It was a long series of staccato sounds that were sometimes musical and just as often discordant, as the tones rose and fell seemingly without pattern. Then she turned to face Farradyne.
"You win. Again you win," she told him. "Somehow you always do, and maybe—maybe—I'm glad it's over!"
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she stumbled away from him.
Farradyne looked down at the face, as pale and wan as the hospital sheets. Her eyes opened slowly and saw him. Her smile was genuine, but far from robust. Farradyne squeezed her hand gently and said, "Relax, Norma. It's all over."
"You're sure?"
"As sure as any man can be. There's been a batch of meetings and conferences, and lots and lots of gold braid and striped trousers. I got strictly left behind when the top-level boys moved in. So now all you have to do is get well."
Her eyes were large and hurt-animal luminous. "I know. It's not the excitement. It's the cure. I had to hang on to my nervous system too long after being freed, they tell me. It's left me washed-out—but I'll be all right, Charles."
"Good. You've got to be."
"You talk," she said. "I'm—tell me what happened?"