Miles floundered from a dream of his hostess’s hair which, if not exactly erotic, was embarrassingly sensual. Unbound from the severe style she’d favored yesterday, it had revealed itself a rich dark brown with amber highlights, a mass of silk flowing coolly through his stubby hands-he presumed they were his hands, it had been his dream, after all. I woke up too soon. Rats. At least the vision had not been tinged with any of the gory grotesqueries of his occasional nightmares, from which he came awake cold and damp, with heart racing. He was warm and comfortable, in the silly elaborate grav-bed she had insisted on producing for him.

It wasn’t Madame Vorsoisson’s fault that she happened to belong to a certain physical type that set off old resonances in Miles’s memory. Some men harbored obsessions about much stranger things… his own fixation, he had long ago ruefully recognized, was on long cool brunettes with expressions of quiet reserve and warm alto voices. True, on a world where people altered their faces and bodies almost as casually as they altered their wardrobes, there was nothing in the least unusual about her beauty. Till one remembered she wasn’t from here, and realized her ivory-skinned features were almost certainly untouched by modification… Had she recognized his idiot-babble, last night on her balcony, as suppressed sexual panic? Had that odd remark about a Vor woman’s duties been an oblique warning to him to back off? But he hadn’t been on, he didn’t think. Was he that transparent?

Miles had realized within five minutes of his arrival that he should probably not have let the genial and expansive Vorthys bully him into accompanying him downside, but the man seemed constitutionally incapable of not sharing a treat. That the pleasures of this family reunion might not be equally enjoyed by an awkward outsider-or the family into which he’d been thrust-had clearly never occurred to the Professor.