CHAPTER II

Diane darted from the stream with a glad little cry, shaking the water from her long, tawny hair, the droplets of water sparkling on her bronzed skin like diamonds, the long, lithe lines of her body clothed only in the moisture until she found her buckskin shorts and halter and dressed. Life was comparatively simple and uncomplicated among the Shining Ones, and she, of all their encampment, remembered no other way. The others might look back with bitter longing or curse softly and futilely at the silver patches of skin at elbow and knee which marked them as survivors of the Plague, but not Diane.

So what if they were shunned by others, by the non-afflicted people who clung so doggedly to their mean existence in the small villages? She had but to hunt and fish and evade the bands of roving Robots lest they conscript her in their services. The only other bane in her life was Harry Starbuck and she could take care of herself where he was concerned. She could....

Something stirred in the undergrowth to her left and Diane could barely make out the flash of skin which said it was a man and not an animal. She finished fastening her halter as if she had seen or heard nothing, then abruptly picked up her hunting knife and said, "I hear you in there. I'll count three and then come in after you."

She did not have to count. The bushes parted and Harry Starbuck emerged, his skin scratched by brambles, his boyish face ridiculously out of place atop an over-muscled body, his knees and elbows covered by buckskin guards, an affectation common among the Shining Ones but which Diane had always thought as silly as wearing eye patches because you did not like the color of your eyes.

"You were watching me," Diane said angrily. "I warned you before, Harry."

"There's no law," he boomed sullenly, his deep voice belonging to the over-developed body and not the boyish face. "I can go where I want to."

Diane slapped the flat of her knife against her palm slowly. "Someday," she predicted, "this blade is going to feast on Starbuck. I mean that."

Starbuck roared his laughter. "Then I'll be careful," he promised. "But meanwhile, you realize you can't marry anyone but a Shining One, and who of our people suits you more than...."

"None of them suit me."

"You're young. You have no family, no close friends to protect you. I should take you...."

Diane shrugged, then regretted it as Starbuck's small eyes feasted hungrily on the smooth play of muscle beneath the taut, bronzed skin. "Then go ahead, Harry. But you won't sleep nights, because I'll be waiting and if you do sleep you can forget all about waking up. I mean that, too."

Starbuck was still laughing. "I've half a mind to turn you over to the Robots and let them tame you a little before I claim what I want."

Diane let her voice do the shrugging. "You can always try."

"Must we always argue?" Starbuck demanded abruptly, petulance drawing down the corners of his lips. "I don't want to fight with you. I want to...."

"I know what you want. You can forget it. I'm going to take a walk and maybe do some hunting. If you'll excuse me."

"With a knife."

"I'm not hunting for wild horses."

"I think I'll go with you."

Diane scowled at him, then girdled her knife. "As you wish, but be quiet."

Grinning, Starbuck shortened his strides and matched her pace as she cut away from the stream and the undergrowth and headed toward the foothills of the Pocono Mountains in the distance, where plump, juicy rabbits hid behind every blade of grass.

* * * * *

They walked in silence, the man's steps ponderous, the girl's so quick and lithe her bare feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. In an hour they had reached another stream, wider than the first and running deep with swift, cool water. Diane immediately dived in and swam, then continued walking on the other side while Starbuck carefully searched out a ford and splashed across with the water up to his waist. By the time he overtook Diane she was crouching, sitting on her bare heels, the line of her back, damp under the buckskins, a long, graceful curve.

"Take a look at this," she said, and pointed.

Starbuck looked and saw the remains of a camp fire at her feet. "Warm?" he asked.

Diane shook her head. "But not completely cold. Several hours old. Probably made this morning. Probably there's someone nearby."

"So what?"

"So if he's alone he's probably a Shining One and...."

"We have enough people in our camp now."

"You always think competitively, Harry. One more man won't hurt your position in our tribe."

"Well, if he's young and if he ... well, if you...."

"I'm not promised to you or anyone, and don't forget that. Besides, it doesn't have a thing to do with this." Diane peered expertly at the ground and soon picked up the stranger's spoor where he had come out of the stream himself--probably after bathing--and started out on his day's journey.

"Come on," she said and Starbuck could either forgo her company or follow her.

He followed.

The spoor became erratic. It wandered in circles, doubled back on itself, seemed either headed for no goal or incapable of reaching one. "He must have been hurt somehow," Diane mused. "He can't be very far."

"What are you so curious about?"

"Curious? I don't know. I'm just interested. I--Hello! Up there."

Diane sprinted up a short rise, leaving a surprised Starbuck pounding along several paces behind her. She found the man lying, face down near a large oak tree. Although it was comparatively cool, his body was drenched with perspiration. Diane shook her head sadly at the swollen joints and purple discolorations.

"They say it's a terrible thing," she told Starbuck as he panted up. "I don't remember; I was a baby."

Starbuck shuddered. "I remember. Watch out, don't go near him."

"What's the matter with you? We're immune."

Starbuck nodded morosely. "Yes. Immune. But he'll die anyway, so why don't we...."

"Why don't we take him back with us, that's what. Don't kid me, Harry Starbuck. You're acting sympathetic only because you think I'll like that. Well, I happen to feel sorry for this man. I think we'll feel better if we help him."

"Help him? He's as good as dead."

"Are you dead? You had the Plague. Am I?"

"No, but maybe one out of a hundred live. That isn't much of a chance for him."

"It's a chance, though. Here, carry him."

"What? Who, me? Now listen, Diane...."

Maybe a moon-struck Starbuck had his advantages. "Suit yourself, but don't expect me to speak to you again, ever."

Starbuck considered this, then mumbled something under his breath which Diane could not hear. "All right," he said finally. "But I'm telling you it's a waste of time."

"I'll be the judge of that."

* * * * *

Still grumbling, Starbuck picked the man up by one arm and one leg, staggered until he balanced his burden across one shoulder, then started back down toward the stream.

"That's right," said Diane. "We could reach camp in a few hours if we hurry."

"He'll never live through the day," said Starbuck. "I only had the Plague a few years ago. I lived in the villages, so I know. He'll never live through the day."

"Just keep walking. If he dies, we can bury him."

By the time they reached the stream again, Starbuck was covered with sweat. He forded the water carefully, Diane behind him to keep the stricken man's head above water. Despite its fever-flush, she liked the man's face. He was young, not much older than Diane herself, with dark hair and regular features, neither too boyish like Starbuck's, nor too craggy like most of the older men she knew.

Occasionally the man would mutter something unintelligible, and when they got to the other side of the stream he opened his eyes, stared at Diane without seeing her and said in a croaking whisper, "Water."

They stopped. Starbuck dropped his burden thankfully. "I can't carry him all the way back," he said.

"Then don't. Go ahead. I'll stay here." Diane cupped some water in her hand, trickled it between the dry lips. She was not even aware of Starbuck when he left.

She made a bed of leaves for the man's head and studied him. The denim trousers suggested village life, but she never suspected otherwise. The face still appealed to her, strong in appearance despite the fever, yet not overbearing. She hoped the youth would recover. "This is fantastic," Diane said aloud. "It may take days before he recovers ... or dies." She thought of calling to Starbuck before he retreated beyond earshot, but her pride forbade that.

Shrugging and making herself as comfortable as she could, she bathed the man's flushed face with water.

* * * * *

Day and night, the touch of the ground, the cool water which bathed him, the patient hands which kept the blood flowing through his swollen joints--all became as unreal to Johnny Hope as the shadowy remembrance of some half-forgotten nightmare. His lucid moments were few: there was this person, face unseen but comforting; there was a little food and all the water he wanted; and there was the fever which came and departed, leaving an icy chill behind.

Once Johnny mumbled, "Go away. You'll catch it yourself." And there was laughter, soft-murmuring, feminine, he thought. Was the woman insane to expose herself so?

The fever retreated stubbornly, in no great hurry to depart. The lucid moments became more frequent and of longer duration. The girl was beautiful.

There came a time when Johnny sat up weakly, his back propped against the bole of a tree. The face smiled at him. He willed the toes of his left foot to move and watched them wiggle. He could just barely feel them.

With long, easy strokes, the girl massaged his legs. Acutely conscious of her now, Johnny was embarrassed. "I'm all right," he said. He struggled to sit up but as yet had no real control over his limbs.

The girl placed the flat of her palm against his chest and pushed gently, easing him back against the tree. "You stay still," she told him. "You'll be up and around in a day or so, but don't hurry things."

"I ought to thank you. You're crazy. Why did you expose yourself like this? Why...."

He watched her as she sat before him and drew her legs up, knees thrust up. He saw the slim bronzed line of her calves and the metallic silver of knees.

"A Shining One!" he cried, recoiling involuntarily. The Shining Ones had survived the Plague, but remained carriers of it for all their days.

The girl smiled at him. "As are you. You're a very lucky young man to live through this."

The silver coated his own knees, Johnny saw, and his elbows. It would take some adjustment. All his life he had been told to walk in fear of the Shining Ones, who often swept down on the villages, forcing the townsfolk to flee or face the Plague, and taking what they wanted of the stores of food and supplies.

"I see you're a little afraid of yourself. It's common enough. I was lucky to have the Plague as an infant. I remember no other life, you see. When you're well and strong enough to walk, I'll take you back to our encampment."

"I don't know," Johnny said doubtfully.

"Just be patient with yourself. Adjustment will come."

"All my life they said the Shining Ones were monsters. When I was a little boy I had to be good because my mother said otherwise the Shining Ones would come and get me, carrying me off to kill me with the Plague."

"You've had the Plague yourself. You've got to remember that. Besides," the girl laughed easily, "you're a big boy now to believe in bogey men."

"Well," Johnny continued stubbornly, "there are other things. The Shining Ones are scavengers. They don't work themselves or grow their own crops. Instead they invade the peaceful villages. Then the natives, my people, have to flee or become contaminated. The Shining Ones take all the loot they want."

"Some of us. I have been a Shining One all my life but have never taken part in such a raid. We do not grow crops because we are not an agricultural people. We are nomadic and hunters."

"Why?"

"The Robots," the girl told him. "Some of our people join them voluntarily, many others are forced into bondage. If we don't keep on the move, they'll find us. Agriculture is an impossible art when your encampment is always on the move."

It gave Johnny food for thought, and something of the girl's own frankness made him do his thinking aloud. "If I remain alone, I'll be a hermit. I've seen the hermit Shining Ones wandering through the hills, alone and friendless, wild men. If I go with you, I become almost an enemy of my own people."

"They are no longer your people. You must realize that."

"And if I go with you, I can learn about the Robots and perhaps one day bring the truth back to my people. Tell me, do the Robots cure the Plague or spread it?"

"They spread it."

Johnny smiled grimly. "I will go with you."

* * * * *

Two days and half a dozen good meals later, the girl helped him to his feet and nursed him along for his first few uncertain steps. But strength flowed back into his legs rapidly. He was walking without support by the time they reached the wide stream and saw the girl's nod of silent approval as he swam across it with her, matching swift stroke for stroke.

An hour went by and Johnny became amazed at the speed of his recovery. He almost wanted to return to Hamilton Village and shout, "See? I survived. I'm back." But he was a Shining One, a carrier, forever an exile from the people and the life he knew. And his own parents were dead, mute testimony of the havoc he might wreak among his people if he returned to them.

They walked from the stream and shook the water from themselves and looked at each other, wet like that, and smiled. "I don't even know your name," said Johnny.

"It's Diane."

"I'm Johnny Hope. I want to--"

"Johnny! Get down!"

He stood there, surprised, staring foolishly. They were on a small rise of ground above the stream. The girl, who had fallen flat even as she hissed the command at him, was tugging at his legs. He dropped prone beside her, although he still failed to see the reason for her sudden alarm. She parted the undergrowth in front of them with her hands and said the one word, "Look."

Johnny had never seen the Robots this close before. For all their ungainly bulk they trod the ground softly, walking as he had always seen them at greater distances, in a long, single file column. They were huge antenna-topped creatures, their great cylindrical head sections bigger than a man and gleaming a polished silver-blue, their eyes, four of them evenly spaced around the cylinder a foot or so below the antenna, white and bulging, with neither pupil nor lid, their limbs many-jointed and metallic, various tool-ends fastened securely instead of hands. The legs were attached to the small body, but one fifth the size of the head; the arms came from the head itself, just below the unblinking eyes.

"They must be twelve feet tall," Johnny whispered.

"Shh! Softly. We're close to our encampment and I don't want them to find us. They average twelve feet, Johnny."

* * * * *

Johnny would never forget the sight. Many times he had watched the robots parading in thin-lined silence down the long, silent roads which men no longer used, but now he could have almost reached out and touched them. The absolute quiet was unnerving. The Robots must have weighed close to a ton each but walked with the stillness of stalking jungle cats.

"Where are they going, Diane?"

"I don't know. Who understands the ways of Robots? Who can say...." Abruptly, Diane was still. Her eyes went big and wide but she wasn't watching the Robots.

Directly in front of her face and staring at her from unblinking eyes, its body half-coiled and dappled with the sunlight which filtered down through the foliage, was a copperhead. The tongue darted out in a quick, blurring red streak, the head cleared the loose coils and swayed slightly from side to side.

"Don't move," Johnny barely formed the words with his lips and hoped Diane would retain her presence of mind and obey him. A sudden motion would set the snake to striking.

The file of robots paraded by just in front of them, an occasional joint creaking, metal skins polished to keen reflection. The copperhead was fully coiled now, head cocked flat and ugly and perfectly still. Johnny placed his hand on Diane's thigh and let it crawl upwards, as if of its own volition, with an agonizing lack of speed. Now his fingers had reached the edge of the buckskin shorts and now they climbed on the smooth pelt. He could feel Diane trembling faintly, the motion unseen but felt. And now his fingers climbed to the girdling belt, grasped the haft of the hunting knife, slowly withdrew it, tiny fraction of an inch at a time.

At last he had drawn the knife clear, easing it slowly toward his own body. He balanced it on his palm, trying to judge the weight. He would have only one chance, for the quick motion of his arm would make the copperhead strike if he missed.

Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes, half blinding him. He cursed soundlessly, held his hand out flat, squinted, whipped it forward. A sigh escaped Diane's lips.

There was an angry thrashing as the copperhead uncoiled. But the blade had pinned it to the ground, piercing the body just below the flat head. Ignoring the column of Robots now, Johnny crawled forward swiftly, grasped the knife and drew it cleanly toward him. The head was severed from the body. The body thrashed furiously, then lay still in death. The Robots marched on, oblivious of the drama which had unfolded at their metal-clawed feet.

The last Robot glided by, the long line retreated into the woodland, vanished.

Diane stood up, still trembling. "It took me three days to save your life," she said. "You saved mine in seconds."

Johnny handed her the knife. "Let's find your people," he said.