"--And beautiful." He murmured it, gently. "We left when I was six
years old. No schools there."
"Then--you're _from_ a different world, is that it?"
"You might say that."
"Strange. We're two utterly different people, aren't we, Bill?" She was
gazing up at him, studying his features, watching the dappled light and
shadows play over them.
Morrow sensed that he was on perilous ground. He said nothing.
"You aren't happy here, are you, Bill?" she spoke almost in a whisper.
"You never will be!"
"Most men I've met are--searching for something," he replied hesitantly.
"But they don't devote all their time to it," she protested. "They at
least manage to live fairly normal lives and raise families--"
"Do two utterly different people--" He broke off, leaving the question
unspoken. _But we're down to brass tacks, now_, he mused. _We just
don't feel the same way about things!_
Why was that?
"Look," he said, almost gruffly. "I think of a different world--let's
stick to that point, for now. You think of a small town. But then, why
do you read science-fiction?"