They scribbled and exchanged ideas well into the afternoon. Darrel felt an exultation.
Then annoyance, then discouragement. As the hours passed, Leyloon comprehended less until, as evening came on, she was openly incredulous.
When he left the house to return to the ship, Leyloon was watching him almost with astonishment.
When the fourth day began, Darrel inspected the ship with satisfaction. He had worked on into the night and the gravity plates were all repaired. It would take only a few more hours to install them.
He reflected that though today was today for him, it would be yesterday for Leyloon. She would know nothing, absolutely nothing, of the past three days. They were her future. What would her reactions be on this day?
Not long after the sun had risen, she came walking uncertainly over the hill—backwards as usual—casting quizzical glances over her shoulder as she advanced.
Darrel was absorbed by the spectacle. He understood now—understood that actually, from Leyloon's point of view, she was walking away from the ship instead of toward it. This was the end of the day for her, while for him it was the beginning.
Leyloon stopped and turned to face him. She wore a helpless, puzzled expression.
It was disturbing. Darrel sensed—and the knowledge cut like a knife—that the girl was slipping away from him, sliding inexorably into her past. And in her past, he had no place. None whatever. He was moving to the point in her life where he did not exist for her. The idea was appalling.