only my imagination.

"I know now that I was only deceiving myself when I sought release from you. Sandra? Well, I rather like her, but she could never take your place. I still wish to be your mate, Natalla."

Her eyes answered him, he thought.

"You're tired, Eric. But perhaps you'd better not spend the night in the lab after all."

He reached down, picked her up in his arms. "In the old days," he said, "it was considered particularly fine form for a man to carry his mate to their sleeping quarters."

She smiled and buried her face against his shoulder. No need to tell him that she, too, had read the old books. Or that she'd rigged up a z-special screen outside that window, projected a carefully-made film on it. After all, she hadn't seen the green cloud. He'd held her back. And hadn't he mentioned something about it being his imagination.

She wouldn't be too harsh on him, of course, tomorrow morning when all was discovered to be well. And she was positive that he hadn't noticed her fingers slide over the button as she leaned against the table a moment ago, the button summoning a robot, pre-instructed to dismantle the apparatus.

24th Century or no 24th Century, men were still such dear fools.

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