"Well," Malone said, "I certainly wouldn't want what I'm doing to be broadcast aloud to the great American public out there in television-land." It was a long speech for a man without any breath. Just one more, Malone told himself, and he could die happy.
"I felt that," Luba said. "You know, Mr. Malone—"
"Call me Ken," Malone said.
"It is silly to be formal now, isn't it?" Luba said. "You know, Ken, I'm beginning to realize that you are really a very nice person—in spite of your rather surprising method of attack."
"What's surprising about it?" Malone said. "People do it all the time."
The orchestra suddenly shifted from the previous slow number to a rapid fire tune Malone couldn't remember having heard before. "That," he announced, "is too fast for me. I'm going to get some fresh air."
Luba nodded, her red hair brushing Malone's cheek silkily. "I'm coming, too," she said.
Surrounding the Great Universal, Malone remembered, was a small belt of parkland. He flagged a hallway car—remembering carefully to check whether or not the driver was the sniggering Murray—and he and Luba piled in and started out for the park. In the car, he held her hand silently, feeling a little like a bashful schoolboy and a little like Sir Kenneth Malone. It was a strange mixture, but he decided that he liked it.
They got out, standing in the cool darkness of the park. Overhead a moon and stars were shining. The little hallway car rolled away and they were alone. Completely alone. Malone swallowed hard.