"Are you ashamed of me, Lloyd? That's it, you're ashamed to take me to
Earth."
"No. No. Now, Baya--"
He looked at her. His vision was a bit blurred by now, he could see
just enough background to wonder how the devil they'd got to this
closed-in-looking drinking place. But Baya's face was clear enough. She
was crying.
"Now, Baya, honey, it's not that--it's not that at all."
"Then why can't I go with you to Earth?"
"Because--listen, Baya, can you keep a secret?" He laughed, and his own
laughter sounded blurred too. "Promise?"
"Promise."
"I--"
* * * * *
Dead stop. The words rattled on his tongue, but remained unspoken. Why?
Was it because of Baya's eyes, that wept tears but had no sorrow in
them? He could see them quite clearly, and they were not sorrowful at
all, but avid.
"I promised, Lloyd. You can tell me."
There was a table under his hands, with an exotically patterned cloth
on it. He had no memory of having sat down at it. There was a wall of
plasticoid cement covered with a crude mural in bright primaries. There
was a low, vaulted ceiling, also painted. There were no windows.
"How did we get here?" Durham asked stupidly. "It's underground."
"It's just a place," Baya said impatiently. And then she said sharply,
"What's the matter with you?"
Blood and fumes hammered together in his bulging temples, and his back
felt cold. "Where's the men's room, Baya?"