And in the Nurses' Quarters a young woman with a wealth of red-bronze-auburn hair and tawny eyes was staring at her own reflection in a mirror. "You half-wit, you ninny, you lug!" she stormed, bitterly if almost inaudibly, at that reflection. "You lame-brained moron, you red-headed, idiotic imbecile, you microcephalic dumbbell, you _clunker_! Of all the men in this whole cockeyed galaxy, you _would_ have to make a dive at Kimball Kinnison, the one man who never has realized that you are even alive. At a Gray Lensman--" Her expression changed and she whispered softly: "A ... Gray ... Lensman. He _can't_ love any woman as long as he's carrying that load. They can't let themselves be human--quite; perhaps loving him will be enough--" She straightened up, shrugged, and smiled; but even that pitiful travesty of a smile could not long endure. Shortly it was buried in waves of pain and the girl threw herself down upon her bed. "Oh Kim, Kim!" she sobbed. "I wish ... why can't you--Oh, why did I ever have to be born!" * * * * * Three weeks later, far out in space, Kimball Kinnison was thinking thoughts entirely foreign to his usual pattern. He was in his bunk, smoking dreamily, staring unseeing at the metallic ceiling. He was not thinking of Boskone. When he had thought of Mac, back there at that dance, he had, for the first time in his life, failed to narrow down his beam to the exact thought being sent. Why? The explanation he had given the girl was totally inadequate. For that matter, why had he been so glad to see her there? And why, at every odd moment, did visions of her keep coming into his mind--her form and features, her eyes, her lips, her startling hair? She was beautiful, of course, but not nearly such a seven-sector callout as that thionite dream he had met on Aldebaran II--and his only thought of _her_ was an occasional faint regret that he had not half wrung her lovely neck. Why, she wasn't really as good-looking as, and didn't have half the _je ne sais quoi_ of, that blond heiress--what was her name?--oh, yes, Forrester-- There was only one answer, and it jarred him to the core--he would not admit it, even to himself. He couldn't love anybody--it just simply was not in the cards. He had a job to do. The Patrol had spent a million credits making a Lensman out of him, and it was up to him to give them some kind of a run for their money. No Lensman had any business with a wife, especially a Gray Lensman. He couldn't sit down anywhere, and she couldn't flit with him. Besides, nine out of every ten Gray Lensmen got killed before they finished their jobs, and the one that did happen to live long enough to retire to a desk was almost always half machinery and artificial parts--