As their tablemates drank their health, Bridget blushed and her eyes shone, and after dinner Patch escorted her to the stereo where they sat very close together in the dark. But as the pictures flashed across the screen and as Patch's arm went across her shoulder and drew her close, her mind was besieged by an army of little doubts. Shamrock ... shamrock ... what had she read about the shamrock?
"Patch," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"
"Get what?" Patch murmured, bending over to kiss her.
"The shamrock, Patch? I don't believe they have it in hydroponics."
"Sure, they must have it." Patch's lips brushed hers and she found it difficult to think clearly.
"I never saw it there. Patch! Are you sure?"
"Saw what? I don't see anything but you. That's enough for me."
"About the shamrock, Patch!"
"It looks beautiful on you. Sure and I wouldn't be without a shamrock on St. Patrick's Day."
Bridget gave up. She lay back in the sanctuary of his arm and basked in the warm feeling of his lips on her hair. But the doubts kept crawling about in her mind. What was the matter with her? Couldn't she be happy when everything was perfect? Had she been a cut-and-dried inspector for too many years? But she remembered the words of Professor Schwarzkopf, the day she received her degree: "The inspectors are the watchdogs of the planets. Without them, all that man has built can be destroyed."