. But no twins.

He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting
holes in the darkness--fearing those lights would outline something that
he had not seen. But there was nothing.

For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn and
outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he
knew they could not hear.

And then, suddenly, all fear was gone--like a summer squall near the
sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out
and touched him and brought the strange feeling again.

"They are in the house," he said aloud and knew he was right.

He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the
door. And they were there--by the mother's bed, hands clasped over hers.

He felt a tiny chill. Their eyes were watching the door as he opened it,
their faces set to receive some stimuli--already set--as if they had
known he was coming.

Mary was breathing softly. On her face all trace of pain had disappeared
and now there was the tiny smile that had been hers long ago. Her
breathing was even, but light as forgotten conversation.

Gently he tried to pry their resisting hands away from hers. The hands
fought back with a terrible strength beyond normality. By sheer greater
force he tore one of the twins away.

It was like releasing a bomb. Sudden pain stabbed through his body. The
twin struggled in his arms, the small hands reaching blindly out for the
thing they had lost. And Mary's eyes opened and all of the uncontrolled
pain came, back into those eyes. Her body writhed on the bed, tearing
the coverings away. The twin squirmed away from his slackening hold and
once again caught at the hands of the mother.

All struggle ceased. Mary's eyes shut again, the pain lines smoothed
themselves, the tiny smile flowered.

He reached out and touched the small hands on each side of the mother
and the feeling for which there were no words came through more
strongly than ever before. Tiny voices tried to whisper within the
corners of his mind, partially blotted, sometimes heard. The _real_
things, the things of hate and fear and despair retreated beyond the
bugle call that sounded somewhere.

"She will die," the voice said; one voice for two. "This part of her
will die."

And then _her_ voice came--as it had been once before when all of the
world was young. "You must not be afraid, John. I have known for a long
time--for they were