"You can put the gun away," she said calmly. "Didn't I save your life? There may be trouble for me, but Daddy Sayers can always buy his daughter out of trouble. My name's Marian Sayers. Whatever it costs, the excitement's worth it!"
Sayers! When Barstac had been imprisoned ten years ago, Sayers had been one of the richest robber barons in the system. Probably the richest by now. What would Marian Sayers want with Barstac?
She laughed. It had a wild, odd sound. Her face had a wild look, too. "I heard someone say 'Barstac'," she said. "And then I had to get you out of there."
"Why?"
"You were the most infamous man in history when I was a little girl; I used to dream about you. And all at once, there was an old dream, and I could make it come true, so I did. All the credits in the world to spend, and dying of boredom. I've tried everything, and found nothing at all, Barstac."
"You've tried—Deimos?"
"Even Deimos. No one knowing of course. But—well, they have some pretty interesting things, but still only dreams. This is reality, Barstac. Karl Barstac. I can call you Karl. I'll get out if you want and you can take my rocket. But—please! Take me with you!"
The vital animal warmth of her reached out to him and he put his arms around her and drew her close against him. He looked into her eyes and it was as if he looked into a book that was forbidden to him because of hidden secrets. His pulse pounded. She watched him mutely, only her parted lips trembled slightly. A small muscle at the corner of her mouth twitched. He slid his hands flat against her shoulders. Her lips parted and her tongue touched them for a moment. They were wet and glistening and she was firm and warm in his arms. Her head went back and she shut her eyes. He kissed her.
It was all right, he thought; then he looked above her blonde hair. She was probably cracked somewhere upstairs; filled with phony dreams of adventure and glamour and the devil knew what; intrigued by the name of a guy who really didn't live anymore. Maybe she didn't know it, didn't see the graying hair of him the way he saw it, nor the face so scarred it couldn't register emotion any more.