The Immortals (8 page)

The second time was reality. This time he was sure. He was in a basement. He raised himself on one elbow, finding the strength in some hidden reservoir. He was lying on a cot. Barbara knelt beside him. Kneeling beside the cot was a white-coated stranger. He had a syringe in his hand.

“Get away from me!” Sibert shouted hoarsely. “It's no use—”

Gently Barbara pushed him back. “It's a doctor, Eddy. I got a doctor.”

He lay back, feeling stronger, watching. Maybe the man was a doctor. Maybe he was something else, too. Everyone was suspect.

He sneaked his hand down his side, but the pocket was empty. The gun was gone. The syringe was slipped back into its case, and the case was deposited in its slot
in the black bag. That meant the injection had already been given, Sibert thought.

“I've done all I can,” the doctor said sullenly. “I've patched the holes in his shoulder, but there's no way to patch the holes in his lung. Only time can do that, and the proper care. I think it's too late now. The man's dying. It's a wonder to me he isn't in shock already.”

“Would a transfusion help?” Barbara asked quietly.

“At this stage, I doubt it. No point in pouring water into a sieve. Besides, I've no blood with me. If you would let me get him to a hospital—”

“Use my blood.”

“Impossible! There's no equipment here for typing and crossmatching, not to mention the unsanitary conditions—”

“I said, ‘Use my blood.' ” Barbara's voice was hard.

Sibert looked at her. She had a gun in her hand—his gun. It pointed unwaveringly at the doctor, Barbara's knuckles white where they gripped the handle.

The doctor frowned uncertainly. “What's your blood type?” he asked Sibert.

“O negative,” Sibert said. His voice seemed a long way off.

“Yours?” the doctor said, turning toward Barbara.

“What does it matter? If you don't use it, he dies anyway.”

That was callous,
Sibert thought vaguely. He had not suspected that Barbara could be so hard.

Silently the doctor removed a small square box from his bag.
A fractionating machine,
Sibert thought. The
doctor brought out plastic tubing equipped with needles and fastened them to the box. . . .

“Whole blood,” Barbara said, “not just the plasma!”

Things were getting distant. Sibert felt weak again, and old and used up. He fought to stay conscious.

Barbara sank down beside the cot, the gun steady in her right hand. The basement was dark and dirty, littered with trash, the accumulation of decades of neglect.

Dimly, Sibert felt the doctor swab his arm and the distant pressure of the needle. But as the blood began to flow, he felt stronger. It was like liquid life.

“That's a liter,” the doctor said.

“All right. Shut it off.”

“I'll have to report this, you know. That's a gunshot wound.”

“It doesn't matter. We'll be gone by then.”

“Try to move this man again, and he'll die of shock.”

The voices were fading. He was going to sleep again, Sibert realized with dismay. He struggled against the rich, black tide, but it was hopeless.

Just before he went under, he saw the doctor turn his head to replace the equipment. A hand swept in front of Sibert's eyes. There was something metallic in it. It made a queer, hollow sound when it hit the doctor's head.

“Wake up, Eddy! You've got to wake up!”

The coolness came against his face again, soothing his fever. He stirred. A groan escaped him.

“You've got to get up, Eddy. We have to find another place to hide.”

He worked his eyes open. Barbara's face was above him, her eyes wide and concerned, her face haggard.

She wiped his face again with a damp cloth. “Try, Eddy!” she urged. “We can't stay here much longer.”

I'll die,
he thought.
That's what the doctor said.
Then he remembered Locke, and what he was fighting for.

He tried to get up. After a few seconds of futile struggle, he slumped back, moaning. The second time, Barbara helped him. She slipped an arm under him and lifted him. He sat up and the dark basement reeled, spun crazily around him.

A little later he was standing, although he couldn't remember how he got to his feet. His legs were miles away. He told them to move, but they were stubborn. He had to lift each one carefully and as carefully put it down. Only Barbara beside him kept him upright.

Against the dark old octopus that was an ancient, gas-fueled furnace, the doctor was propped, his chin against his chest. “Dead?” Sibert asked. His voice sounded thin.

“Don't talk. He's drugged, that's all. They'll be looking for him soon. He was just leaving the hospital when I made him come with me. Nobody saw us, but they'll begin to wonder when he doesn't show up for duty. I let you rest as long as I could, but now we've got to leave.”

Somehow they reached the rickety steps that led upward toward brightness. Beside him, holding him up, Barbara sobbed suddenly. “Eddy, Eddy! What are we going to do?”

Sibert called for strength, silently, and straightened
his shoulders and scarcely leaned on her at all. “Come on, Bobs,” he said, “we can't give up now.”

“All right, Eddy.” Her voice was stronger, firmer. “It's you they'll kill, isn't it, Eddy? Not me?”

“How do you—know?”

“You were out of your head. You were trying to tell me things.”

“Yeah.” Painfully they climbed the shaky steps. The old wooden boards sagged dangerously as their weight came down upon them. “They'll kill me, all right. Not you. Anybody but you.”

As they came out into the sunshine pitilessly revealing an aridity of cracked concrete heaped with refuse—ashes, old boards, tin cans, bottles, boxes—Sibert felt a sort of giddy strength. It came and went, like a low pulse, leaving blank spots.

Suddenly they were past the clutter and into an alley. It held the sleek, molded beauty of a two-year-old Cadillac Turbojet 500. As he sagged against the polished side, Barbara slid the door open.

“Where'd you get it?” he asked weakly.

“Stole it.”

“It's no good. Too bright. They'll pick us up.”

“I don't think so. Anyway, there's no time to change. Get in the back. Curl up on the floor.”

The plastic surface of the car felt wonderfully cool against his hot body. He tried to think of an alternative, but his brain wouldn't work. He let Barbara help him into the car. He sagged gratefully to the floor. His chest felt sticky and hot; he was bleeding again.

There were suitcases in the backseat. Barbara stacked them around him carefully until he was completely hidden.

A single spot of sunlight filtered through. He watched it mindlessly as the car started and then moved away with the powerful acceleration of the 500-horsepower turbine. As the car moved, the spot of light jiggled and swayed. . . . Sibert slept.

*  *  *

When he woke, the car was stopped and a harsh voice was saying, close to his ear, “Sorry, miss. My orders are to stop all cars leaving the city. We're looking for a wounded man. He's got someone with him.”

They didn't know about Barbara, then,
Sibert thought,
or how badly he was injured. They were far behind.

Cold reason crept in. Optimism was foolish. They were powerful enough to command the aid of the police; discovery was only a few feet away. And they would know a great deal more as soon as the doctor recovered consciousness. It would have been wiser to kill him.

“Then I can't help you.” Barbara's voice was brittle and bell clear. “Wounded men are not my specialty. I like them like you, Officer—strong and able. But,” she added carelessly, “you can look if you want to.”

The policeman chuckled. “Don't tempt me. You're not hiding him under your skirt, I bet. And there's not much else in this buggy but engine. What'll she do on a straightaway?”

“I've had her up to two hundred myself,” Barbara said casually. “Two-fifty is supposed to be tops.”

“I don't believe it.” There was awe in his voice.

“Watch this!”

The car took off like a rocket. In a few seconds the tires began to hum. Sibert felt the car lighten as air rushing past the stubby, winglike stabilizer fins gave them lift. The acceleration continued long past the time he was sure it would stop.

Was it going to be that easy?
he thought.

The acceleration slowed. They cruised along, wheels whining. It made a kind of lullaby that sang Sibert back to sleep.

He woke with a start that hurt his chest. The car had stopped again, and the whine was gone.

For the second time he thought:
I'm going to die.
The doctor had said so. With a clarity he had not known since the bullet had hit him, he thought:
Missus Gentry's bullet went through a lung. I'm bleeding to death inside. Every movement makes it more certain.

He felt a petulant anger at Barbara, who held his life so lightly, who cared so little if he lived or died, who made him stagger blindly in search of a hiding place, dying on his feet.

Prompt medical attention could have saved him. That's what the doctor had implied.

She had given him blood, true. But what was one pint of blood when the thick, red life fluid was leaking from him so persistently, so inevitably. Even the blood of an immortal.

Futile anger rose higher.
Damn her!
he thought.
I am dying, and she will live forever.

Dying was a strange thing, much like birth, filled with long drowsings and gray, half-conscious awakenings. Each time the grayness lifted for a moment, Sibert was surprised that he was still alive. The remnants of life drifted away in a long doze, until at last he came finally, completely, to full, cool wakefulness.

Gray light drifted through a dusty windowpane and lay across the many-colored squares of the heavy comforter that pressed down on him.
I'm going to live,
he thought.

He turned his head. Barbara was asleep in a heavy chair beside his bed. Its old upholstery was ripped and torn; stuffing had pushed through, gray and ugly.

Barbara's face was haggard with fatigue and unattractive. Her clothing was wrinkled and dirty. Sibert disliked looking at her. He would have looked away, but her eyes opened, and he smiled.

“You're better,” she said huskily. Her hand touched his forehead. “The fever's gone. You're going to get well.”

“I think you're right,” he said weakly. “Thanks to you. How long?”

She understood. “It's been a week. Go back to sleep now.”

He nodded and closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dark, refreshing pool. The next time he woke, there was food, a rich chicken broth that went down smoothly and warmly, and gave strength—strength for more talk.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“An old dirt farm. Abandoned ten years or more, I imagine.”

She had found time to wash and change her clothing
for a dress she must have discovered in a closet; it was old, but at least it was clean. “Hydroponics probably drove the farmer out of business. This road's pretty deserted. I don't think anyone saw me drive in. I hid the car in the barn. There are chickens nesting there. Who were those people you shot?”

“Later,” he said. “First—do you remember your father?”

She shook her head puzzledly. “I didn't have a father. Not a real father. Does that matter?”

“Not to me. Didn't your mother tell you something about him?”

“Not much. She died when I was ten.”

“Then why did you insist that the doctor use your blood for the transfusion?”

Barbara studied the old wooden floor for a moment. When she looked back at Sibert, her light brown eyes were steady. “One thing my mother told me—she made me promise never to tell anyone. It seemed terribly important.”

Sibert smiled gently. “You don't have to tell me.”

“I want to,” she said quickly. “That's what love is, isn't it—wanting to share everything, to keep nothing back?” She smiled shyly. “It was my legacy, my mother said—what my father had given me. His blood. There was a kind of magic to it that would keep me young, that would never let me grow old. If I gave it to anyone, it would help them grow well again or young again. But if I ever told anyone or let anyone take a sample of my blood—the magic might go away.”

Sibert's smile broadened.

“You're laughing at me,” she said, withdrawing. “You're thinking that it was only a little girl's make-believe, or that my mother was crazy.”

“No, no.”

“Maybe it was make-believe,” she said softly, her eyes distant. “Maybe it was only to keep a plain little girl from crying because she was not beautiful, because no one wanted to play with her. Maybe it was meant to convince her that she was really a princess in disguise, that under the ugly duckling was a beautiful swan. I believed it then. And when you were dying I believed in it again. I wanted to believe that I had this power to save you, that the magic was real.”

“Your mother was right,” Sibert said sleepily. “You are a princess, a swan. The magic is real. Next time . . .”

Next time there was the white meat of chicken for Sibert to eat, with broth that had egg drops cooked in it. He sat up for a little. There was only a twinge of pain in his chest and a muscular ache in his shoulder.

He tired quickly and sank back to his pillow after a few minutes. “Your mother was right,” he repeated. “Not in any fairy-tale sense. In a real, practical way, you have new blood, whose immunity factors—the gamma globulins—can repel cellular degeneration, as if death itself were a disease.”

He told her the story of Marshall Cartwright, the fabulous creature who had gone secretly about the country to father an immortal race, like some latterday Johnny Appleseed. He told her about the Institute and the men who had founded it, and its purpose. He told her that he had
been an unwitting part of it until he had found, by accident, what all the rest had been looking for.