And results she got. Results they were. The web, the power expended, the intricacies of thought, the drive of five hundred individuals were her results. The huge rolling mass of energy that was exhausted by five hundred highly specialized and superbly trained and educated beings was the result she directed against the insidious Mr. Maravain. And, most important of all, one person named Cecile Douve. Four hundred and ninety-nine engineers, scientists, technicians, and one little lump of hotcha generally known as Cecile Douve.
"I love you," she said.
Achilles replied. "The last time I believed that, you called in the FBI as witnesses to our mutual affection."
"I was mad, my darling. I didn't understand you." (Hushed, reverent tones.) "Even then I felt violently attracted to you, to you as a man, but your purposes and powers seemed so fearful ... I thought you were a madman and myself a monster to love you. But now I know ... when I read your wonderful proclamation, I realized how wrong I had been—how gentle and idealistic you are. I understood then your purity and realized the nobility of your aspirations.
"I love you."
She moved in for the clinch.
"It would only be fair to warn you," he replied, "that I still have the force screen armoring me. Cuddling under these conditions would be quite inadvisable."
She recoiled in a somewhat unamorous fashion.
"Still," he continued, "I love you, too. I don't want to trust you—but I do. Don't look hopeful my dear—I don't completely. Just to a certain, reasonable degree. So, here's what: if my noble aspirations pan out, as I can't help but expect they will, I'll marry you. In the meantime, we can be friends. We can conduct a pleasant, frolicky little association, however—an entirely platonic one."