"But I haven't slept yet tonight. There's been so much to do. I should
rest a little."
"I'll be more than rest for you."
"Yes, Ninon.... Oh, yes."
"Not yet, darling." Again her hands were between them. "First, tell me
about the flight tomorrow."
The young spaceman's eyes were puzzled, hurt. "But Ninon, I've told you
before ... there is so much of you that I want to remember ... so little
time left ... and you'll be gone when I get back...."
Ninon let her gray-green eyes narrow ever so slightly as she leaned away
from him. But he blundered on.
"... or very old, no longer the Ninon I know ... oh, all right. But you
know all this already. We've had space flight for years, but only
rocket-powered, restricting us to our own system. Now we have a new kind
of drive. Theoretically we can travel faster than light--how many times
faster we don't know yet. I'll start finding out tomorrow, with the
first test flight of the ship in which the new drive is installed. If it
works, the universe is ours--we can go anywhere."
"Will it work?" Ninon could not keep the avid greediness out of her
voice.
Robert said, hesitantly, "We think it will. I'll know better by this
time tomorrow."
"What of you--of me--. What does this mean to us--to people?"
Again the young spaceman hesitated. "We ... we don't know, yet. We think
that time won't have the same meaning to everyone...."
"... When you travel faster than light. Is that it?"
"Well ... yes. Something like that."
"And I'll be--old--or dead, when you get back? If you get back?"
Robert leaned forward and buried his face in the silvery-blonde hair
which swept down over Ninon's shoulders.
"Don't say it, darling," he murmured.
This time Ninon permitted herself a wrinkling smile. If she was right,
and she knew she was, it could make no difference now. There would be no
wrinkles--there would be only the soft flexible skin, naturally soft and
flexible, of real youth.
She reached behind her, over the end of the couch, and pushed three
buttons. The light, already soft, dimmed slowly to the faintest of
glows; a suave, perfumed dusk as precisely calculated as was the exact
rate at which she let all resistance ebb from her body.
Robert's voice was muffled through her hair. "What were those clicks?"
he asked.
Ninon's arms stole around his neck. "The lights," she whispered, "and a
little automatic warning to tell you when it's time to go...."
The boy did not seem to remember about the third click. Ninon was not
quite ready to tell him, yet. But she would....
* * * * *
Two hours later a golden-voiced bell chimed, softly, musically. The
lights slowly brightened to no more than the lambent glow which was all
that Ninon permitted. She ran her fingers through the young spaceman's
tousled hair and shook him gently.
"It's time to go, Robert," she said.
Robert fought back from the stubborn grasp of sleep. "So soon?" he
mumbled.
"And I'm going with you," Ninon said.
This brought him fully awake. "I'm sorry, Ninon. You can't!" He sat up
and yawned, stretched, the healthy stretch of resilient youth. Then he
reached for the jacket he had tossed over on a chair.
Ninon watched him with envious eyes, waiting until he was fully alert.
"Robert!" she said, and the youth paused at the sharpness of her voice.
"How old are you?"
"I've told you before, darling--twenty-four."
"How old do you think I am?"
He gazed at her in silent curiosity for a moment, then said, "Come to
think of it, you've never told me. About twenty-two or -three, I'd say."
"Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be fifty-two."
He stared at her in shocked amazement. Then, as his gaze went over the
smooth lines of her body, the amazement gave way to disbelief, and he
chuckled. "The way you said it, Ninon, almost had me believing you. You
can't possibly be that old, or anywhere near it. You're joking."
Ninon's voice was cold. She repeated it: "I am fifty-two years old. I
knew your father, before you were born."
This time she could see that he believed it. The horror he felt was easy
to read on his face while he struggled to speak. "Then ... God help
me ... I've been making love to ... an old woman!" His voice was low,
bitter, accusing.
Ninon slapped him.
He swayed slightly, then his features froze as the red marks of her
fingers traced across his left cheek. At last he bowed, mockingly, and
said, "Your pardon, Madame. I forgot myself. My father taught me to be
respectful to my elders."
For that Ninon could have killed him. As he turned to leave, her hand
sought the tiny, feather-light beta-gun cunningly concealed in the folds
of her gown. But the driving force of her desire made her stay her hand.
"Robert!" she said in peremptory tones.
The youth paused at the door and glanced back, making no effort to
conceal the loathing she had aroused in him. "What do you want?"