"Hardly think so ... still.... Oh, forget it, this is not a night for problems. Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are in Heaven," he grinned irresistibly with a charm that made him seem younger.
"No! None of your ... what was it your barbaric ancestors called it?... blarney!" It was then she noticed the tell-tale silver flood at the roots of his yellow mane, and her heart stood still. The Silver Plague! Carefully she lighted a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke-ring into the icy air, she brushed an imaginary tobacco speck from lips that were like red roses. And when she spoke Narda was perfectly calm.
"I came to find you because they're going to play the Ecstasiana with a native orchestra from Ganymede—the muted viols and flute-like instruments, and those weird violins of that strange race.... We danced it the first time we met. Remember, my dear?" Her eyes were radiant as if all her tears were concentrated in her heart, leaving only their sparkle behind.
He nodded silently. He was too full of the racking knowledge that all his dreams had been destroyed by this alien malady that turned the hair to gleaming silver, and rendered them sterile. That, and his terrible love for this exquisite, gallant being who had consecrated her youth and brains and loveliness to the only ideal in the chaos of their lives—The Dekka. And as they turned to go, the tiny tele-rad on Julian's wrist began to flash a pin-point of light in a complicated code.
They both watched instantly alert, translating the urgent message with the ease of years of experience. The message was peremptory—final. They were to repair to the Dekka's ancestral Hall without delay for a plenary session. The laconic order ceased as the instrument went blank. Julian Varon looked at Narda for a long moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "We'll have to leave right away, it may be emergency!"
Narda nodded. "We'll have barely time to change in the spacer."