The words went on, but Horning hardly heard. He sagged back against the workbench—shaken, unable to speak. It was as if, of a sudden, he were seeing his wife through new eyes.
She crowded close to him and said, "One other thing...."
Her hand darted out. She snatched Margaret's picture from Horning's pocket—ripping it to shreds, scuffing the fragments.
Horning made no effort to stop her.
"I hate her!" Myrtle cried. "That woman—that creature—she could be dead a thousand years and I'd still hate her—!"
She broke off, shaking, and switched both transit units' projector drives to high, then pressed the disintegrator buttons.
In the tick of a clock, both woman and corpse had vanished.
New weariness welled up in Horning ... weariness, and a sudden, stabbing pang of pity. In the awful emptiness of losing Margaret, he'd plunged down, all the way, till finally he'd been blinded and panicked into marrying Myrtle. Then, climbing from the depths once more, he'd come to hate her.
Now, that, too, was past. The hate was dead; the bitterness had fallen from him. He knew the fault lay as much with him as her. They were simply dog and cat, not suited.
He even found himself hoping she'd find happiness in the world to which she'd fled.