r house for this."

The bore of the gun was level with his eye as he stood a few steps below
her. Probably if she fired now, she would kill him. Or more likely he
would only be blinded or paralyzed; that was about his luck.

"Are you going to use that gun?" he asked.

"Not unless I have to. I only brought it along for protection. I came
to help you, Mr. Collins."

"Help me?"

"Yes, Mr. Collins. You're sick. You need help."

He looked the girl over. She was a half-dozen years younger than he was.
In most states, she couldn't even vote yet. But still, maybe she could
help, at that. He didn't know much about girls and their abilities.

"Why don't we go into the kitchen and have some coffee?" Collins
suggested.

III

Nancy sipped her coffee and kept her eyes on his. The gun lay in her
lap. The big kitchen was a place for coffee, brown and black, wood
ceiling and iron stove and pans. Collins sat across the twelve square
feet of table from her, and nursed the smoking mug.

"Sam, I want you to take whatever comfort you can from the fact that I
don't think the same thing about you as the rest of Waraxe."

"What does the rest of the town think about me?"

"They think you are a pathological degenerate who should be lynched. But
I don't believe that."

"Thanks. That's a big comfort."

"I know what you were after when you tore Mom's dress."

In spite of himself, Collins felt his face warming in a blush.

"You were only seeking the mother love you missed as a boy," the girl
said.

Collins chewed on his lip a moment, and considered the idea. Slowly he
shook his head.

"No," he said. "No. I don't think so."

"Then what do you think?"

"I think old Doc Candle _made_ me do it. He said he was going to bury
me. Getting me lynched would be one good way to do it. Ed Michaels
almost blew my head off with his shotgun. It was close. Doc Candle
almost made it. He didn't miss by far with you and that target pistol
either."

"Sam--I may call you 'Sam'?--just try to think calmly and reasonably for
a minute. How could Dr. Candle, the undertaker, possibly make you do a
thing like you did in Mr. Michaels' hardware store?"

"Well ... he _said_ he was a superhuman alien from outer space."

"If he said that, do you believe him, Sam?"

"_Something_ made me do that. It just wasn't my own idea."

"It's easier that way, isn't it, Sam?" Nancy asked. "It's easy to say.
'It wasn't me; some space monster made me do it.'