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. I ll do that, Cussick said. Don t forget your package. He stood a moment, until the two ofthem had disappeared along the hall.Then he turned and re-entered the room.On the bed, Nina was sitting up slightly, her head against the wall, legs drawn up, feet tuckedunder her.She smiled up weakly at him. Hello, she said. Feel better? He locked the door and came toward her. They left; I sent them off. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he asked: This is your room, isn t it? Yes. She didn t look directly at him. How long? Oh, not long.A week, maybe.Ten days. I don t really understand.You want to be here with these people? I wanted to get away.I couldn t stand that damn little apartment& I wanted to be on my own, dosomething.It s so hard to explain; some of it I don t understand, myself.It s like the stealing I justfelt I had to stand up. That s why you brought us all here, then.It meant nothing until you could show it to us. I suppose so.Yes, I guess you re right.I wanted you to see it, so you d know.So you d see I hadsomewhere to go& not dependent on you.Not helpless, tied to your world.Outside in the main bar Igot scared& I took the heroin to get my nerve. She smiled a little. It s such a mess. He bent over her, holding onto her hands.Her skin was cold and faintly moist. You re not scarednow, are you? No, she managed. Not with you here. We ll stay here tonight, he told her. That s what you want? She nodded forlornly. Then tomorrow morning we ll go back? Twisting, she answered painfully: Don t ask me.Don t make me say.I m afraid to say, now. All right. It hurt, but he didn t press for an answer. We can decide tomorrow, after we have agood sleep and breakfast.After we get all this stuff out of our systems.This poison this rot. There was no answer.Nina had fallen into a partial doze; eyes shut, she lay resting against thewall, chin down, body relaxed.For a long time Cussick sat immobile.The room grew cold.Outside, in the hall, there was onlysilence.His watch told him it was four-thirty.Presently he bent down and slid off Nina s shoes.Heplaced them on the floor by the bed, hesitated, and then unfastened the snaps of her dress.The dresswas intricately held together; it took him some time.Twice, she woke slightly, stirred, and sank backinto sleep.At last the dress came apart; he maneuvered one section over her head, laid it over the backof a chair, lifted her hips, and struggled the remaining part away from her.It was surprising how really small she was.Without the ornate, expensive dress, she seemedunusually bare, defenseless, open to injury.It was impossible to feel rancor toward her.He pulled upthe blankets around her shoulders and tucked them under her chin.Her heavy blonde hair spilled outover the wool fabric, thick honey streaks against the checkered pattern of red and black.Smoothingher hair back from her eyes, he seated himself beside her on the bed.For an endless time he sat, his mind blank, gazing into the shadows of the room.Nina sleptfitfully; now and then she turned, twisted, made faint unhappy sounds.Struggling in an invisibledarkness, she fought lonely battles, without him, without anybody.In the final analysis, each of themwas cut off from the other.Each of them suffered alone.Towards morning, he became aware of a distant, muffled sound: a noise coming from a long way off. For a time he paid no attention; the noise beat uselessly against his dulled consciousness.And then,finally, he identified it.A human voice, harsh and loud, a voice he recognized.Stiffly, shaking withcold, he got up from the bed and made his way to the door.With infinite care he unlocked it andstepped out into the chill, deserted corridor.The voice was the voice of Jones.Cussick walked slowly down the corridor.He passed closed doors and side passages, but sawnobody.It was five-forty A.M.; the sun was beginning to show.Through an open window at the end ofthe hall he caught a glimpse of bleak, gray sky, as remote and hostile as gun-metal.As he walked, thevoice grew louder.All at once he turned a corner and found himself facing a great storeroom.It wasn t Jones, not really.It was a tape recording.But the presence, the vital, cruel spirit, wasthere.In rows of chairs, men and women sat intently listening.The storeroom was filled with bales,boxes, huge packages heaped everywhere.The corridor had carried him to a totally different building;it linked various establishments, a variety of businesses.This was the loading stage of a commercialhouse.On the wall were plastered posters.As he stood in the doorway listening to the furious,impassioned voice, he realized that this was an official meeting hall.This was a before-dawngathering; these were working people, coming together before their work-day began.At the far end,where the speakers blared, hung Jones emblem, the crossed flasks of Hermes.Scattered through thegroups were various uniforms of the Patriots United organizations: both the women s and youthgroups, armbands, badges and insignia.In a corner lounged two helmeted Security police: the meetingwas no secret
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