But the cab driver hadn't gone for some reason of his own. He jumped out and smirkingly held the front door open for us. I told him we preferred to sit in back. He sulkily opened the rear door, slammed it after us, jumped in front and slammed the door behind him. My companion leaned forward. "Heaven," she said. The driver switched on the turbine and televisor. "Why did you ask if I were a British subject?" I said, to start the conversation. She leaned away from me, tilting her mask close to the window. "See the Moon," she said in a quick, dreamy voice. "But why, really?" I pressed, conscious of an irritation that had nothing to do with her. "It's edging up into the purple of the sky." "And what's your name?" "The purple makes it look yellower." * * * * * Just then I became aware of the source of my irritation. It lay in the square of writhing light in the front of the cab beside the driver. I don't object to ordinary wrestling matches, though they bore me, but I simply detest watching a man wrestle a woman. The fact that the bouts are generally "on the level," with the man greatly outclassed in weight and reach and the masked females young and personable, only makes them seem worse to me. "Please turn off the screen," I requested the driver. He shook his head without looking around. "Uh-uh, man," he said. "They've been grooming that babe for weeks for this bout with Little Zirk." Infuriated, I reached forward, but my companion caught my arm. "Please," she whispered frightenedly, shaking her head. I settled back, frustrated. She was closer to me now, but silent and for a few moments I watched the heaves and contortions of the powerful masked girl and her wiry masked opponent on the screen. His frantic scrambling at her reminded me of a male spider. I jerked around, facing my companion. "Why did those three men want to kill you?" I asked sharply. The eyeholes of her mask faced the screen. "Because they're jealous of me," she whispered. "Why are they jealous?" She still didn't look at me. "Because of him." "Who?" She didn't answer. I put my arm around her shoulders. "Are you afraid to tell me?" I asked. "What _is_ the matter?" She still didn't look my way. She smelled nice. "See here," I said laughingly, changing my tactics, "you really should tell me something about yourself. I don't even know what you look like." I half playfully lifted my hand to the band of her neck. She gave it an astonishingly swift slap. I pulled it away in sudden pain. There were four tiny indentations on the back. From one of them a tiny bead of blood welled out as I watched. I looked at her silver fingernails and saw they were actually delicate and pointed metal caps. "I'm dreadfully sorry," I heard her say, "but you frightened me. I thought for a moment you were going to...."