Neat, safe, fool-proof. Perfect transportation within proscribed geometrical limits, Webb thought. An infinite number of routes from one point to another—like the course of a human life—but all within certain proscribed limits.
It's a long life.
The course of a man's life could be considered a passage with infinite possibilities only if he were allowed to backtrack occasionally. Was that what he was doing? Had life grown so dull that he was seeking the diversion of immaturity again?
Immortality.
Was it really so important? Once there had been a time when love, open, unashamed love had been accepted as one of life's strongest motivations. And it wasn't just a feeling of jealous possessiveness. There was a feeling of mutuality in it, a tenderness, an unselfishness and closeness of communion between man and woman.
How had this exalted condition become debased into the casual association that now existed between the sexes? Debased? That was a loaded term. What was the matter with him? Anne Tabor was a lovely, desirable creature, but no more lovely, no more desirable than a hundred other females he knew.
An odd, almost unique feeling of shame swept over him as his cab sank to the landing strip on Clifford's apartment building. He must conceal his state of mind from Clifford or be judged a complete imbecile.
"Well, Webb! This is a surprise." Cliff's face was entirely without emotion. "Anne! It's about Anne, isn't it?"
"Anne will be fine."