JК
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
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«What?»
«It's night outside. Pitch-black. Overcast. We came out of the caves and never knew it. We're out, Jiz! We made it.»
They leaped to their feet, peering, listening, sniffing. The night was impenetrable, but they heard the soft sigh of night winds, and the sweet scent of green growing things came to their nostrils. Far in the distance a dog barked.
«My God, Gully,» Jisbella whispered incredulously. «You're right. We're out of Gouffre Martel. All we have to do is wait for dawn.»
She laughed. She flung her arms about him and kissed him, and he returned the embrace. They babbled excitedly. They sank down on the soft grass again, weary, but unable to rest, eager, impatient, all life before them.
«Hello, Gully, darling Gully. Hello Gully, after all this time.»
«Hello, Jiz.»
«I told you we'd meet some day. . . some day soon. I told you, darling. And this is the day.»
«The night.»
«The night, so it is. But no more murmuring in the night along the Whisper Line. No more night for us, Gully, dear.»
Suddenly they became aware that they were nude, lying close, no longer separated. Jisbella fell silent but did not move. He clasped her, almost angrily, and enveloped her with a desire that was no less than hers.
When dawn came, he saw that she was lovely: long and lean with smoky red hair and a generous mouth.
But when dawn came, she saw his face.
CHAPTER SIX
HARLEY BAKER, M.D., had a small general practice in Montana-Oregon which was legitimate and barely paid for the diesel oil he consumed each weekend participating in the rallies for vintage tractors which were the vogue in Sahara. His real income was earned in his Freak Factory in Trenton to which Baker jaunted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night. There, for enormous fees and no questions asked, Baker created monstrosities for the entertainment business and refashioned skin, muscle, and bone for the underworld.
Looking like a male midwife, Baker sat on the cool veranda of his Spokane mansion listening to Jiz McQueen finish the story of her escape.
«Once we hit the open country outside Gouffre Martel it was easy. We found a shooting lodge, broke in, and got some clothes. There were guns there too. . . lovely old steel things for killing with explosives. We took them and sold them to some locals. Then we bought rides to the nearest jaunte stage we had memorized.»
«Which?»
«Biarritz.»
«Traveled by night, eh?»
«Naturally.
«What?»
«It's night outside. Pitch-black. Overcast. We came out of the caves and never knew it. We're out, Jiz! We made it.»
They leaped to their feet, peering, listening, sniffing. The night was impenetrable, but they heard the soft sigh of night winds, and the sweet scent of green growing things came to their nostrils. Far in the distance a dog barked.
«My God, Gully,» Jisbella whispered incredulously. «You're right. We're out of Gouffre Martel. All we have to do is wait for dawn.»
She laughed. She flung her arms about him and kissed him, and he returned the embrace. They babbled excitedly. They sank down on the soft grass again, weary, but unable to rest, eager, impatient, all life before them.
«Hello, Gully, darling Gully. Hello Gully, after all this time.»
«Hello, Jiz.»
«I told you we'd meet some day. . . some day soon. I told you, darling. And this is the day.»
«The night.»
«The night, so it is. But no more murmuring in the night along the Whisper Line. No more night for us, Gully, dear.»
Suddenly they became aware that they were nude, lying close, no longer separated. Jisbella fell silent but did not move. He clasped her, almost angrily, and enveloped her with a desire that was no less than hers.
When dawn came, he saw that she was lovely: long and lean with smoky red hair and a generous mouth.
But when dawn came, she saw his face.
CHAPTER SIX
HARLEY BAKER, M.D., had a small general practice in Montana-Oregon which was legitimate and barely paid for the diesel oil he consumed each weekend participating in the rallies for vintage tractors which were the vogue in Sahara. His real income was earned in his Freak Factory in Trenton to which Baker jaunted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night. There, for enormous fees and no questions asked, Baker created monstrosities for the entertainment business and refashioned skin, muscle, and bone for the underworld.
Looking like a male midwife, Baker sat on the cool veranda of his Spokane mansion listening to Jiz McQueen finish the story of her escape.
«Once we hit the open country outside Gouffre Martel it was easy. We found a shooting lodge, broke in, and got some clothes. There were guns there too. . . lovely old steel things for killing with explosives. We took them and sold them to some locals. Then we bought rides to the nearest jaunte stage we had memorized.»
«Which?»
«Biarritz.»
«Traveled by night, eh?»
«Naturally.