I did it, never mind how. She made it a little awkward, sitting there holding him, but it's something I'm good at, and I did a clean and satisfactory job. She sat there for a while longer with the head in her lap. She was crying helplessly, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded. Presently I went into the bathroom and started the shower running. Then I went back and picked her up and walked her in there and shoved her under the water, underwear and all. Sentiment is all very well, but she could grieve just as hard without looking like a major war casualty.

I got aspirin from the medicine cabinet, swallowed three tablets with water, and waited to make sure she'd be all right in there. After a little, some wet lingerie came flying over the frosted glass shower door, barely missing me. If she had that much strength, she'd live, and I found a sponge and mopped up what she'd tracked across the living-room rug. There wasn't anything to be done to the charnel house that had been a bedroom, short of a complete redecoration; I just closed the door on that.

When I returned to the bathroom, she was still in the shower. At the lavatory, I took care of the deficiencies in my own appearance as well as soap and water could. A razor would have been nice, and she had one, but I could find no spare blades, and I'd been married too long, once, to entrust my face to an edge that a woman had used on her legs and armpits. I went into the kitchen to start breakfast, which may seem callous, but the situation required some heavy thinking, and I don't think well on an empty stomach. I didn't figure the kid's digestion was the kind to be permanently inhibited by grief and horror, either.

Waiting for the stuff to cook, I glanced at the front page of the newspaper we'd brought inside. One column was headed Radioactivity Claims Two at Los Alamos. The paper reminded its readers that a technician had just died locally, and said investigations were being made to determine if certain installations weren't being just a bit careless with the hot stuff. I read the piece to the end and decided it wasn't a nice way to die, but then, what is? I heard Moira's voice call to me.

"Mart, where are you?"

I laid the paper aside, and went into the living room. She was standing at the door of the second bedroom- the bathroom was between the two-drying her hair. I went up to her. She was quite an intriguing sight, clean and shining. She looked at me, and down at herself, and grinned. It was a little weak, but it was a real grin.

"Well, I can't help it!" she said defensively. "All my clothes are in… in there, and I just couldn't bring myself…" Her grin faded, and her eyes were suddenly wet. "Poor Sheik. He was… so lovely, and so shy, and such a clown. and so brave, when he really understood that somebody was hurting me."

If she could talk about it, it was going to be all right. I said, "If you'll tell me what you need and where it is, I'll go in and get-"

I stopped. She wasn't listening to me. She was looking towards the front door. I turned. We hadn't heard a sound. They must have left it slightly ajar when they hauled me inside. Now it was open, and Beth was there.

Chapter Fifteen

You HAD TO hand it to the kid. She didn't do any silly, self-conscious, September-Morn stunts with the towel. She just kept right on drying her hair. After all, it was her house, and if she wanted to entertain gentlemen in her living room without any clothes on, it was her business.

"I'd appreciate it," she said, "if you'd close the door, Mrs. Logan. From either side."

Beth said dryly, "Yes, I can see how you might feel a slight draft, Moira."

She stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her. She looked slim and kind of elegant, although she wasn't really dressed up. She was wearing a white silk shirt or blouse-I never have learned how they make the distinction-with her monogram on the pocket: E for Elizabeth. She'd been Beth to me but I remembered that she was Elizabeth to Logan. Her skirt was nicely tailored of some fine khaki material, or maybe the stuff is called chino when it joins the aristocracy. Her legs were bare, which always seems a pity to me; but the stocking business is dormant throughout that country all summer. She had enough of a tan to get by with it; and her neat, polished, saddle-leather pumps did nice things for her ankles.

She had her white Stetson on. Combined with the practical material of her skirt, it gave her an outdoorsy, western look. Apparently she was taking herself quite seriously, these days, as the lady of the ranch. I couldn't help thinking it was too bad he couldn't take her back to the family estate, if any, in old England; she'd have had lots of fun dressing up in tweeds, and she'd have looked swell in them, too. "Did you want to see me about something, Mrs. Logan?" Moira asked.

Beth said, "If I did, I picked the right time, didn't I, dear? For seeing you, I mean… Actually, I was looking for Mr. Helm. I started to knock and the door swung-"

"There's a bell, honey," Moira said. "You know, an electrical device operated by a small white button. What made you think you'd find Mr. Helm here?"

It was a good question. Beth didn't answer. I was shocked to see her standing there, obviously caught, like a schoolgirl, in a barefaced lie. It takes practice to become a good liar and she'd never given the subject much attention. She'd had an awkward question thrown at her, and she'd tossed out a phony answer without thinking, and now she was stuck with it. She obviously didn't know how she'd known she'd find me here. In fact, she hadn't known she'd find me here at all.

Moira didn't smile or show any visible signs of triumph. "Well, I'll leave you to discuss your business with Mr. Helm," she murmured.

Now, at last, she wrapped the big towel casually about her, before turning away. It was impeccable strategy. A woman's rear leaving the room naked never looks very dignified. I followed her into the bedroom. She turned on me fast.

"God damn it, get her out of here before I scratch her lousy eyes out!"

"Relax, kid," 1 said. I looked around. "What about the neighbors?"

"What do you mean?"

"Guns have been fired. Men have been torn to bloody shreds by wild beasts-"

"Ah, think nothing of it. We're all air-conditioned, hadn't you noticed? Anyway, if St. Peter were to blow his trumpet, those biddies would just gripe about that inconsiderate little trollop in the blue house turning her TV up too high…" Moira drew a long breath. "What the hell does she want here, anyway?"

"I don't know," I said. "But I think it would be a good idea to find out, don't you?"

She glanced at me, hesitated, and said, "That depends,

"On what?"

"On whose side you're on."

I looked down at her for a moment, and she looked right back with those sea-green, grown-up eyes. I took her face in my hands and kissed her on the forehead.

She let her breath go out softly. "Well, all right!"

I asked, "Do you want me to get you some things from the other room?"

"Skip it. She's got me so mad I could wade through dead bodies knee deep. You'd better get out there and entertain her… Malt"

"Yes?"

"Don't make a habit of it, baby. What the hell good is a kiss on the forehead, for God's sake!"

I grinned and went out of the room. Beth had laid her western hat aside. Without it she wasn't Elizabeth of the Double-L Ranch any more; she was just a slender attractive woman to whom I'd once been married. Her light-brown hair looked smooth and soft. She was looking at a bookshelf, obviously cataloguing the kid's literary tastes for future reference. She turned as I came up.

"Matt," she said gently, "I'm surprised at you. That child!"