on a tuft of soft grass.
`At least I had a chance aboard Nomad. There was food and I could see where I was trying to go. I could -' He broke off and sat bolt upright. `Jiz!'
`Don't talk so much.'
He felt the ground under him and clawed up sods of earth and tufts of grass. He thrust them into her face.
`Smell this,' he laughed. `Taste it. It's grass. Jiz. Earth and grass. We're out of Gouffre Martel.'
'What?'
'Was 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.
6
Harley Baker, M.D., had a small general practice in Washington-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 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.'
'Do anything about Foyle's face?'
'We tried make-up but that didn't work. The damned tattooing showed through. Then I bought a dark skin-surrogate and sprayed it on.'
`Did that do its?' 'No,' Jiz said angrily. `You have to keep your face quiet or else the surrogate cracks and peels. Foyle couldn't control himself. He never can. It was hell.'
`Where is he now?'
`Sam Quatt's got him in tow.'
`I thought Sam retired from the rackets.'
`He did,' Jisbella said grimly. `But he owes me a favor. He's minding Foyle. They're circulating on the jaunte to stay ahead of the cops.'
`Interesting,' Baker murmured. `Haven't seen a tattoo case in all my life. Thought it was a dead art. I'd like to add him to my collection. You know I collect curios, Jiz?'
`Everybody knows that zoo of yours in Trenton, Baker. It's ghastly.'
`I picked up a genuine fraternal cyst last month,' Baker began enthusiastically.
`I don't want to hear about it,' Jiz snapped. `And I don't want Foyle in your zoo. Can you get the muck off his face? Clean it up?
`At least I had a chance aboard Nomad. There was food and I could see where I was trying to go. I could -' He broke off and sat bolt upright. `Jiz!'
`Don't talk so much.'
He felt the ground under him and clawed up sods of earth and tufts of grass. He thrust them into her face.
`Smell this,' he laughed. `Taste it. It's grass. Jiz. Earth and grass. We're out of Gouffre Martel.'
'What?'
'Was 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.
6
Harley Baker, M.D., had a small general practice in Washington-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 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.'
'Do anything about Foyle's face?'
'We tried make-up but that didn't work. The damned tattooing showed through. Then I bought a dark skin-surrogate and sprayed it on.'
`Did that do its?' 'No,' Jiz said angrily. `You have to keep your face quiet or else the surrogate cracks and peels. Foyle couldn't control himself. He never can. It was hell.'
`Where is he now?'
`Sam Quatt's got him in tow.'
`I thought Sam retired from the rackets.'
`He did,' Jisbella said grimly. `But he owes me a favor. He's minding Foyle. They're circulating on the jaunte to stay ahead of the cops.'
`Interesting,' Baker murmured. `Haven't seen a tattoo case in all my life. Thought it was a dead art. I'd like to add him to my collection. You know I collect curios, Jiz?'
`Everybody knows that zoo of yours in Trenton, Baker. It's ghastly.'
`I picked up a genuine fraternal cyst last month,' Baker began enthusiastically.
`I don't want to hear about it,' Jiz snapped. `And I don't want Foyle in your zoo. Can you get the muck off his face? Clean it up?
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