“I’d like for us to be out of uniform, scuttling about and over each other in some damp, dark place, I’d like to feel your claws upon me, your antennae caressing me, me—instead of this clumsy emotionless disguise I’m wearing.”

He thought. “It—it’ll come. Be patient, darling.”

She straightened up and became businesslike again. “Yes, and I’d better be going. Here’s a list of all our telephone numbers, in case you want to get in touch with any of us. Remember, this operation is to be conducted strictly according to regulations. And that means no phmpffing, no phmpffing at all, except in case of the greatest emergency. For everything else, we use telephones.”

“Telephones?” he found himself echoing.

“Yes.” She gestured to the black instrument on its stand near the bed. “Those things.”

“Oh, those things,” he repeated, fighting the impulse to shake his head hard in a brain-clearing gesture. “Yes. Those things. But no—no, er, what did you say?”

“No phmpffing.”

“None at all?” Surely if he continued to ask questions something would become clear. And sane!

Jane Doe looked extremely concerned. “Of course not! This is a maximum operation.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he agreed. “A maximum operation. I’d forgotten that.”

“Well, don’t,” she advised him earnestly. “Don’t forget. That way, you’ll get into trouble again. One more boner like the one you pulled in Zagreb, darling, and you’re through. You’ll be kicked out of the Service. And then what do you think will happen to our plans together?”

“We’ll be finished, huh?” Alfred studied her. Under all that girl-flesh, he reminded himself, there was a large, black spider working at controls like a mechanic in a power crane.

“Right. I’d never marry outside the Service. We’d be finished. So do take care of yourself, darling, and give it all you’ve got. Stay on the ball. Fly right. Get with it. Rise and shine. Stick to the straight and narrow. Go in there and pitch. Don’t let George do it. Work hard and save your money. Early to bed and early to rise. Don’t be half safe.”