He had reached her already. Without saying a word, he had reached her.

“John?” Her voice was tremulous, uncertain. “John?”

“You’d better sit down, Kate,” John Breton said in a thin, cold monotone. “I think our friend has a story to tell.”

“Perhaps Kate should have a drink, too,” Jack Breton suggested. “This is likely to take some time.” Kate was watching him with a wariness he found delicious, and he had to work to keep his voice steady. She knows, she knows. While his other self was pouring her a colorless measure, he realized he could be in some danger of making an involuntary trip. He examined his own field of vision and found it clear — no teichopsia, no black star slowly sinking, no fortification phenomena. It appeared safe.

Slowly, carefully, he began marshaling his facts, allowing the past nine years to re-create themselves on the taut canvas of his mind.

III

Kate was walking away down the street, past blazing store windows. With her silvered wrap drawn tight over the flimsy party dress, and long legs slimmed even further by needle-heeled sandals, she looked like an idealized screen version of a gangster’s moll. The ambient brilliance from the stores projected her solidly into his mind, jewel-sharp, and he saw — with the wonder of a brand-new discovery — the tiny blue vein behind each of her knees. Breton was overwhelmed by a pang of sheer affection.

You can’t let Kate walk through the city at night looking like that, a voice told him urgently, but the alternative was to crawl after her, to knuckle under. He hesitated, then turned in the opposite direction, numbed with self-disgust, swearing bitterly.