I'd have slapped her across the face as an anodyne if she hadn't been Mekstrom.
Farrow cooled visibly, then her face sort of came apart and she sort of flopped forward onto the bed and buried her face in my shoulder. I couldn't help but make comparisons; she was like a hunk of marble, warm and vibrant. Like having a statue crying on my shoulder. She sagged against me like a loose bag of cement and her hands clutched at my shoulder blades like a pair of C-clamps. A big juicy tear dropped from her cheek to land on my chest, and I was actually surprised to find that a teardrop from a Mekstrom did not land like a drop of mercury. It just splashed like any other drop of water, spread out, and made my chest wet.
Eventually I held her up from me, tried to shake her gently, and said, "Now what's the shooting all about, Farrow?"
She shook her head as if to clear her thinking gear.
"Steve," she said in a quietly serious tone, "I've been such an utter fool."
"You're not unique, Farrow," I told her. "People have been doing damfool stunts since—"
"I know," she broke in. Then with an effort at light-heartedness, she added, "There must be a different version of that Garden of Eden story. Eve is always blamed as having tempted Adam. Somewhere, Old Adam must have been slightly to blame—?"
I didn't know what she was driving toward, but I stroked her hair and waited. She was probably right. It still takes two of a kind to make one pair.
"Steve—get out of here! While you're safe!"
"Huh?" I blurted. "What cooks, Farrow?"