"Wasn't it because you were in love with her?"
"Why, I ... I don't think so." He was startled. "I guess it's true
that I had a crush on her as a kid, but I haven't seen her for fifteen
years. I hardly feel I ever knew her."
"Then even though you're going away with her, there is someone you care
for?"
He hesitated for an aching instant, finally managed a shrug. "It isn't
important. Not any more."
"It is--to me. Andy, this is no time for historical novel gallantry
or radio soap opera self-renunciation. This is the last chance we'll
ever have to be completely frank with each other." Her dark eyes were
intent. "Andy, do you love me?"
"I ... well--" He groped in confusion, with the feeling that he had
suddenly found himself on a tight-rope, hundreds of feet in the air.
Then he nodded miserably. "Yes."
"Then just why did you take it for granted that I was Dave's girl?"
Ellen demanded bitterly.
"I thought Dave was the one you were interested in. He was my best
friend, and I didn't want to--"
"You thought! Didn't it ever occur to you to find out?"
* * * * *
He made a helpless gesture. "I wanted to, Ellen--but I don't see what
good it could have done. I was going away, you know."
"Don't you think I could have changed your mind about that? Don't you
think I can change your mind--even now?" Abruptly she leaned toward
him, her small face lighted as though by some fierce inner fire, at
once pleading and demanding. "Andy--kiss me!"
Despite himself, that fire touched him, kindled to a blaze. His lips
met hers with a quickening pressure, his hands slipped from her
shoulders to draw her tightly against him. For long seconds nothing
else had reality or importance. The glade dissolved around him, and he
seemed to float in a dark sea that rose and fell with a wild rhythm.
Then awareness of his act exploded in him. He released the girl
abruptly and drew away.
"It's hopeless, Ellen! I can't back down now."
She shook her dark head in swift protest. "It isn't hopeless, Andy. It
isn't too late. I just proved that to you."
"But Nela is depending on me. I can't let her down."
"You owe her nothing! She took advantage of you at a time when you
weren't mature and experienced enough to exercise good judgment. Why
should you feel obligated to her now?"
"I agreed to go with her. If I let her down, she won't be able to
obtain a replacement with my particular type of training. She can visit
this point in time only once."
"That's her problem, Andy. You have your own life to live. Why
shouldn't you be able to live it as you choose? You don't know just
what sort of a life the future holds for you--but you do know what
you'll find here."
He gripped his knees hard, finally shook his head. "This is something
bigger than we are, Ellen--something more important than your personal
happiness, or mine. It isn't just that Nela is depending on me. Behind
her is a whole civilization. It's the greatest responsibility a man can
be given. If I backed down, I'd never feel right again. I'd always have
it on my conscience."
She slumped in despair. "Then there's nothing else I can do to change
your mind?"
"Nothing, Ellen. I'm sorry."
Silence closed down again. A painful, uneasy silence, the silence of
people between whom an unsurmountable barrier exists.
The silence added fuel to Pearce's inner turmoil. He wished that it had
been possible to leave without hurting Ellen, even without discovering
that she returned his own feelings. The knowledge that he would never
see her again had been difficult enough to face. For in these last
months the picture of her had come to haunt him--Ellen, with her
shining dark hair and her slim vital body, at once gaily humorous and
warmly sympathetic. He knew that he would never forget her, or cease
thinking of the happiness he might have found with her.
"It might be a good idea to wipe that lipstick off your face, Andy,"
Ellen murmured at last.
Pearce fumbled for a handkerchief and scrubbed at his mouth. The action
brought forward something that had been hovering at the back of his
mind.
"What about Dave?" he asked abruptly. "I hope I haven't spoiled
anything for him."
* * * * *
She shook her head with a grave seriousness. "Dave knows how I feel.
And it isn't much of a loss where he's concerned, because he's been
taking a growing interest in Susie. She has a terrific crush on him,
and that's the reason she wanted to come with us so badly today. But
you insisted on a three-sided party and as usual left Dave to nursemaid
me."
Pearce felt a dull amazement. Engrossed with his preparations for
leaving he had not sensed the emotional undercurrents beneath the
outwardly placid surface of Dave and Ellen.
Ellen, he thought suddenly. Dave was accounted for--but Ellen? He could
not voice the question, feeling himself too inextricably bound up in
it.
There was the sound of footsteps as Fuller returned, brandishing a
bottle. "Here it is!" he announced. "Get out the glasses, Ellen."
She produced three plastic tumblers from the basket, and Fuller poured
a generous drink in each. He raised his own tumbler in a solemn gesture.
"Here's to Andy. Bon voyage--and a high old time in the future!"
"Thanks," Pearce said in self-conscious acknowledgement. He swallowed
the whisky in a gulp, felt its raw warmth spread through him.
Bon voyage, he thought. The voyage part was true enough. But he doubted
if he would have a high old time. He would always think of Ellen. And
Dave. And all the other people he had known, who would continue to
move against the old familiar background of their existence, among all
the old familiar things, without sudden violent change, or pain, or
loss. He would think of movies and dances, baseball games and parties.
And restaurants and nightclubs and small quiet bars. And apple pie
and coffee, hamburgers and malted milk. And his favorite brand of
cigarettes, and two pants suits and straw hats in the summer. And beer
and sport pages and classical records on a drowsy Sunday afternoon. And
politics and elections and critical internal situations. And crowded
downtown streets and quiet suburban cottages--all the other things he
had known and liked, or had taken for granted and had not thought much
about. He would think of them because they wouldn't exist in the future
any more, because people would have changed, would have different
ideals, habits and tastes.
Fuller filled the tumblers again and made an effort at the sort of
artificially cheerful small talk that precedes the sailing of a troop
ship.
Pearce, who had surreptitiously been keeping check on his watch,
finally gestured. "It's almost time for Nela to pick me up--and I'd
like to be alone when she comes. The situation might be too complicated
if you and Ellen were present, Dave. I want things to be as easy as
possible all around."
Fuller looked disappointed. "I was kind of hoping to get a look at this
gal from the future, Andy. I still don't know whether to believe your
story or not."
"Give me the benefit of the doubt, anyway, will you?" Pearce pleaded.
He turned to Ellen. "You'll do this last favor for me?"
She nodded and leaned forward on tiptoe. "Good-bye, Andy--and good
luck." Her voice was little more than a whisper.
* * * * *
He touched her lips with his and for a moment stood looking down at
her, thinking once more of what might have been. An echo of his own
thoughts seemed to glisten wetly in her dark eyes. Abruptly she turned
away.