"Yes, Richard."

"Did you just wake up?"

"Wake up? You mean I've been dreaming, Richard. Those wasps—"

"Darling, do you want it straight?"

"You don't need to ask that, Richard."

I told her then—everything I suspected, everything I knew. When I stopped speaking, she was silent for ten full seconds. Then her voice came to me vibrant with courage.

"We can't live forever, Richard."

"That's what I've been thinking, darling. And you've got to admit we've had the best of everything."

"Some people I know would call it living," she said.

"Darling?"

"Yes, Richard."

"I've a confession to make. I've liked being out in space with you. I've liked the uncertainty, the danger—the desperate chances we both took with our lives."

"I'm glad, Richard."

"I don't glow outwardly—you know that. You've had a lot to contend with. I've reproached you, and tried to put a damper on your enthusiasm, and—"

"You've been a wonderful husband, Richard."

"But as a lover—"

"Richard, do you remember what you said to me when we were roaring through the red skies above Io? You held my fingers so tightly I was afraid you'd break them, and your kisses were as fiery as a girl could ask for. And you said I reminded you of someone you'd always loved, and that was why you'd married me.

"And when I scowled and asked her name you said she had no name and had never existed on Earth. But that I had her eyes and hair and thoughts, and was just as slim, and that when I walked I reminded you of her, and even when I just sat on the pilot dais staring out into 

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