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screen.
"It's the fat lady," Butcher said malevolently. "I hope the bitch kills herself."
Mildred had fallen into the stream and was struggling in waist-high water to regain her footing. The
current was very swift, all white water here. She slipped and went under. Lottie held her breath until she
appeared again, downstream, retching, clutching at a boulder. Inch by inch she drew herself to it and
clung there trying to get her breath back. She looked about desperately; she was very white. Abruptly
she launched herself into the current, swimming strongly, fighting to get to the shore as she was swept
down the river.
Andy's voice was soft as he said, "That water is forty-eight degrees, ladies and gentlemen! Forty-eight!
Dr. Lederman, how long can a person be immersed in water that cold?"
"Not long, Andy. Not long at all." The doctor looked worried too. "Ten minutes at the most, I'd say."
"That water is reducing her body heat second by second," Andy said solemnly. "When it is low enough
to produce unconsciousness..."
Mildred was pulled under again; when she appeared this time, she was much closer to shore. She caught
a rock and held on. Now she could stand up, and presently she dragged herself rock by rock, boulder
by boulder, to the shore. She was shaking hard, her teeth chattering. She began to build a fire. She could
hardly open her waterproof matchbox. Finally she had a blaze and she began to strip. Her backpack,
Andy reminded the audience, had been lost when she fell into the water. She had only what she had on
her back, and if she wanted to continue after the sun set and the cold evening began, she had to dry her
things thoroughly.
"She's got nerve," Butcher said grudgingly.
Lottie nodded. She was weak. She got up, skirted Butcher, and went to the kitchen for a bag. As she
cleaned the table, every now and then she glanced at the naked woman by her fire. Steam was rising off
her wet clothes.
* * * *
_10 P.M. Sunday _
Lottie had moved Butcher's chair to the far side of the table the last time he had left it. His beard was
thick and coarse, and he still wore the clothes he had put on to go to work Friday morning. Lottie's
stomach hurt. Every weekend she got constipated.
The game was between Mildred and Clyde now. He was in good shape, still had his glasses and his
backpack. He was farther from his truck than Mildred was from hers, but she had eaten nothing that
afternoon and was limping badly. Her boots must have shrunk, or else she had not waited for them to
get completely dry. Her face twisted with pain when she moved.
The girl was still posing in the high meadow, now against a tall tree, now among the wild flowers. Often a
frown crossed her face and surreptitiously she scratched. Ticks, Butcher said. Probably full of them.
Eddie was wandering in a daze. He looked empty, and was walking in great aimless circles. Some of
them cracked like that, Lottie knew. It had happened before, sometimes to the strongest one of all.
They'd slap him right in a hospital and no one would hear anything about him again for a long time, if
ever. She didn't waste pity on him.
She would win, Lottie knew. She had studied every kind of wilderness they used and she'd know what
to do and how to do it. She was strong, and not afraid of noises. She found herself nodding and
stopped, glanced quickly at Butcher to see if he had noticed. He was watching Clyde.
"Smart," Butcher said, his eyes narrowed. "That sonabitch's been saving himself for the home stretch.
Look at him." Clyde started to lope, easily, as if aware the TV truck was dead ahead.
Now the screen was divided into three parts, the two finalists, Mildred and Clyde, side by side, and
above them a large aerial view that showed their red and blue dots as they approached the trucks.
"It's fixed!" Lottie cried, outraged when Clyde pulled ahead of Mildred. "I hope he falls down and
breaks his back!"
"Smart," Butcher said over and over, nodding, and Lottie knew he was imagining himself there, just as
she had done. She felt a chill. He glanced at her and for a moment their eyes held -- naked, scheming.
They broke away simultaneously.
Mildred limped forward until it was evident each step was torture. Finally she sobbed, sank to the
ground and buried her face in her hands.
Clyde ran on. It would take an act of God now to stop him. He reached the truck at twelve minutes
before midnight.
For a long time neither Lottie nor Butcher moved. Neither spoke. Butcher had turned the audio off as
soon as Clyde reached the truck, and now there were the usual after-game recaps, the congratulations,
the helicopter liftouts of the other contestants.
Butcher sighed. "One of the better shows," he said. He was hoarse.
"Yeah. About the best yet."
"Yeah." He sighed again and stood up. "Honey, don't bother with all this junk now. I'm going to take a
shower, and then I'll help you clean up, okay?"
"It's not that bad," she said. "I'll be done by the time you're finished. Want a sandwich, doughnut?"
"I don't think so. Be right out." He left. When he came back, shaved, clean, his wet hair brushed down
smoothly, the room was neat again, the dishes washed and put away.
"Let's go to bed, honey," he said, and put his arm lightly about her shoulders. "You look beat."
"I am." She slipped her arm about his waist. "We both lost."
"Yeah, I know. Next week."
She nodded. Next week. It was the best money they ever spent, she thought, undressing. Best thing they
ever bought, even if it would take them fifteen years to pay it off. She yawned and slipped into bed.
They held hands as they drifted off to sleep.
The End
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