“Daddy—”

“Hush, Frannie,” he said with absent sternness, and she hushed.

“You say she’s being selfish,” Peter said, still looking down into his wife’s still, shocked face. “You’re the one doing that. You stopped caring about Frannie when Fred died. That was when you decided caring hurt too much and decided it’d be safer just to live for yourself. And this is where you came to do that, time and time and time again. This room. You doted on your dead family and forgot the part of it still living. And when she came in here and told you she was in trouble, asked for your help, I bet the first thing that crossed your mind was to wonder what the ladies in the Flower and Garden Club would say, or if it meant you’d have to stay away from Amy Lauder’s weddin. Hurt’s a reason to change, but all the hurt in the world don’t change facts. You have been selfish.”

He reached down and helped her up. She came to her feet like a sleepwalker. Her expression didn’t change; her eyes were still wide and unbelieving. Relentlessness hadn’t yet come back into them, but Frannie dully thought that in time it would.

It would.

“It’s my fault for letting you go on. For not wanting any unpleasantness. For not wanting to rock the boat. I was selfish, too, you see. And when Fran went off to school I thought, Well, now Carla can have what she wants and it won’t hurt nobody but herself, and if a person doesn’t know they’re hurting, why, maybe they’re not. I was wrong. I’ve been wrong before, but never as bad as this.” Gently, but with great force, he reached out and grasped Carla’s shoulders. “Now: I am telling you this as your husband. If Frannie needs a place to stay, this can be the place—same as it always was. If she needs money, she can have it from my purse—same as she always could. And if she decides to keep her baby, you will see that she has a proper baby shower, and you may think no one will come, but she has friends, good ones, and they will. I’ll tell you one more thing, too. If she wants it christened, it will be done right here. Right here in this goddamned parlor.”

Carla’s mouth had dropped open, and now a sound began to come from it. At first it sounded uncannily like the whistle of a teakettle on a hot burner. Then it became a keening wail.

“Peter, your own son lay in his coffin in this room! ”

“Yes. And that’s why I can’t think of a better place to christen a new life,” he said. “Fred’s blood. Live blood. Fred himself, he’s been dead a lot of years, Carla. He was worm-food long since.”

She screamed at that and put her hands to her ears. He bent down and pulled them away.

“But the worms haven’t got your daughter and your daughter’s baby. It don’t matter how it was got; it’s alive. You act like you want to drive her off, Carla. What will you have if you do? Nothing but this room and a husband who’ll hate you for what you did. If you do that, why, it might just as well have been all three of us that day—me and Frannie as well as Fred.”

“I want to go upstairs and lie down,” Carla said. “I feel nauseated. I think I’d better lie down.”

“I’ll help you,” Frannie said.

“Don’t you touch me. Stay with your father. You and he seem to have this all worked out. How you are going to destroy me in this town. Why don’t you just settle into my parlor, Frannie? Throw mud on the carpet, take ashes from the stove and throw them into my clock? Why not? Why not?”

She began to laugh and pushed past Peter, into the hall. She was listing like a drunken woman. Peter tried to put an arm around her shoulders. She bared her teeth and hissed at him like a cat.

Her laughter turned to sobs as she went slowly up the stairs, leaning on the mahogany banister for support; those sobs had a ripping, helpless quality that made Frannie want to scream and throw up at the same time. Her father’s face was the color of dirty linen. At the top, Carla turned and swayed so alarmingly that for a moment Frannie believed she would tumble all the way back down to the bottom. She looked at them, seemingly about to speak, then turned away again. A moment later, the closing of her bedroom door muted the stormy sound of her grief and hurt.

Frannie and Peter stared at each other, appalled, and the grandfather clock ticked calmly on.

“This will work itself out,” Peter said calmly. “She’ll come around.”

“Will she?” Frannie asked. She walked slowly to her father, leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. “I don’t think so.”

“Never mind. We won’t think about it for now.”

“I ought to go. She doesn’t want me here.”

“You ought to stay. You ought to be here when—if—she comes to and finds out she still needs you to stay.” He paused. “Me, I already do, Fran.”

“Daddy,” she said, and put her head against his chest. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry, lust so goddam sorry—”

“Shhh,” he said, and stroked her hair. Over her head he could see the afternoon sunlight streaming duskily in through the bow windows, as it had always done, golden and still, the way sunlight falls into museums and the halls of the dead. “Shhh, Frannie; I love you. I love you.”

The red light went on. The pump hissed. The door opened. The man who stepped through was not wearing one of the white all-over suits, but a small shiny nose-filter that looked a little bit like a two-pronged silver fork, the kind the hostess leaves on the canape table to get the olives out of the bottle.

“Hi, Mr. Redman,” he said, strolling across the room. He stuck out his hand, clad in a thin transparent rubber glove, and Stu, surprised into the defensive, shook it. “I’m Dick Deitz. Denninger said you wouldn’t play ball anymore unless somebody told you what the score was.”

Stu nodded.

“Good.” Deitz sat on the edge of the bed. He was a small brown man, and sitting there with his elbows cocked just above his knees, he looked like a gnome in a Disney picture. “So what do you want to know?”

“First, I guess I want to know why you’re not wearing one of those spacesuits.”

“Because Geraldo there says you’re not catching.” Deitz pointed to a guinea pig behind the double-paned window. The guinea pig was in a cage, and standing behind the cage was Denninger himself, his face expressionless.

“Geraldo, huh?”

“Geraldo’s been breathing your air for the last three days, via convector. This disease that your friends have passes easily from humans to guinea pigs and vice versa. If you were catching, we figure Geraldo would be dead by now.”

“But you’re not taking any chances,” Stu said dryly, and cocked a thumb at the nose-filter.

“That,” Deitz said with a cynical smile, “is not in my contract.”

“What have I got?”

Smoothly, as if rehearsed, Deitz said, “Black hair, blue eyes, one hell of a suntan…” He looked closely at Stu. “Not funny, huh?”

Stu said nothing.

“Want to hit me?”

“I don’t believe it would do any good.”

Deitz sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if the plugs going up the nostrils hurt. “Listen,” he said. “When things look serious, I do jokes. Some people smoke or chew gum. It’s the way I keep my shit together, that’s all. I don’t doubt there are lots of people who have better ways. As to what sort of disease you’ve got, well, so far as Denninger and his colleagues have been able to ascertain, you don’t have any at all.”

Stu nodded impassively. Yet somehow he had an idea this little gnome of a man had seen past his poker face to his sudden and deep relief.

“What have the others got?”

“I’m sorry, that’s classified.”

“How did that fellow Campion get it?”

“That’s classified, too.”

“My guess is that he was in the army. And there was an accident someplace. Like what happened to those sheep in Utah thirty years ago, only a lot worse.”

“Mr. Redman, I could go to jail just for telling you you were hot or cold.”