Two hours passed, somehow. Bourbon and soda helped them pass, Malone
discovered; he drank two high-balls slowly, trying not to think about
anything. He felt terrible. After a while he made himself a third
high-ball and started on it. Maybe this would make him feel better.
Maybe he thought, he ought to break out his cigars and celebrate.
But there didn't seem to be very much to celebrate somehow. He felt
like an amoeba on a slide being congratulated on having successfully
conquered the world.
He drank some more bourbon-and-soda. Amoebae, he told himself, didn't
drink bourbon-and-soda. He was better off than an amoeba. He was
happier than an amoeba. But somehow he couldn't imagine any amoeba in
the world, no matter how heart-broken, feeling any worse than Kenneth
J. Malone.
He looked up. There was another amoeba in the room.
Then he frowned. She wasn't an amoeba, he thought. She was the
scientist the amoeba was supposed to fall in love with, so the
scientist could report on everything he did, so all the other
scien--psiontists could know all about him. But whoever heard of a
scien--psiontist--falling in love with an amoeba? Nobody. It was fate.
And fate was awful. Malone had often suspected it, but now he was
sure. Now he was looking at things from the amoeba's side, and fate
was terrible.
"No, Ken," the psiontist said. "It needn't be at all like that."
"Oh, yes, it need," Malone said positively. "It need be even worse.
When I have some more to drink, it'll _be_ even worse. Wait and see."
"Ken," Luba said softly, "you don't have to suffer this way."
"No," Malone said agreeably, "I don't. You could shoot me and then I'd
be dead. Just quit all this amoebing around, O.K.?"
"You're already half shot," Luba said sharply. "Now be quiet and
listen. You're angry because you've fallen in love with me and you're
all choked up over the futility of it all."
"Exactly," Malone said. "Ex-positively-actly. You're a psionic
super-man--woman. You can figure things out in your own little head
instead of just getting along on dum psionic luck like us amoebae.
You're too far above me."
"Ken, listen!" Luba snapped. "Look into my mind. You can link up with
me: go ahead and do it. You can read me clear down to the subconscious
if you want to."
Malone blinked.
"Now, Ken!" Luba said.
Malone looked. For a long time.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Kenneth J. Malone, alone in his room, was humming
happily to himself as he brushed a few specks of dust from the top of
his best royal blue bowler. He faced the mirror on the wall, puffed on
the cigar clenched between his teeth, and adjusted the bowler to just
the right angle.
There was a knock on the door. He went and opened it, carefully
disposing of the cigar first. "Oh," he said. "What are you doing
here?"
"Just saying hello," Thomas Boyd grinned. "Back at work?"
Boyd didn't know, of course, what had happened. Nor need he ever know.
"Just about," Malone said. "Spending the evening relaxing, though."
"Hm-m-m," Boyd said. "Let me guess. Her name begins with L?"
"It does not," Malone said flatly.
"But--" Boyd began.
Malone cast about in his mind for an explanation. Telling Boyd the
truth--that Luba and Kenneth J. Malone just weren't equals as far as
social intercourse went--would leave him exactly nowhere. But,
somehow, it had to be said. "Tom," he said, "suppose you met a
beautiful girl--charming, wonderful, brilliant."
"Great," Boyd said. "I like it already."
"Suppose she looked about ... oh ... twenty-three," Malone went on.
"Do any more supposing," Boyd said, "and I'll be pawing the ground."
"And then," Malone said, very carefully, "suppose you found out, after
you'd been out with her ... well, when you took her out, say, you met
your grandmother."
"My grandmother," Boyd said virtuously, "doesn't go to joints like
that."
"Use your imagination," Malone snapped. "And suppose your grandmother
recognized the girl as an old schoolmate of hers."