was weak:
"Edward?"
I said: "Mr Loomis, Edward is not here."
"I know," he said. "Where did he go?"
"You mustn't worry about it."
"You don't understand," he said. "He's a thief. He'll steal—" He stopped, as if he had remembered something, and then to my dismay he gave a terrible groan and tried to get out of the bed.
I caught his shoulders and held him back. For a minute he fought quite hard; then he lay still, breathing fast and shallow.
"Poor Mr Loomis," I said. "Try to understand. You're dreaming. There is no Edward, and nothing to steal."
"The suit," he said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "He'll steal the suit."
The suit. That is what he was worried about, and still is. The safe-suit: for some reason he thinks Edward is trying to steal it.
I said: "Mr Loomis, the suit is in the wagon. You folded it up and put it there. Can't you remember?"
"In the wagon," he said. "Oh my God. That's where he's gone."
It was obviously the wrong thing for me to have said, because now he tried again to get up. I held him down; it was not so hard, because he had used up most of his strength the first time. But I am in dread of his getting out of the bed. I am afraid he will fall and hurt himself; more important, I don't know how I would ever get him back into it. I am sure he is too weak to walk, and I don't know if I can lift and carry him. So I must now stay in the room with him, at least until he gets through this nightmare.
The dream is contagious. I suppose it is partly because there are only two of us, and his thoughts affect mine more than they would if I had others to talk to. I sit in the window to write, and I look out and see the wagon still there, next to the tent as it has always been, and I half expect to see someone—Edward? I don't even know what he looks like!—prowling around it. But there is only Faro lying in the trampled grass by the tent near his dish, waiting to be fed. In a little while I will call him into the house and feed him in here.
No. I have a better idea. When Mr Loomis calms down a little, as he seems to be doing, I will run out, take Faro's food with me, and get the safe-suit. I will bring it in and put it by the bed where he can see it. I will humour his dream to that extent. It will make him less worried.
Afternoon
I got the suit and brought it in, but a few minutes later that particular nightmare ended, and he was in another, even worse, perhaps brought on by the sight of the suit. He was back in Ithaca having a most desperate quarrel with Edward. I am glad it was only a dream, because it sounded as if one of them was going to murder the other. As he did before, Mr Loomis was carrying on a conversation, and I could hear only half of it, but he was hearing both sides. His voice was faint and mumbling, but even so it sounded cold and full of hate, and dangerous. I suppose when two men are shut up together in a confined area, the tensions between them grow terrible.
When he began talking I was sitting by the window and did not hear the first few words. Then it came clearer.
"… not for just twenty-four hours, Edward. Not even for twenty-four minutes. If you want to find your family go ahead. But the suit stays here, and the door stays locked. Don't try to come back."
A pause. He was listening to Edward's reply.
Poor Edward. It was not hard to understand the situation. He and Mr Loomis were locked up in the underground laboratory, apparently alone. They must have been staying there, working late, perhaps getting some last-minute things done, expecting the people from Washington, when the bombing began. They had a radio—maybe even television—so they knew what was happening. I suppose they had a telephone, too, but that would not have done much good after the first hour.
Edward was married. He had a wife named Mary and a son named Billy, and he was frantic with worry about them.
I don't wonder—I know how he felt. Apparently at first he was afraid to go out—they had real
"Edward?"
I said: "Mr Loomis, Edward is not here."
"I know," he said. "Where did he go?"
"You mustn't worry about it."
"You don't understand," he said. "He's a thief. He'll steal—" He stopped, as if he had remembered something, and then to my dismay he gave a terrible groan and tried to get out of the bed.
I caught his shoulders and held him back. For a minute he fought quite hard; then he lay still, breathing fast and shallow.
"Poor Mr Loomis," I said. "Try to understand. You're dreaming. There is no Edward, and nothing to steal."
"The suit," he said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "He'll steal the suit."
The suit. That is what he was worried about, and still is. The safe-suit: for some reason he thinks Edward is trying to steal it.
I said: "Mr Loomis, the suit is in the wagon. You folded it up and put it there. Can't you remember?"
"In the wagon," he said. "Oh my God. That's where he's gone."
It was obviously the wrong thing for me to have said, because now he tried again to get up. I held him down; it was not so hard, because he had used up most of his strength the first time. But I am in dread of his getting out of the bed. I am afraid he will fall and hurt himself; more important, I don't know how I would ever get him back into it. I am sure he is too weak to walk, and I don't know if I can lift and carry him. So I must now stay in the room with him, at least until he gets through this nightmare.
The dream is contagious. I suppose it is partly because there are only two of us, and his thoughts affect mine more than they would if I had others to talk to. I sit in the window to write, and I look out and see the wagon still there, next to the tent as it has always been, and I half expect to see someone—Edward? I don't even know what he looks like!—prowling around it. But there is only Faro lying in the trampled grass by the tent near his dish, waiting to be fed. In a little while I will call him into the house and feed him in here.
No. I have a better idea. When Mr Loomis calms down a little, as he seems to be doing, I will run out, take Faro's food with me, and get the safe-suit. I will bring it in and put it by the bed where he can see it. I will humour his dream to that extent. It will make him less worried.
Afternoon
I got the suit and brought it in, but a few minutes later that particular nightmare ended, and he was in another, even worse, perhaps brought on by the sight of the suit. He was back in Ithaca having a most desperate quarrel with Edward. I am glad it was only a dream, because it sounded as if one of them was going to murder the other. As he did before, Mr Loomis was carrying on a conversation, and I could hear only half of it, but he was hearing both sides. His voice was faint and mumbling, but even so it sounded cold and full of hate, and dangerous. I suppose when two men are shut up together in a confined area, the tensions between them grow terrible.
When he began talking I was sitting by the window and did not hear the first few words. Then it came clearer.
"… not for just twenty-four hours, Edward. Not even for twenty-four minutes. If you want to find your family go ahead. But the suit stays here, and the door stays locked. Don't try to come back."
A pause. He was listening to Edward's reply.
Poor Edward. It was not hard to understand the situation. He and Mr Loomis were locked up in the underground laboratory, apparently alone. They must have been staying there, working late, perhaps getting some last-minute things done, expecting the people from Washington, when the bombing began. They had a radio—maybe even television—so they knew what was happening. I suppose they had a telephone, too, but that would not have done much good after the first hour.
Edward was married. He had a wife named Mary and a son named Billy, and he was frantic with worry about them.
I don't wonder—I know how he felt. Apparently at first he was afraid to go out—they had real
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