Pheola stood stiff and unseeing in the apartment, her fists clenched at her sides, plainly in no shape to appreciate her rooms. They were in the usual good taste I always associate with a Psi decorator.
"How could I let you down, Billy Joe!" she said to me, as soon as the door to the corridor had closed behind us.
"Oh, stop it!" I snapped, giving her a shake. "Weren't you ever wrong in a prophecy before?"
She squinted to see me better. "Does it make you hate me?" she asked. "Yes, I've been wrong lots of times," she admitted. "But not about marryin' you. How does he know I'm wrong?"
"He doesn't," I growled. "He just doesn't believe in precognition. What little we see of it in the Lodge is so erratic that you can't count it as a proven Psi power."
"Then maybe I am right," she pressed me.
"Not if I can help it," I said sourly. "I'm in no mood to get married. Mostly I want to give you some advice. O.K.?"
She made cow eyes at me. "You know you can, Billy Joe," she said.
"Well," I snarled, "my first suggestion is that you cut out this 'Billy Joe' stuff. My name is Wally Bupp. You can call me Lefty if you want to. I'm not your darlin' Billy."
"I tole the truth and you hate me for it!" she said hotly. "I was afeered of that."