Part 4 (1/2)

She said, ”Thinking, again? You do a lot of thinking, don't you?”

”I have to think of something besides you,” I told her honestly. ”I can't afford to fall in love with you, Jean. I've too many places to go and too many things to see.”

She just stared at me. It must have been a full minute before she said, ”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned.”

After breakfast, it was still cold, and she said, ”There'll be no swim this morning, I see. If you want to get an appraisal on that diamond, Fred, I'll phone one of our jewelers to come out.”

”I'd appreciate that,” I said. ”Would it be all right if I took these newspapers back to my room, now?”

”Just dandy,” she said. ”Sorry to be boring you.”

”You're not,” I told her earnestly. ”Believe me, you're not.”

The papers were interesting. Nowhere was it stated, but a glance at the front pages showed they were on opposite sides of the political fence.

On my planet, we keep the editorial opinion in the editorial columns.

Not so with these. The wire services were impartial and the accounts in both papers identical. That was as far as the similarities went. Reading the other accounts was like living in two worlds.

An informed people will always be free. Well, perhaps these weren't typical.

I was to see papers a lot worse than these before long.

I was just starting the want ads when the knock came at the door. It was the maid, again; the jeweler was at the house.

A small man, suave and dark, with the manners of a diplomat, fawning like a puppy.

It was a perfect stone, he decided. He had, he was sure, a customer who would be interested. Would I accept eight thousand dollars for it?

I said I would, and he left.

We were in the living room, and Jean stood near the tall front windows.

She had changed to a suit of some soft blue material.

”As soon as I get the money,” I said, ”we're going out for some fun, aren't we? I owe you for a beef barbecue.”

”You don't owe me anything,” she said. She didn't look at me.

”You'll get over him,” I said.

”Him--?” She turned to look at me curiously.

”That man you're in love with, that man you told me about last night.”

”Oh,” she said. ”Oh. I was drunk last night, Fred. I'm not in love.”

Silence. That attraction of hers pulling at me like some localized gravity, silence, and the beating of my heart. Silence, my hands trembling, my knees aching.

”I'd like to see some fights,” I said. ”Would you like to?”