‘Hip! Run! Run!’
Thompson’s eyes fixed on Hip’s. ‘No,’ he said mildly. ‘Don’t run.’
They were going to spin; they were going to spin like wheels, like fans, like… like…
Hip heard Janie scream and scream again and there was a crunching sound. Then the eyes were gone.
He staggered back, his hand over his eyes. There was a gabbling shriek in the room, it went on and on, split and spun around itself. He peeped through his fingers.
Thompson was reeling, his head drawn back and down almost to his shoulderblades. He kicked and elbowed backward. Holding him, her hands over his eyes, her knee in the small of his back, was Bonnie, and it was from her the gabbling came.
Hip came forward running, starting with such a furious leap that his toes barely touched the floor in the first three paces. His fist was clenched until pain ran up his forearm and in his arm and shoulders was the residual fury of seven obsessive years. His fist sank into the taut solar plexus and Thompson went down soundlessly. So did the Negro but she rolled clear and bounced lithely to her feet. She ran to him, grinning like the moon, squeezed his biceps affectionately, patted his cheek and gabbled.
‘And I thank you! ’ he panted. He turned. Another dark girl, just as sinewy and just as naked, supported Janie who was sagging weakly. ‘Janie!’ he roared. ‘Bonnie, Beanie, whoever you are—did she…’
The girl holding her gabbled. Janie raised her eyes. They were deeply puzzled as she watched him come. They strayed from his face to Gerry Thompson’s still figure. And suddenly she smiled.
The girl with her, still gabbling, reached and caught his sleeve. She pointed to the floor. The cylinder lay smashed under their feet. A slight stain of moisture disappeared as he watched. ‘Did I?’ repeated Janie. ‘I never had a chance, once this butterfly landed on me.’ She sobered, stood up, came into his arms. ‘Gerry… is he…’