, the neurological network slowly returned to a balanced, or normal, state. The condition was rare, but not unknown, and once the balance was complete the skills were gone. It happened perhaps once in every five hundred cases that an ace turned into a deuce, and there were always one or two of them around the Center. There was no way in which they could be sent back into the normal world, for they knew too much, and so they stayed bound to a life that had abandoned them. They became the hewers of wood and the fetchers of water, auxiliaries to those who once had been their peers. To be a deuce among aces was a sensitive's nightmare, and Chicken was facing just such a life.
Poor bastard, Martha thought. Poor, pathetic bastard.
She pushed the thought aside; it was time to check the troops. To the lift in back of her, she flashed, Pam? Linda?
Pam here.
Linda here. Any instructions?
Just keep your heads open. Report anything that looks even slightly suspicious. George? Chicken?
George here.
Chicken? No answer. Chicken, do you copy? Still no answer. Damn it, Chicken… Martha caught herself. George, tell him to keep his eyes open and stay alert.
You try telling him. He's off in another world. I think he's in love.
Just what we needed. You mean Lila?
Who else?
That isn't love, it's teenage lust.
I know that, and you know that, but Chicken doesn't. Maybe if you fixed him up with her…
That's enough of that. Nobody's getting fixed up on this trip.
Hey, who made that rule? asked Pam from behind, and Linda chimed in, You mean we're supposed to live like nuns?
I said enough, Martha told them. George, tell Chicken what I said, and the rest of you keep alert.
George poked Chicken, and said, "Martha says to keep your eyes open."
Chicken nodded absently. Open for what? Villains? Guys in black hats? His mind was on Lila, but not on the job. The girl attracted him, he wanted her to notice him, but he didn't know how to get her attention. He had little experience with "normal" girls, even the females at the Center seemed always to defeat him, and he was painfully aware of his limitations. His appearance was against him. He was overgrown and clumsy for his age, with a moon face, squinty eyes, and features that were not yet fully formed. He had no social graces, words did not come easily to him, and when he talked with girls he tended to mutter the first idiocy that came into his mind. So he did crazy things. He stole trucks at the Center, raced them and crashed them. He stunted, he bragged, he lied outrageously. He did everything he could to get the world to pay attention, but all that the world ever did was to frown.
So far, Lila hadn't frowned, but she hadn't paid much attention to him, either. Still, he had the feeling that she liked him, and there had to be a way to make her notice him, a way to light up her eyes. But, as always, he couldn't think of what to do, or to say. Angry at his helplessness, he gripped the safety bar in front of him, and squeezed. He squeezed as hard as he could, as if squeezing could give him an answer. He looked down at his hands. Fastened to the safety bar was a metal plaque that bore a warning. DO NOT BOUNCE ON THE CHAIRS.
Yeah, he thought. Yeah.
He shifted his weight in the seat, and gave a little bounce. The chair shivered, and the tremor passed up through the supporting bar to the cable. The chair rocked back and forth. He did it again, just a little bounce, and the same thing happened. One solid bounce, he figured, would send the chairs rocking all along the cable. He was about to try it when he felt George's hand close over his wrist in a tight grip. George twisted and squeezed, and pain shot up Chicken's arm.
"Hey, cut it out," he said.
"Don't do it again."
"Do what?"
"Bounce."
"I wasn't."
"You were, and you were about to do it again. That's kid stuff, Chicken, and it's dangerous. Get her attention some other way."
"You're hurting my wrist."
"If you try it again," George said sweetly, "I will break your fucking hand."
"Look, I really wasn't…"
"You were. You were about to pull one of your stupid stunts."
"How did you…?" Chicken knew the answer before he finished the question. George had been in his head, and he hadn't been aware of it. He had felt nothing. The knowledge hurt more than the pain in his wrist, and he muttered, "You can let go now. I won't do anything."
George took his hand away. He stared straight ahead as if nothing had happened. They rode together silently, until Chicken, rubbing his wrist, said, "We used to be friends."
They had been more than friends. George and Chicken, Pam and Linda, Terry Krazewski back at the Center in the infirmary-as members of the same class they had been taught to think of themselves as brothers and sisters. George sighed. "Look, I'm still your friend, still your brother, but shit, Chicken, this last year… there sure are times when you burn my ass. And it isn't just me."
"I know." Chicken looked away. "The others, too."
"You really can't blame them, some of the things you do. You act so crazy sometimes."
"That's me, the crazy Chicken. You ever stop to wonder why?"
George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was a subject they avoided. "You mean because you're losing it?"
"It's getting worse."
"I know. I was in and out of your head just now, and you didn't even know it."
Chicken said quietly, "It scares me, George."
"It would scare me, too."
"I get scared and I do crazy things. It's like I can't help myself."
"I understand."
"I don't want to be a deuce, George. I think I'd rather die than be a deuce."
"Don't talk that way."
"Why not? You'd talk that way, too, if it happened to you."
"Is it totally gone?"
"No, sometimes it's there. They've been giving me medication. They say it may help. It's a zinc oxide combination. It's supposed to slow things down, maintain the imbalance."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes." Chicken shrugged. "Most of the time it doesn't do a damn thing for me."
"So what happens next?"
"We wait and see. That's all they can say. Wait and see."
With unconscious cruelty, George said, "That isn't much."
"It's all I've got."
George searched for words, and found none. He finally said, "Hang in there."
"Yeah."
Two chairs back, Pam and Linda fretted over Martha's ban on social activity. They were accustomed to the easygoing sexual standards of the Center where, once you were old enough, the only taboo was making it with a member of your own class. They had assumed that the same standards would apply in the field, and now this.
"It's going to be a cold couple of days," said Linda.
"Cold all over," Pam agreed. "Cold on the hill, and cold in bed."
"You know that big fireplace back at the lodge?"
"Big enough to roast a rhino."
"I was sort of looking forward to sitting there tonight with some mulled wine, soft music, and a slab of muscle."
"Anybody in mind? We just got here."
"How long does it take?"
"Not long," Pam admitted, "but you'd better forget it. You heard what she said."
"She can't watch us all the time."
"She's got eyes all over."
"It isn't fair, she's treating us like kids."
"We are kids," Pam pointed out. "And we're on a job."
"Come on, you've heard the way the aces talk. Being on the job doesn't mean that you can't have some fun. The trouble with Martha is that she's old, she's forgotten what it's like. She's got to be thirty, at least."
Thirty-four next November. It was Martha, jumping into their heads. An old crone. An absolute hag.
"Damn," Linda whispered.
Let me have your attention, I have some points to make.
Yes, Martha.
Yes, Martha.
Point number one. When you're in the field, you never know who might be listening in. This time it was me, next time it could he somebody nasty. So keep it buttoned up.
Right, Martha.
Okay, Martha.
Point number two. Since your thoughts seem to be concentrated somewhere below the waist, let me drop one little word into your shell-pink ears. The word is rape. It's a short, ugly, nasty word, and we're here to make sure that it doesn't happen to the kid who's sitting next to me. It is something that should not happen to any woman, and it is something that must not happen to this one. I didn't think that I'd have to explain that to two females, but apparently I do. You are here for one reason. You are not here to have fun, and you are not here to meet boys. You are here to protect Lila Simms, and you will do exactly that, even if it means, as one of you so quaintly put it, that you have to live like nuns for a couple of days. Is that clear?
Yes, Martha.
Yes, Martha.
Okay, carry on.
Both girls giggled.
All right, I mean don't carry on. I mean … Martha allowed herself to laugh. You know what I mean.
The chairlift ended just above the three-thousand-foot level at the top of the Cascade Trail, a steep slope, studded with moguls, that dropped into a series of ess-turns before it broadened into a well-kept piste. The temperature at the top was minus four, and a strong wind swirled the snow. Martha led the kids to the lip of the trail, and spoke to her own gang head-to-head.
Pay attention. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd keep us all together in a pack, but I don't want Lila wondering why. After all, this isn't a ski school and there's no reason to stay together, so we'll have to split up. I'll stay as close to her as I can, and the rest of you try to keep in sight. Remember, no booming off by yourselves. If you get separated, try to join up, and if you can't we'll all meet for lunch at the cafeteria. Understood?
There were three affirmatives.
Chicken?
Nothing.
Chicken?
But all that Chicken heard was a faint buzzing as she tried to get through. He strained to catch her words, but they just weren't there. The ability, which once had been so natural to him, now was a sometime thing that came and went, racking his head with pain. He felt the familiar anger building inside of him, and the pressure. The hell with it, he thought, and while the others were checking their bindings and using the lip balm, he turned to Lila, and said in a low voice, "What do you say we bomb the liftline?"
She looked at him curiously. "Do what?"
"Straight down the hill under the chairlift. Shake up the mountain."
"Is that the way you ski?"
"Sometimes. Come on, it's fun."
"It's also pretty hotdog."
"Nothing wrong with a little hotdog once in a while."
"I don't know. You mean, just us?"
"Sure, why not?"
She hesitated, and he knew that she was going to say yes, but just then Martha called out, "Okay, troops, let's hit it."
Martha did a graceful rouade to turn onto the track, and started down the slope. Pam, George, and Linda followed close behind. Lila looked at Chicken, shrugged helplessly, and followed the others. They skied the slope easily, not pressing, just working back and forth across the hill.
Chicken watched them go, and he did not move. She would have said yes, he knew it. He felt the pressure building in his head, felt it behind his eyes. He knew that he was close to the edge, ready to blow, and just for the moment a finger of sanity reached out and tried to pull him back. He brushed the finger aside. He jabbed his poles in the snow, and slid over the edge and onto the slope. He headed straight down the fall line, dropping into a racing tuck. Below him, Martha and the others were doing the hill in leisurely traverses.
Kid stuff, he thought. Bomb the mountain.
That's kid suff, too, if you keep your eyes open, he told himself. How about trying it with your eyes shut?
Come on.
Why not?
Can't ski with your eyes closed.
Who says?
You mean… all the way?
For as long as you can keep them closed. New way to play chicken.
Wow… first one to open his eyes…?
You got it.
But there's only me.
Even better. If you have the balls for it.
You calling me chicken?
It's your move.
I like it.
Then do it.
Chicken closed his eyes. He was transported at once into a world of wind, speed, and darkness. He panicked, and opened his eyes. He jammed them shut again.
Open your eyes.
No,
Open them.
No.
He dropped down the hill like an elevator with its cable cut. He was totally out of control. Even if his eyes had been open, he would have been out of control. He kept them firmly shut. It was flight, it was fear, it was wild, it was…
Fun? Open your eyes.
No. All the way this time. No matter what happens, I go all the way.
All the way? Sinatra on skis?
He didn't go all the way. He didn't go very far at all. Skiing like that, he had to hit someone or something, and he did. He hit Martha. George and Linda were off to the side, out of the way. Lila and Pam saw him coming. They both called track, and scooted to safety. Martha, traversing the hill, had most of her back to him. Someone else called track, and she started to turn, but by then it was too late. Racing down the mountain with his eyes screwed shut, Chicken hit her squarely, knocked her over, and broke her leg.
Sextant saw the accident from where he stood in the lee of a slatted snow fence at the top of the Cascade Trail. He saw Chicken bomb the hill, saw him hit Martha, saw them both go down. He saw Chicken shake himself and get to his feet, but Martha did not move. He waited and watched. He watched as a small crowd gathered on the slope, watched as two red-jacketed ski patrolmen appeared, watched as they called for a stretcher-sled. Martha still had not moved, and he wondered if she might be dead. No such luck, he decided, not from a fall like that, and then he heard words drifting up the hill from the crowd.
"… broken leg…"
"… damn fool hotdog…"
"Where the hell is that sled?"
He watched as the sled appeared accompanied by two more patrolmen, watched as they loaded Martha onto it, watched as they started her down the hill with the kids following. He watched until the sled was out of sight. He nodded with deep satisfaction. He did not know who Martha was, did not know her name or her connection with his target. He knew only that his job had just been made easier.
He shifted his weight on the snow. His rented boots pinched at his toes, his rented skis were a touch too long, and his hastily bought ski pants were tight at the crotch. But despite these discomforts, he was fully at ease. He had been at ease on skis since childhood. Skiers cavorted on the slopes below, and he watched them with a mild contempt. He had been born and raised in the Julian Alps of Yugoslavia where children had skied as soon as they could walk. Skiing in that world had been a means of transportation, a necessity, and it amused him to see people ski for sport. Most of them look graceful enough, but he wondered how long they would have lasted in the mountains of his youth.
He lit a cigarette and breathed in deeply, savoring the combination of tobacco and frigid mountain air. From where he stood he could see, far below, the curve of the highway that wound around the base of the mountain. Further down that road, and out of sight, was the Northern Inn where his target and her friends were staying, and further still was the rented house where he had parked his three animals. He had left them with a case of beer and strict instructions to stay put, for his purpose this morning was only to reconnoiter. He needed an adjustment to the new terrain. He had expected to do his job back in Rockhill, he had not anticipated the sudden removal to a ski resort, but Sextant was nothing if not flexible. There or here, the job would be done.
The job, yes. He wondered at the nature of the job he had been given, although his wonder did not extend to questioning his orders. To question an order from David Ogden was unthinkable to him, even an order that came from the grave. Still, he wondered. He had killed for David Ogden in the past. He had lied and stolen, he had inflicted tortures, and all for David Ogden. But rape? How strange that Ogden should ask this of him. Memory intruded on his thoughts, and he shivered. He knew that his forehead and his palms were damp. It was a familiar chill, one that came to him often, and it had nothing to do with the frigid air or the snow on which he stood. The chill was part of the memory. It had always been that way.
Why me, he wondered. Of all the people you could have chosen, David, why did you have to pick me? Did you want to see how icy I can be? Is that what this is, one final test to prove that I'm still the man you made me? Did you think that the memories would get in my way? No, David, I'm ice, all right. I don't have to prove that anymore, and if this is what you want, you'll get it. You always did. I'll do the job, David, don't worry about that, and fuck the memories.
The memories dated from 1943. He was six years old then, his name was Vlado Priol, and his father was part of a partisan band that operated against the occupying Germans in northern Slovenia. There were many such bands in Yugoslavia then, and this one was based two thousand meters high on the side of Mount Krn in the Julian Alps. The country there was wide and desolate, and in the wintertime the partisan camp was virtually impossible to reach for someone who was not a native of the region. Even if you were born in the shadow of Mount Krn, it still was a job of work. To make the trek you started from the bottom of the mountain in the morning, skiing first over miles of trackless terrain, through stands of snow-laden trees, and then along a ridge that was overhung with needles of ice. It snowed every morning in the wintertime, and you moved through it blindly. When the terrain tipped up you climbed for as long as you could on your skis, then took them off, strapped them onto your back, and kept climbing on foot. You climbed through the morning, around noon the snow would stop, and once the air was clear you could look back to see what you had left behind: a white world far below, with the town of Ravne and the railroad etched in. Then you started to climb again, laboring through most of the day until just before sunset when you came to an indentation in the mountainside about a mile across. It was a depression shaped like a punchbowl with steep and icy slopes, and on the far side of the bowl the north face rose up to form the dark peak that gave the mountain its name. At the base of that peak was a ridge that was dotted with caves, and it was in those caves that the partisans made their camp. They felt themselves to be safe there, protected by the mountain from their enemies.
The partisan band was led by a man named Cankar, but that was not his real name. Like many in the partisan movement he had adopted a nom de guerre, in his case the name of an early Slovenian playwright and patriot. This modern-day Cankar was a lean and leathery old man with broad mustaches that curled at the ends, and he commanded a band of three dozen men, and a handful of women. Four of those women had children with them, and one of those children was Vlado Priol.
The Germans in the area were part of the 156th Regiment of the Alpinkorps, and Cankar's band raised all kinds of hell with them by severing lines of communication, blowing up ammo dumps, and derailing trains. They would sweep down from their mountaintop camp on skis, strike quickly, and then scamper up like goats to the safety of the heights. In the warm weather they stole horses and raided into Italy, and up along the Austrian border. They lived on what they stole. They were lightly armed, they had two mountain-wise mules for transport, and they had a radio, which was their only link to the outside world. They also had a young American officer who had parachuted in, and who provided their liaison with the Allied forces in Italy. He belonged to an organization called the OSS, and his name was David Ogden.
Sextant started down the mountain just as the sled bearing Martha made the first of the ess-turns below the moguls, and disappeared from sight. He skied effortlessly, running the fall line and skimming the moguls. He had no style, he just skied.
Speeding down the mountain, he thought, Yes, I remember you David, the way you were then. Just the way I remember being hungry most of the time, and so cold in the winter. I remember my mother warming me, and feeding me, and singing songs in the night. I remember our cave, and searching for wood for the fire, and the flickering shadows on the walls. I remember when the men went raiding, and the women and the children were left alone, and when the men came back I would look to see if my father was there, and then I would look for you. I remember a lot, David, but I often wonder if these memories of mine are made up of things that I actually saw, and heard, and felt, or if they are only a recollection of the stories that you told me later on. Even now, at my age, a childhood memory still can be sharp and clear, but it also can be overgrown with layers of legends, and that is what I suspect has happened. Much of what I remember now I first heard from your lips, and I have the feeling that the stories improved each time that you told them. Still, the memories are there, no matter what the provenance, and they stick in my mind like burrs on a sheep. I remember you the way a child remembers, for to a boy of six the world is peopled by the tall and the wise. You weren't the wisest to me, that was my father, but you were certainly the tallest, and wise enough. Later on I worked it out that you couldn't have been more than twenty that year, maybe nineteen, and compared to people like Old Cankar and my father, you were a baby when it came to mountain fighting. But you learned, oh yes, you learned.
At the bottom of the mountain, he found the first-aid station and waited outside. He did not have to wait long. They brought Martha out on a stretcher, and loaded her into an ambulance. The legend on the ambulance read BENSON CITY HOSPITAL. He went to his car. He had just enough time to pick up his three animals, and get to Benson City, twenty miles away.
The kids followed the ambulance in the van, and once they got to the hospital, four of them went inside with Martha. Chicken did not go in, he stayed in the van. No one told him to stay there. No one needed to. He knew that he was not wanted inside. Only Lila had spoken to him during the drive from the mountain. His peers from the Center, his brother and sisters, had ignored him. They had not even bothered to ask how he felt. Clearly, he had come out of the collision unhurt, and Martha's leg was broken. The words were unspoken in the van as they drove, but the words were there, just the same. Chicken had done it again, and if anyone rated a broken bone it was the master screw-up himself.
Now he sat alone in the van, cold and shaken. He could have turned the motor on, and the heater, but he didn't. He punished himself with the cold. This was, he knew, the ultimate failure. His adventures of the past had always been met with a shake of the head and a sigh of exasperation. He knew those sighs well. He had heard them often enough during the past year from both his peers and his mentors. But there would be no sighs this time. He had jeopardized the mission, and he had put the most popular ace in the Center out of action. They were finished with him, he knew it, and he knew what would be waiting for him back at the Center. With his abilities fading, and now this-they'd make him a deuce, for sure. Alone, cold, and miserable, he bent over until his face was close to his knees, shaking his head.
Why? he asked himself. Why do I do it?
The question was rhetorical. He knew the answer, and the answer wasn't good enough. He shook himself against the chill, and went inside.
The other kids were sprawled on chairs around the hospital waiting room while Martha was in the emergency section. The waiting room had been designed with cheer in mind. There were cheerful colors, cheerful chairs, and cheerful drawings by children on the walls. There was a tank full of cheerful fish who bubbled and stared, magazines filled with cheerful stories, and cheerful giant snowflakes glued to every window. It was the most depressing place that Lila had ever seen.
She had more than one reason to feel depressed. She was worried about Martha, and her dream trip had begun to turn sour, but what bothered her just as much was the way that the other kids were treating Chicken. Sure, he had done something stupid. It was irresponsible and inexcusable to bomb the hill that way, but that was no reason to treat him like a leper. She had sensed the atmosphere in the van on the way to the hospital, and she had seen the look on Chicken's face. It was the same, sad, puppy-dog look that first had drawn her to him, and just as she had with that dog long ago, she had wanted to put her arms around him, hug him, and tell him that he was forgiven. If she had been alone with him, she might have done just that. That dog, she remembered unhappily, had never learned not to pee on the rug.
She looked up when Chicken came into the room. The others saw him, but they turned their heads away. Chicken's eyes moved across the room, and he chose a seat away from them. He slumped in the chair, and stared at his knees. That face, thought Lila. All he needs is a button nose and a pair of floppy ears. She stood up, walked across the room, and sat down next to him. She put her hand over his. He turned to her, confusion on his face.
"You look like you need a friend," she said.
He nodded.
"Well, you've got one."
He nodded again, and they sat silently that way, his hand under hers.
Do you see what's going on there? Pam spoke head-to-head with the others. Our favorite screwball just got himself adopted.
How could she? asked Linda. After what he did.
She doesn't know that he had his eyes closed.
For that matter, how do we know? Just because George says so?
He did, said George. I'm sure of it.
How could you tell? His goggles were down.
I tapped him just before he hit Martha. I was in his head, damn it, and his eyes were closed.
The head talk stopped when the doctor came into the room. He was a short, dark man in greens, and he needed a shave. George jumped to his feet. "How is she?"
"It was a clean break and a good set," said the doctor. "No problems."
"Are you sure?"
The doctor yawned. "Do you have any idea how many legs I do every winter? Stop worrying, your friend is okay. She's resting now, I have her sedated."
"How long will she have to stay here?"
"I want her here overnight. If things look good in the morning, I'll put the cast on, and she can go."
"Can we see her now?"
"Just for a few minutes. She's drowsy, and I want her to rest."
George turned to the others. "Come on."
They all stood up except Lila. She shook her head, and said, "I'll wait here. Hospital rooms give me the yips."
Pam frowned, and said quickly, "You really should come with us."
"It's only polite," Linda added.
Lila was firm. "Tell Martha I'm sorry, but I can't do it. I'd probably throw up all over the place. Even sitting right here is hard enough."
"Are you sure?" asked George. "We really should all stay together."
"Why?"
"Uh… well, you know…"
"I'll stay here. I know what would happen."
No good, said Pam. We can't leave her alone.
Linda asked, Why not? It's just for a few minutes.
The orders say that she has to be covered at all times.
George cut in. Pam's right, someone has to stay with her. Chicken, do you read me?
Yeah, I've got you. A little fuzzy, but I've got you.
Congratulations. It was not said kindly.
It still happens sometimes.
I want you to stay here with Lila, keep an eye on her.
Why me?
Because the rest of us have to talk to Martha. We have to know what to do next.
And I don't?
Not as much as we do. Not after what happened.
I wanted to tell her I was sorry.
That's a little bit late, and it can wait. Right now you stay here.
You running things now?
That's right. Until Martha can take over again.
Hold on, said Pam. Who elected you God?
We'll work that out later. In the meantime, Chicken stays here.
Chicken shrugged, and sat down. Lila said, "What's the matter?
"I'm going to wait here with you." He gave her a jaunty grin. He had come a long way on a few minutes worth of hand-holding. "I don't much like hospital rooms, either."
Lila covered his hand with hers again. "That's nice, we have something in common."
"Yeah." He gave her hand a tentative squeeze. "I wonder what else. What's your favorite food?"
"Chocolate chocolate-chip."
"Cookies?"
"Ice cream."
"Hey, how about that? Me too."
Yecch, said Pam. Now it's my turn to throw up.
Chicken, listen up, said George. This job I just gave you, it's important.
I know that, said Chicken without breaking his conversation with Lila.
You're in the deep shit now, you know that, don't you?
Yeah.
Don't make it any worse. This is no time to pull one of your stupid stunts, you understand?
I understand.
Just sit here and keep an eye on her. We'll be right inside.
I heard you the first time, George. "Baconburgers or cheeseburgers?"
"Cheese," said Lila.
"Me too. Home fries or french fries?"
"French."
"Play nicely, kiddies," said George. "We'll be back as soon as we can."
As soon as the others were out of the waiting room, Lila jumped up, and grabbed Chicken's hand. "Let's go."
"Go where?"
"Outside. I told you, I can't take hospitals. Even the waiting room makes me feel funny."
"It's cold out there," he said, but when she tugged his hand he followed along.
It was cold, it was snowing heavily, and the afternoon light was fading fast. They walked around the building to keep warm, and then through the parking lot, walking hand-in-hand, which now seemed the natural thing to do. They walked with their heads down against the driving snow, their eyes on the ground, and walking that way they did not see the four men looming out of the whiteness all around them, closing in.