"Oh come on! We must get out of here. Quick!" Pat was pulling at me as she spoke. "We can't afford to stay here and explain this to the police. They'd hold us for questioning and we mustn't risk any more exposure to the virus."
"The hell with the virus," I moaned as I stumbled along the deck, looking for the black cylinder. "Get the car started. I'm coming."
She turned and ran and, a moment later, with the cylinder in my pocket, I followed her. The Ferguson was already roaring as I jumped in beside Pat. She stamped on the accelerator and we went out of there and up the hill in a tire-ripping start that almost broke my neck. The engine has never been the same since.
The ride back was a painful haze. Every bump accentuated the throbbing in my head. Pat, grimly intent on getting well away from the area, held the pedal down as hard as she dared and the Ferguson whipped around the curves, its independently driven wheels screeching and scraping against the asphalt like the claws of a frightened dog on a waxed floor. The fog was gone except for little patches drifting down the gullies or hanging in dead air pockets between the hills. We reached a more brightly lit area and she slowed down. There was no pursuit.
We went back up the stairs of the Lab and into the showers. I felt safe again like a wounded rabbit diving into its burrow. She helped me strip and, kneeling beside me, held me in her arms as I sat under the spray. The soft fullness of her breasts and arms, dripping with the cool water, made a nest of peace and comfort. For a long minute I let go and retreated back to childhood and the contentment of a mother's arms.
"My poor darling," she crooned, and rocked me gently, her slender hands smoothing my hair and caressing my face.
Suddenly I struggled to my feet and, slopping water over the floor, lurched back into the anteroom.
"The cylinder! I forgot the cylinder," I groaned, and flung open the door of the supersonic cabinet. The warning buzzer stopped. I fumbled agitatedly in the pocket of my windbreaker and drew out the thing that had hit me. For the first time I really looked at it. It was like an old-fashioned army aerosol bomb with a trigger mechanism on one end. I slammed shut the cabinet; the buzzer and warning light went on again.
Pat stood beside me anxiously, dripping heedlessly on the floor rug. "What was it, darling?"