"Now, Baya, honey, it's not that—it's not that at all."
"Then why can't I go with you to Earth?"
"Because—listen, Baya, can you keep a secret?" He laughed, and his own laughter sounded blurred too. "Promise?"
"Promise."
"I—"
Dead stop. The words rattled on his tongue, but remained unspoken. Why? Was it because of Baya's eyes, that wept tears but had no sorrow in them? He could see them quite clearly, and they were not sorrowful at all, but avid.
"I promised, Lloyd. You can tell me."
There was a table under his hands, with an exotically patterned cloth on it. He had no memory of having sat down at it. There was a wall of plasticoid cement covered with a crude mural in bright primaries. There was a low, vaulted ceiling, also painted. There were no windows.
"How did we get here?" Durham asked stupidly. "It's underground."