He had to make sure whether there was only that one, or whether others had joined. He held his breath until his pulse hammered in his ears. The motion at the door had stopped. He was afraid to exhale-- And then he breathed again. The one who approached had long hair which mirrored red glints. She had shifted enough for the moonlight to outline the curve of cheek and throat, and hint at the smoothness of shoulder and ripeness of breast. The arms were white and slender. Her stalking motion was beautiful even in the obscurity. There was a whisper of sandals, and of breath. She was then of a sudden close against him, and seemingly not at all surprised. It was as though she had expected him to be precisely where they met in the darkness. He must have dropped the cudgel, for at the first touch of her, he was stroking the sleek red hair, and with the other hand tracing the curve of waist and back. She snuggled closer, and he said, "Falana!" as though touch and taste and smell had identified the girl as surely as sight. She was Falana, the aunt of his first patient. She wore the shapeless, crude garments of the tribe, yet it was as though there were neither homespun nor even a wisp of air between them. Falana had no words to waste as she found his mouth in the darkness. There was nothing to explain. When he stepped back and further into the gloom, she was close as ever; and, as if seeing in the darkness, she seemed to know exactly where he spread his sheepskin mat-- She did know. Or else he must have remembered. When Falana finally got around to talking with words, she did not tell him how she had admired him from first sight, or that his surgery had been marvelous. She said, "I'll bring my things over in the morning," and yawned contentedly, and snuggled closer. * * * * * Verrill spent a restless night, being intensely occupied in telling himself, over and over again, that Venus was a long way off, and that whatever happened on Terra did not really count, unless as a result he became embroiled in feuds on Falana's account and to such an extent that he would be unable to make off with the Fire of Skanderbek. Well before dawn, Falana went to the door to get a small bundle she had left lying at the jamb. Before Verrill knew what was happening, he got his first whiff of breakfast cooked in his own home. "Eating with neighbors," Falana observed, "must have been awful. And you never know who might poison you." Watching Falana patting oat cakes into shape, and baking them on a hot rock, he began to see her as a very pleasant reality, though he could not help but go long-faced when he considered how he had without doubt inherited a few dangerous animosities as well.