Even Effie--taken off guard, all the fears that had been drilled into her twanging like piano wires--shrank from the skeletal-seeming shape beside her, held herself to it only by desperation. Patrick did it for her. He disengaged her arm and stepped briskly away. Then he whirled on them, smiling sardonically, and started to speak, but instead looked with distaste at the chattering Geiger counter he held between fingers and thumb. "Have we listened to this racket long enough?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he put down the instrument on the table. The cat hurried over to it curiously and the clicks began again to mount in a minor crescendo. Effie lunged for it frantically, switched it off, darted back. "That's right," Patrick said with another chilling smile. "You do well to cringe, for I'm death itself. Even in death I could kill you, like a snake." And with that his voice took on the tones of a circus barker. "Yes, I'm a freak, as the gentleman so wisely said. That's what one doctor who dared talk with me for a minute told me before he kicked me out. He couldn't tell me why, but somehow the dust doesn't kill me. Because I'm a freak, you see, just like the men who ate nails and walked on fire and ate arsenic and stuck themselves through with pins. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen--only not too close!--and examine the man the dust can't harm. Rappaccini's child, brought up to date; his embrace, death! "And now," he said, breathing heavily, "I'll get out and leave you in your damned lead cave." He started toward the window. Hank's gun followed him shakingly. "Wait!" Effie called in an agonized voice. He obeyed. She continued falteringly, "When we were together earlier, you didn't act as if ..." "When we were together earlier, I wanted what I wanted," he snarled at her. "You don't suppose I'm a bloody saint, do you?" "And all the beautiful things you told me?" "That," he said cruelly, "is just a line I've found that women fall for. They're all so bored and so starved for beauty--as _they_ generally put it." "Even the garden?" Her question was barely audible through the sobs that threatened to suffocate her. He looked at her and perhaps his expression softened just a trifle. "What's outside," he said flatly, "is just a little worse than either of you can imagine." He tapped his temple. "The garden's all here." "You've killed it," she wept. "You've killed it in me. You've both killed everything that's beautiful. But you're worse," she screamed at Patrick, "because he only killed beauty once, but you brought it to life just so you could kill it again. Oh, I can't stand it! I won't stand it!" And she began to scream. Patrick started toward her, but she broke off and whirled away from him to the window, her eyes crazy. "You've been lying to us," she cried. "The garden's there. I know it is. But you don't want to share it with anyone." [Illustration]