What the hell, she said to herself, startled but at the same time pleased at the feel of strength in her.
What was this after all? This was sex, really, so what? It was going to happen? Well, let it happen. It happened to other women, and it had not killed them. Now it was going to happen to her, and she would certainly live through it, and since none of it was her fault, there was merely a physical thing that took place, like in the old days when girls were married against their will, so she guessed she could bear it.
She was shocked at herself. But she felt her sanity, which had slowly begun to slip away, return with a rush. Her youth did not return with it. She would have preferred to have her initiation take place in some other manner, certainly, with someone more suitable, and she knew that afterwards she might regret it all very much.
But she had a whole afternoon to pass lying flat on her back and thinking, and she passed the afternoon in growing up quickly, as countless women had done before her, helpless and alone, captured in wax by barbarian soldiers.
"I said this is Hilton, by God! Me. Web. Lieutenant Hilton!"
It was a little while, understandably, before Dundon got hold of the idea of the aliens. And then—also with great understanding—Web decided not to tell him the full story. Not over the phone. In person it would be bad enough, but over the phone it was too great an effort, and anyway, he was not really sure that he was himself. He told Dundon where he was.
"Chicago? Chicago? Chica—"
"That's right, chief. Chicago. You got it. I'm in the Statler Hotel. Incidentally, I need quite a buck to pay my way out. And if you will come here right away I will tell you what's up."
Dundon was still asking him about Chicago.