"You can," he said, "and what's more, you will. You can help me get out of here. I insist on it, Gala, because I must save you that pain."
He took his hand off her arm, content.
He said harshly: "Darling, don't you think I know how much we've always meant to each other?"
She looked at him wretchedly. Fretfully she tore at the billowing filmy sleeve of her summer blouse. The seams hadn't been loosened; there had not been time. She had just been getting into the appropriate Sun Re-creation Day costume, to be worn under the parka, when the messenger had come with the news about her husband.
She avoided his eyes. "If you're really Wolf...."
Tropile's sub-adrenals pulsed and filled him with confident strength. "You know what I am—you better than anyone else." It was a sly reminder of their curious furtive behavior together; like the hand on her arm, it had its effect. "After all, why do we quarrel the way we did last night?"
He hurried on; the job of the rowel was to spur her to action, not to inflame a wound. "Because we're important to each other. I know that you would count on me to help if you were in trouble. And I know that you'd be hurt—deeply, Gala!—if I didn't count on you."
She sniffled and scuffed the bright strap over her open-toed sandal.
Then she met his eyes.
It was the after-effect of the argument, of course. Glenn Tropile knew just how heavily he could rely on the after-spiral of a quarrel. She was submitting.