"No," I said, "and you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me, and see," she said. She was rigid, and near hysteria.
"All right. I came there in a space sphere from Venus."
She started to sob, a wild, lonely sound and I moved forward to take her in my arms.
Her fingers clawed my face, her high heel smashed my instep. "Get out," she screamed, "get out, get out, get out—"
I got out. I went to the first floor washroom and cleaned up my bloody face, and then went into the bar. This was one habit I'd picked up on the planet.
When I came up to the suite, later, I didn't even check to see if she was in the washroom. I flopped down on the davenport and didn't know anything for the next twelve hours.
She was gone, when I came to. She'd checked out before I'd come back to the room, the night before.
I missed the plane she took from France. I missed her by a day in New York. I went back to the big house with the high pillars on Sunset Boulevard.
And she wasn't there.