"Wait," said the girl. Lloyd stopped speaking. She looked thoughtful, then leaned forward, very confidentially, and asked, "Does your father like you? Do you two get along?"
"What is this?" Lloyd demanded suspiciously. "Instant psychoanalysis?"
"Nothing like that," the girl snapped, exasperated. "I mean, does he like you, as a son, care what happens to you?"
"Well," Lloyd said, slowly, "he'd probably beat my head in for what I pulled, tonight, with you.... But—yes, he does like me. And he cares about my welfare."
"Then do this one favor for me," said the girl. "When you get to your Unit tonight, tell him you feel rotten, all sick inside, and that you think you should be hospitalized."
"But why should I—?"
"Just tell him. And make it convincing. And, if he really cares about you—See what happens." She rose from her place. "It'll look funny if I leave alone. Walk me to the street?"
Once outside, she glanced about, uneasily. "It's after ten. Got to find a place to hide before Ultrablack."
"But listen—!" Lloyd said, abruptly realizing the grim night that lay in store for her, with blinding blackness like a palpable pall in the streets, and only Goons rolling through the empty streets. "You've got to have someplace to go!"
"Is there someplace? Without a Voteplate?" she said with weary rhetoric. "I think not. Thanks. Goodnight. And goodbye."