"Temper, temper," she said, sitting down with a grin. A near-spaceman at the bar gave her the ogle and the wink and she frosted him with a look. No need to worry about losing her.
But Radwick was smiling a curious smile. He was piling up tiny white sugar cubes on the table. "Ah," he said, "Nothing is greater." Then he leaned over to me and said, "Observe the girl with her back to us over there. The Ideal. The one with the brown hair."
Sandy frowned. "Why would he be interested in another Ideal? Naturally they all come here, as it is one of the few places they are made welcome in your cold, non-idealistic city."
I looked at the Ideal. There was some hint of familiarity in the lines of her profile and the way she smiled at the far-spaceman who was with her.
"She could be Valda," I said. "But they all look much alike."
"She is Valda," said Radwick.
"No," said Sandy, flushing.
"You ask Sandy, Al. She's your ideal and cannot lie to you."
"What about it, Sandy?"
Sandy dropped her wonderful eyes. "Yes," she said. "Valda is somebody else's ideal now, looking a little different."