Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

"Most of them ... but not with Sid Hethel."

"Jesus," Mary Anne sighed. "It's so darn confusing ... I'll never get it."

"Don't worry about it."

The girl lapsed into silence.

"Still cold?" he asked presently.

"No, but I should have worn a coat. Only I wanted you to see my outfit. Do you like it?"

"It's fine," he said, as he had said before. "It's just right." She became despondent again. "Wednesday is the inquest, or whatever they call it."

"What inquest?"

"For Danny Coombs. I have to go down and explain what happened, so they'll know if they want to arrest anybody."

"Will they want to?"

"No, because it was an accident. Coombs ran out and fell. There was a laundry delivery man who saw him. It seems so remote ... but it was only a couple of weeks ago. Now it sounds like something I made up. Except that if we don't say the right thing, Tweany will go to the flea-bee." Her voice trailed off.

"You don't want him to be tried."

"Of course not. Well, they won't. He's strutting around; he got rid of Coombs. Now he has a free field with Beth. Good for him." With a sigh, she rolled herself up in a ball and lay back against the seat; in a few moments she had drifted off into a troubled doze.

When he brought the car to a halt in front of her apartment building she was still asleep. She didn't stir as he shut off the motor and pushed open the door; he had already begun to gather her up before she blinked and opened her eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked warily. "Going to carry me inside?"

"Do you mind?"

"I guess not." She yawned. "But be careful ... don't kill yourself."

She weighed, he discovered, about as much as four cartons of records, probably not much more than a hundred pounds. Without difficulty, he pushed open the front door of the building and carried her upstairs. Here and there light showed under doors, but her own apartment was dark. And the door, when he tried the knob, was locked.

"I have the key," she murmured. "In my purse. Set me down and I'll get it."

He set her down; stumbling a little, she leaned against the door, eyes half-shut. Presently she smiled, opened her purse, and groped inside it.

"Thank you for the nice time," she said.

"That's perfectly all right."

"We went out together, didn't we?"

"I suppose so. Did you have fun?"

"I wish-" Again she yawned, showing her small white teeth and pink cat's tongue. "I wish I could have understood more. Will we ever see that fat man again ... Sid Hethel? Will he come down here?"

"Maybe. I hope so." Putting his hands on her shoulders, his fingers touching her neck, he bent over her and kissed her close to the mouth. She gave a little soundless cry of surprise and wonder; one hand came up in a gesture of defense, as if she intended to scratch him. Whatever it was, she changed her mind. For an interval she leaned drowsily against him, clinging to him in her half-sleep; then, all at once, she was awake. She had reached some kind of decision; her body stiffened and she pulled back.

"No," she said, slipping away from him, out from under his hands, becoming shadowy and insubstantial in the gloom of the hall.

"No what?" he echoed, not understanding.

"We can't go in there; she's in there." Taking hold of his hand, Mary Anne led him back along the hall, away from the locked door of her apartment.

Still clutching his hand, she hurried down the stairs of the apartment building and outside to the darkness of the street. Schilling started toward his parked car, but she led him away from it and down the sidewalk.

"Not the car," she gasped, veering away from the misty black-metal hull. "It isn't far; we'll walk."

"Where are we going?"

Her answer was lost; he couldn't make it out. In the night silence her breathing was labored. Not letting go of him, she led him across the street and around the corner. Ahead of them glowed the lights of the downtown business section, stores and bars and gas stations.

She was taking him to the record shop. Rushing through the darkness, she was carrying him closer and closer to his own store. What she had said, he realized, was stockroom. They were going there, to the converted basement under the street level. Already she was struggling with her purse, getting out her store key.

"Let me take you home," he protested. "To my place."

"Please, Joseph-I don't want to go there."

"But why the store?"

She slowed a little, her face very pale in the glare of the streetlight. "I'm afraid," she said, as if that explained everything. And it did, for him. She was becoming panic-stricken, as she had been that first day. But this time he was ready for it: it was no surprise.

"Look," he told her reasonably, pulling her to a halt. "Go on back to your apartment. I'll leave you ... there's nothing to worry about." He untangled her fingers until his own hand was free. "See? It's as simple as that."

"Don't leave," she said instantly. "Can't we go to the store? I'll be all right there; I want to be downstairs, where it's safe." And then she was hurrying on again, the silk of her clothes shining and rustling ahead of him.

He followed. When he caught up with her she had crossed the street to the far side; the record shop was visible now, its window lights glaring.

"Here," she said. "You unlock the door." She jabbed her key at him; accepting it, he turned the lock, and swung the door aside.

The store was cold. Except for the window display everything lay in darkness. An acrid haze of cigarette smoke hung in the listening booths, a stale smell mixed with the presence of onions and human perspiration: reminders of customers. To his left was the counter, laden with records. As he reached for a light switch, the corner of a display table caught him against the knee; snorting, he stopped to reach painfully down.

In the back of the store the hall light came on. Mary Anne disappeared into the office and then emerged almost at once, a wool jacket around her shoulders. "Where are you?" she asked.

"Here." He located the overhead light and pulled it on. Grunting, he limped to the door, pulled down the shade, and released the lock. The heavy bolt jumped into place.

"Yes," she agreed. "Lock it. I forgot. Can I turn on the heater in the office?"

"Certainly." Sitting down on the window ledge, he rested and rubbed his knee. Mary Anne had already vanished into the office; the soft blue shimmer of the fluorescent lamp above his desk became visible. He could hear her stirring around, lifting out the electric heater, lowering the window shade.

"Find it?" he asked, when she reappeared.

"It's on; it's getting warm." She came up and dropped beside him, crouched against the counter, half-kneeling, half-leaning against the upright surface behind her. "Joseph," she said, "why did you kiss me?"

"Why?" he echoed. "Because I love you."

"Do you? I wondered if that was why." She settled down and sat gazing at him with a worried, preoccupied frown. "Are you sure that's it?" Then she had scrambled up to her feet. "Let's go in the office where it's warm."

The little electric heater beamed and radiated, creating a nimbus of heat around itself. "Look at it," Mary Anne said. "Getting itself warm ... nothing else."

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked her.

"No." Harassed, she paced around the office. "I don't think so, at least. Why should I be afraid of you?"

Outside the store a car rushed along the empty street, its headlights spilling across the display tables and racks, the shelves of records behind the counter. Then the car was gone; the store returned to darkness.

"I'm going downstairs," she announced, already starting out into the hall.

"What for?"

There was no response; she had turned on the basement light and was hurrying down the stairwell.