"You had to."
"You wouldn't think my secret life was so dangerous, would you," the
Colonel said smiling.
"You were married, Kim. What happened?"
"More therapy?"
"I'd like to know. This is for me."
* * * * *
Kimball shrugged. "It didn't work. She was a fine girl--but she finally
told me it was no go. 'You don't live here' was the way she put it."
"She knew you were a career officer; what did she expect----?"
"That isn't what she meant. You know that."
"Yes," the psych said slowly. "I know that."
They rode in silence, across the dark Base, between the concrete sheds
and the wooden barracks. Overhead, the stars like dust across the sky.
Kimball, swathed in plastic, a fantastic figure not of earth, watched
them wheel across the clear, deep night.
"I wish you luck, Kim," Steinhart said. "I mean that."
"Thanks." Vaguely, as though from across a deep and widening gulf.
"What will you do?"
"You know the answers as well as I," the Colonel said impatiently. "Set
up the camp and wait for the next rocket. If it comes."
"In two years."
"In two years," the plastic figure said. Didn't he know that it didn't
matter?
He glanced at his watch. Zero minus fifty-six minutes.
"Kim," Steinhart said slowly. "There's something you should know about.
Something you really should be prepared for."
"Yes?" Disinterest in his voice now, Steinhart noted clinically. Natural
under the circumstances? Or neurosis building up already?
"Our tests showed you to be a schizoid--well-compensated, of course. You
know there's no such thing as a _normal_ human being. We all have
tendencies toward one or more types of psychoses. In your case the
symptoms are an overly active imagination and in some cases an inability
to distinguish reality from--well, fancy."
* * * * *
Kimball turned to regard the psych coolly. "What's reality, Steinhart?
Do _you_ know?"