reached me not at once, only after a minute, perhaps two minutes later.
“Why ... why ‘good-bye’?”
“You have been ill, have you not? Because of me you have committed crimes. Has not all this tormented you? And now you have the Operation to look forward to. You will be cured of me. And that means—good-bye.”
“No!” I cried.
A pitilessly sharp black triangle on a white background.
“What? Do you mean that you don’t want happiness?”
My head was breaking into pieces; two logical trains collided and crawled upon each other, rattling and smothering....
“Well, I am waiting. You must choose; the Operation and hundred per-cent happiness, or....”
“I cannot ... without you.... I must not ... without you....” I said, or perhaps I only thought, I am not sure which, but I-330 heard.
“Yes, I know,” she said. Then, her hands still on my shoulders and her eyes not letting my eyes go, “Then ... until tomorrow. Tomorrow at twelve. You remember?”