"Where is she?" I held my breath tensely.
"You'll see her at the end of the trip."
"And when's that?" My breathing relaxed a trifle.
"Few hours."
"He wants to know too much," said the driver. I looked over at him. He was a thick, short, shallow-templed fellow, gray of eye and straight of thin-lipped mouth. He had ears like a baby elephant's long unkempt hair draping over them. I could smell his breath three feet away.
"Shut up, Trutch," said Bill Cuff impatiently. "He's my cousin."
"But has he the dawn brain? Are you sure he—"
"Shut up. Just shut up," said Bill, and his voice was like that of a maniac holding himself in with a terrible effort.
"I don't think you ought to tell him things like—" persisted Trutch, and then Bill Cuff had leaned forward and given him a hell of a wallop on the side of the head with his open palm. The driver jerked forward and grunted and then he was quiet, as the car lurched and recovered. We were doing fifty. Cuff said, "Shut up! When I tell you that, do it!"
There were two other men in the back. One of them growled, "Easy, Bill. We live by the primal rage, but you must control it."