"It's not as bad as all that!" he cried, half angry with her now, trying to stop her, clutching her flailing arms. He drew away quickly when she bit him. "You--you _beast_!" she wailed. "You spoiled everything. _Everything._ Everything has been so carefully planned." "I know, I know," he soothed. "Oh," she quavered, and she fell to the floor again, sobbing. Clifton got up, surveyed her weeping figure, a mound of white on the floor. Well, he thought, at least this is a change for me. And he felt rather foolish about what he had done. If only it had been a man; he could reason with a man. He turned in disgust and walked from the medocenter. She would change. After all, nine years is a long time. No woman could cry nine years. He smiled a little. Fiery little thing, isn't she? he told himself as he started his tour of the ship. * * * * * He didn't find her in the medocenter when he returned. The white gown was not there either. It was a long time before he found her lying atop one of the compartments in the sleep locker. She was still clad in the gown, a gaunt, spiritless figure, her eyes staring at the low ceiling. "Miss Lavester," he said, "I know it was a shock to wake up this side of Ostarpa, but believe me, I intended no harm. If only you knew the loneliness--" and he could not go on, remembering the emptiness of the days just past. She said nothing, only blinking her eyes, pale blue eyes in a white face. "If I'd known how upset you'd be, I'd never have awakened you," Clifton said bitterly. "If I could put you back to sleep now I would." Now her face turned toward his, eyes icy in a withering glance. She rose, a firm press of breast against the white gown as she slid off the compartment. Clifton's heart quickened. But she ignored him and walked away. She looks like Karen sleepwalking, he thought. The next day he found her in the stereo room, dressed in one of Karen's gowns from the clothes locker, a thin, pale blue dress that accented her small waist and blonde hair. She looked ever so much like Karen. He wondered where she had slept, if she had eaten. "Portia," he said, sitting in a nearby chair. She only sat, a still figure, staring ahead, her hair brushed back in a long sweep, glossy and smooth, and Clifton thought: My God, but she's a beautiful thing. "Portia," he repeated, "I want to talk to you." What could he do with this girl? Was there no way to break through to her? Portia gave him a hateful glance and rose. He watched her and his hunger was more than he could stand. "Please," he said desperately. "Don't leave." She turned at the doorway and looked at him coldly.