* * * * *
The senior gun runner had been quite confident of victory.
It took him a rather long moment to assimilate the fact of defeat; but
in that moment he did assimilate it, as fully and completely as he took
in the implications of any other situation.
He examined the wreckage of the time translator curiously, tried and
failed to make sense of the erratic pattern in which their cargo had
accompanied them, the absence of Moirta. He straightened and looked
about. There were no dinosaurs, the range of the time machine did
not extend that far; but over on a ledge of rock a large cat with
hyper-trophied eyeteeth squatted, switching its stub of a tail,
startled by their sudden appearance.
He sighed and turned toward the other gun runner. "Old, old, time," he
said. He nodded toward the cat. "Bad for us. No chance rescue. Supplies
short."
The other said nothing, watching him narrowly, hand in back pocket.
Down in the valley below, something trumpeted, a hoarse grunting roar.
The senior gun runner started nervously. It was getting dark.
He held out his hand. "Older first," he said simply. The younger man
laid the gun in his hand; and the senior gun runner, without hesitation
or farewell, raised it to his head and pulled the trigger.
* * * * *
"--yes, everyone," Moirta said. She wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry,
George. I will die very quickly in this time, whether the displacement
operates or not."
"But you said--!"
"I know. I was so sure there was nothing you could do, and I said what
I thought would make you happy. And I did want to stay with you, in
a way, even though I knew it would kill me ... and in another way, I
wanted to go back, to return to my own time, and you were my means to
that ... oh, it's so mixed up, really, it is funny, everyone so sure of
themselves, and now ... this...."
Dolan shook his head helplessly. "I never thought. You seemed so ...
so...."
"So human?" her lips curled wryly. "I was _made_ to seem human,
twentieth-century human, it was part of my job. I'm not. And soon,
I shall not even seem human, without the things I need--things that
won't even be invented for ten thousand years--cancer inhibitors, blood
clotting agents, insulin surrogate, vaccines, serums, antibiotics--why,
I can't even eat your food!" She shook her head sadly. "You had better
just leave me, it will not be nice, you will not like me at all."
And yet, even with the game played out, she could not forget her trade,
her specialty, for it was bred into her as deeply as the tendency to
leukemia, the hemophilia, the diabetes, the congenital digestive
deformity he had inherited from a hundred ancestors kept alive by a
superb medical science to breed her. She laid her cheek against his,
the smooth velvet human-seeming cheek, with no hint as yet of the lumps
of wild tissue waiting to proliferate within.
"Please don't worry, George," she said softly. "It's not your fault,
really." She smiled up at him. "I've lived a rough life, most of us do,
in my time. Remember, I've earned what I received, I came here knowing
what I was doing. It's just caught up with me. It had to, some day."
He caught her in his arms and pulled her tightly to him. "Oh, God,
honey," he said. "I didn't know, I didn't even think.... I'd give
anything...." he turned his face up blindly. "Please, Lord, let the
bubble break," he prayed. "Let us not be, both together, now...."
But the bubble did not break.