night and most of the day, the girl still upstairs as the
winter's first storm chased a pale moon from a thickening
sky.
Time to take Platinia home to a
considerably warmer Stil-de-grain.
Lost in thought, the doorbell stunned
him! Who ...?
Stepping to the door, he opened it to
peer into what was now the windy blackness of a cloud-covered
night.
"May I come in?"
Who? .... Ellen!
"Sure."
John stepping aside, Ellen Hamilton,
bundled in a professor's wife's plain cloth coat, came
in.
Waiting for Paul to follow, John stood
there with the door open, the air cold and wet, smelling of
decomposing leaves. ... Until John realized there was no Paul. That
Ellen was alone.
Puzzled, John shut the door, the warm
hall air already sucked into the night.
By this time, Ellen had unbuttoned her
coat. Had stuffed her large, red wool scarf in her slash
pocket.
John helped her off with her coat.
Draped the blue coat over the hall banister.
Something was wrong, John not eager to
find out what.
Ellen ... didn't look ... right. Her
face was flushed, for one thing. For another, John had never seen
her looking so sober.
"Come into the living room," he said,
taking her arm, then dropping it, Ellen here without Paul. (It felt
even worse that John didn't mind Paul's absence.)
In the living room, Paul's wife sat on
the end of the divan, John pulling up a chair to sit across from
her.
Even in the subdued room's shadowy
light, Ellen looked feverish.
"It's Paul's health," Ellen said, no
"happy talk" attempted before stabbing into the painful purpose of
her visit.
"Paul? You don't look well,
yourself."
"I know. I'm not. It's this fever. I
can't seem to shake it. I'm running a couple of degrees all the
time."
"And the doctors don't know what's
wrong?"
She shook her elegant head. "Something
about my blood. It doesn't ... look right ... under the microscope.
But no one seems to know why or what to do about it."
"I'm so sorry." And he was. For both
Ellen and Paul.
"It's not so much that I can't seem to
get well, as the way Paul is taking it."
"He hasn't been looking that great,"
John agreed.
"It's worse than that. He's not
eating. Losing weight. He's not sleeping. I hear him in the night.
He tries to be quiet, but he's such a big man he shakes the floor
when he paces. This evening, I gave him something to knock him out.
But I did that last night, too, and he only slept for an hour or
so."
"He's worried because you're not
completely well?"
She nodded. Then shook her head in
confusion. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Involving
you."
"No trouble at all."
She looked at John, her face serious.
"Paul told me what you suggested. That if you took me to this other
world where there's no disease, I might get well."
With Paul as opposed as he was to
Bandworld trips, John was surprised he'd mentioned it. Another sign
of the chairman's worry.
Perched there, Ellen was as
breathtaking as John had seen her. Eyes an intense blue. Gold hair
sleek. Now that she'd had the baby, stunning in a long black dress.
A Grecian look about her, dress like a flowing robe ....
"There's a history of heart disease in
Paul's family. Blocked coronaries. I'm scared, John. Not long
before his father's fatal heart attack, Paul's father looked just
the way Paul does now. Same shortness of breath. If something isn't
done ....
And John had made up his
mind.
* * * * *
Chapter 9
John was disorientated. Not so much
dizzy as disassociated from reality.
But feeling better than the first
time, nothing as bad as the first time.
Platinia had apparently suffered
little from the trip, her small, dark, enigmatic self standing to
John's right.
Ellen was catatonic. Would be that way
for awhile since this was her first journey to Never-Never
Land.
He had the static electric generator
in hand, the machine feather-light in Stil-de-grain's weak gravity,
John not only less disorientated but better prepared. He had the
right clothing and shoes, for instance, taking both
winter's first storm chased a pale moon from a thickening
sky.
Time to take Platinia home to a
considerably warmer Stil-de-grain.
Lost in thought, the doorbell stunned
him! Who ...?
Stepping to the door, he opened it to
peer into what was now the windy blackness of a cloud-covered
night.
"May I come in?"
Who? .... Ellen!
"Sure."
John stepping aside, Ellen Hamilton,
bundled in a professor's wife's plain cloth coat, came
in.
Waiting for Paul to follow, John stood
there with the door open, the air cold and wet, smelling of
decomposing leaves. ... Until John realized there was no Paul. That
Ellen was alone.
Puzzled, John shut the door, the warm
hall air already sucked into the night.
By this time, Ellen had unbuttoned her
coat. Had stuffed her large, red wool scarf in her slash
pocket.
John helped her off with her coat.
Draped the blue coat over the hall banister.
Something was wrong, John not eager to
find out what.
Ellen ... didn't look ... right. Her
face was flushed, for one thing. For another, John had never seen
her looking so sober.
"Come into the living room," he said,
taking her arm, then dropping it, Ellen here without Paul. (It felt
even worse that John didn't mind Paul's absence.)
In the living room, Paul's wife sat on
the end of the divan, John pulling up a chair to sit across from
her.
Even in the subdued room's shadowy
light, Ellen looked feverish.
"It's Paul's health," Ellen said, no
"happy talk" attempted before stabbing into the painful purpose of
her visit.
"Paul? You don't look well,
yourself."
"I know. I'm not. It's this fever. I
can't seem to shake it. I'm running a couple of degrees all the
time."
"And the doctors don't know what's
wrong?"
She shook her elegant head. "Something
about my blood. It doesn't ... look right ... under the microscope.
But no one seems to know why or what to do about it."
"I'm so sorry." And he was. For both
Ellen and Paul.
"It's not so much that I can't seem to
get well, as the way Paul is taking it."
"He hasn't been looking that great,"
John agreed.
"It's worse than that. He's not
eating. Losing weight. He's not sleeping. I hear him in the night.
He tries to be quiet, but he's such a big man he shakes the floor
when he paces. This evening, I gave him something to knock him out.
But I did that last night, too, and he only slept for an hour or
so."
"He's worried because you're not
completely well?"
She nodded. Then shook her head in
confusion. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Involving
you."
"No trouble at all."
She looked at John, her face serious.
"Paul told me what you suggested. That if you took me to this other
world where there's no disease, I might get well."
With Paul as opposed as he was to
Bandworld trips, John was surprised he'd mentioned it. Another sign
of the chairman's worry.
Perched there, Ellen was as
breathtaking as John had seen her. Eyes an intense blue. Gold hair
sleek. Now that she'd had the baby, stunning in a long black dress.
A Grecian look about her, dress like a flowing robe ....
"There's a history of heart disease in
Paul's family. Blocked coronaries. I'm scared, John. Not long
before his father's fatal heart attack, Paul's father looked just
the way Paul does now. Same shortness of breath. If something isn't
done ....
And John had made up his
mind.
* * * * *
Chapter 9
John was disorientated. Not so much
dizzy as disassociated from reality.
But feeling better than the first
time, nothing as bad as the first time.
Platinia had apparently suffered
little from the trip, her small, dark, enigmatic self standing to
John's right.
Ellen was catatonic. Would be that way
for awhile since this was her first journey to Never-Never
Land.
He had the static electric generator
in hand, the machine feather-light in Stil-de-grain's weak gravity,
John not only less disorientated but better prepared. He had the
right clothing and shoes, for instance, taking both
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