I nodded and touched her hand.
"I'm afraid of the Moon," she began, her voice going dreamy and brittle as it had in the cab. "You can't look at it and not think of guided bombs."
"It's the same Moon over England," I reminded her.
"But it's not England's Moon any more. It's ours and Russia's. You're not responsible."
I pressed her hand.
"Oh, and then," she said with a tilt of her mask, "I'm afraid of the cars and the gangs and the loneliness and Inferno. I'm afraid of the lust that undresses your face. And—" her voice hushed—"I'm afraid of the wrestlers."
"Yes?" I prompted softly after a moment.
Her mask came forward. "Do you know something about the wrestlers?" she asked rapidly. "The ones that wrestle women, I mean. They often lose, you know. And then they have to have a girl to take their frustration out on. A girl who's soft and weak and terribly frightened. They need that, to keep them men. Other men don't want them to have a girl. Other men want them just to fight women and be heroes. But they must have a girl. It's horrible for her."
I squeezed her fingers tighter, as if courage could be transmitted—granting I had any. "I think I can get you to England," I said.