"To get my wife on the viewer and tell her I won't be home for a while after all."
He left the three of them chuckling and thought: He jests at scars who never felt a wound. He didn't say it aloud. You could quote formulae or scientific precepts in front of Larkin, but not Shakespeare.
He punched out his home number and waited until Ciel's image swirled into the viewplate. His heart went boppety-bop as it always did. Hair of polished gold. Dark eyes, ripe olives, a little large for her face and sometimes deep and fathomless. She wore a loose, filmy nightgown and the suggestion of her body under it was enough to bring on a touch of madness in him.
"Let me say it," Ciel said. She wasn't smiling. "You won't be home for a while. You've got another case."
"Well—yes. That's it, more or less." Pell swallowed.
"Oh, Dick."
"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that something important came up. I've got a conference on my hands. It shouldn't take more than an hour."
"And we were supposed to leave for the moon in the morning."
"Listen, baby, this is absolutely the last time. I mean it. As soon as this thing is washed up we'll really take that vacation. Look, I'll tell you what, I'll meet you somewhere in an hour. We'll have some fun—take in a floor show—drink a little meth. We haven't done that in a long time. How about the Stardust Cafe? I hear they've got a terrific new mentalist there."