"Come in, Steve," she said, holding out her hand. I took it. Her grip was firm and hard, but it was gentle. I knew that she could have pulped my hand if she squeezed hard.
"I'm very happy to see that rumor is wrong and that you're not—suffering—from Mekstrom's Disease," I told her.
"So now you know, Steve. Too bad."
"Why?"
"Because it adds a load to all of us. Even you." She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Well, come on in and relax, Steve. We'll talk it out."
We all went inside.
On a divan in the living room, covered by a light blanket, resting in a very light snooze, was a woman. Her face was turned away from me, but the hair and the line of the figure and the—
#Catherine!#
She turned and sat up at once, alive and shocked awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes with swift knuckles and then looked over her hands at me.
"Steve!" she cried, and all the world and the soul of her was in the throb of her voice.