She'd gone home to Mom, I guessed. She'd have no trouble getting off the reservation; she had a nonsensitive job on the Project. Not like me; I couldn't get pried out of White Sands by less than Presidential order.
It'd be hours before I could try visioing her. Mom's way up in Connecticut, quite a hop even by jetliner.
I sat on the chitchat bench, felt sorry for myself for a second and then got concentrating on the starchart on the ceiling above the sun-chandelier and decided that if man was to start exploring upward I'd better continue my exploring downstairs.
But I couldn't concentrate. I fiddled around rewiring the psionic machine just to have something to do.
The front door banged again with the loveliest, most satisfying solid bang—and I dropped my soldering iron on a printed circuit and something went whoosh which wasn't just me going up the stairs. Simultaneously a feminine scream came to meet me.
I went up the stairs but when I got to the top I didn't—couldn't—stop. I kept going up, making climbing motions and touching nothing at all until my head ricocheted off the curving ceiling and I bounced down upon my contour chair. I didn't stop there but bounced right back up again, vaguely aware that the recoiling chair was slowly following me.
During this time I was seeing considerably more stars than you'd see from Palomar on a good clear night.
The stars began to blink out of focus, and me in. And then, in the midst of marveling over the undeniable fact that I'd discovered—well, what about Roentgen?—discovered anti- or at least null-gravity, I remembered (a) the door slamming and (b) the scream.
I bounced off the ceiling, cartwheeled a bit, glanced off a picture of a Viking rocket on the wall which took off on a trajectory of its own, and then spun in my orbit and got a look at the blonde.