Horning strode to her, jerked Margaret's photo from her hand, and wiped it clean.
He said: "I'm through. Whether you like it or not, I'm filing for divorce tomorrow."
His wife dragged herself up to a sitting position, her face a mask of hate and cunning.
"Go ahead," she goaded. "Go right ahead, Doctor Raymond X. Horning." Her voice rose, took on new and even more bitter overtones of malice. "But ... just don't blame anyone but yourself for whatever happens to your precious apparatus."
Heaving herself to her feet, she stomped out of the laboratory and off up the basement stairs.
Fists clenched, Horning watched her go. Then, wearily, he crossed to his ancient desk and dropped down in the chair.
As always, Myrtle had won. The first time he left the house she'd be at work here—breaking down the door, smashing his equipment and his dreams.
And as for Margaret.... He smoothed her picture. But the features blurred and his eyes began to burn, till at last he pushed the photograph back in his pocket and slumped forward on his arms.
How long he lay there he never knew. Later, sometimes, he thought perhaps he'd slept.
Then, dimly, he became conscious of a sound ... a humming, persistent vibrance that grew steadily louder. It dawned on him that he'd forgotten to turn off the light-loop's master switch.