By the time the audio-signal shrilled again, heralding a return to solar system speeds and space, it seemed that ages had passed.
They did not talk about marriage now, even in jest. They hated each other. "Cabin fever," they had said politely for a while, making excuses. But they did not bother with excuses any more. They just had simply and quietly loathed each other, as the long, timeless time went by.
Pity, too, thought Durham, looking at Susan where she lay in the bunk. She's really a handsome wench, even without all the makeup and the hairdo and those incredible undergarments that women use, as though they were semi-liquescent. Just lying there in her slip now, she looks younger, gentler, nice and soft, as though she'd be pleasant to hold in your arms again if you had the strength and the oxygen and if you didn't hate her so.
"Lloyd?"
"Huh?"
"How long before we land?"
"How should I know?"
"Well, you could find out."
"You find out. You can yell as loud as I can. Louder."