"Murder?" the military man said sharply.
"He killed a woman who was with us," Frank said. "He was a maniac. When he's identified I'm pretty sure he'll have a past record."
"Where is the woman's body?"
"On a bed upstairs," Wilson said.
"I'll have to hold all of you. Martial law exists in this area. You're in the hands of the army."
The streets were full of people now, going about their business, pushing and jostling, eating in the restaurants, making electricity for the lights, generating power for the telephones.
Nora, Frank, and Jim Wilson sat in a restaurant on Clark Street. "We're all different people now," Nora said. "No one could go through what we've been through and be the same."
Jim Wilson took her statement listlessly. "Did they find out what it was about our atmosphere that killed them?"
"They're still working on that, I think." Frank Brooks stirred his coffee, raised a spoonful and let it drip back into the cup.