"Who?"
She didn't answer.
I put my arm around her shoulders. "Are you afraid to tell me?" I
asked. "What _is_ the matter?"
She still didn't look my way. She smelled nice.
"See here," I said laughingly, changing my tactics, "you really should
tell me something about yourself. I don't even know what you look like."
I half playfully lifted my hand to the band of her neck. She gave it an
astonishingly swift slap. I pulled it away in sudden pain. There were
four tiny indentations on the back. From one of them a tiny bead of
blood welled out as I watched. I looked at her silver fingernails and
saw they were actually delicate and pointed metal caps.
"I'm dreadfully sorry," I heard her say, "but you frightened me. I
thought for a moment you were going to...."
At last she turned to me. Her coat had fallen open. Her evening dress
was Cretan Revival, a bodice of lace beneath and supporting the breasts
without covering them.
"Don't be angry," she said, putting her arms around my neck. "You were
wonderful this afternoon."
The soft gray velvet of her mask, molding itself to her cheek, pressed
mine. Through the mask's lace the wet warm tip of her tongue touched my
chin.
"I'm not angry," I said. "Just puzzled and anxious to help."
The cab stopped. To either side were black windows bordered by spears
of broken glass. The sickly purple light showed a few ragged figures
slowly moving toward us.
The driver muttered, "It's the turbine, man. We're grounded." He sat
there hunched and motionless. "Wish it had happened somewhere else."