"No. But having you read my thoughts—" She turned swiftly and swam hard and strong. The panic was in her again. She felt that he was looking right inside her, noting the quickening of her heart that he himself brought.
It was impossible to escape. Like all men trained at the Center, he was superbly muscled and seemed tireless. With ease he kept pace with her, ignored her confusion, talked on.
In desperation she clung to a rough stone protruding from the bank, started to climb out, dropped back into the water and fought to hold back the tears.
He said, "There's an easier place to climb a few yards ahead. I'll go back the way I came and meet you up on the bank."
Relief came as she watched him swim away, watched the long muscles ripple on his back and shoulders. But it did not last. In feverish hurry she climbed out and twisted and squirmed to get into her clothes. She had hardly got the sweater over her head and her hair brushed back when he appeared.
"Those clothes don't do you justice," he said.
Confusion came again.
"But the time will soon come," he added, "when our girls can have all the fine things written about in the old books."
"How can you say that," she asked, "when every report brings news of another withdrawal, another terrible defeat? We've lost so many stations among the stars, there can hardly be any left."
He looked down at the weed-grown earth, and she instantly became contrite. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I'm never supposed to lose hope."