"I went for a walk," said Jon.
"You missed the meal," said Mary. "Here it is." He saw it on the table and went there, drawing up a chair. "Thanks," he said.
She yawned. "It was a tiring day," she said. "Everyone was so excited. They are meeting."
There was the protein yeast, the spinach and the peas, a thick slice of bread and a bowl of soup, tasty with mushrooms and herbs. And the water bottle, with the carefully measured liquid.
He bent above the soup bowl, spooning the food into his mouth.
"You aren't excited, dear. Not like the rest."
He lifted his head and looked at her. Suddenly he wondered if he might not tell her, but thrust the thought swiftly to one side, suddenly afraid that in his longing for human understanding he finally would tell her. He must watch himself, he thought.
For the telling of it would be proclaimed heresy, the denying of the Story, of the Myth and Legend. And once she had heard it, she like any of the others, would shrink from him and he'd see the loathing in her eyes.
With himself, it was different, for he had lived on the fringe of heresy for almost all his life, ever since that day his father had talked to him and told him of the Book. For the Book itself was a part of heresy.
"I have been thinking," he said, and she asked, "What is there to think about?"