CLAIRE: Yes, but why does the fabric of life have to--freeze into its pattern? It should (_doing it with her hands_) flow, (_then turning like an unsatisfied child to him_) But I wanted to talk to you. TOM: You are talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never was before--your Breath of Life. CLAIRE: I'll know to-morrow. You'll not go until I know? TOM: I'll try to stay. CLAIRE: It seems to me, if it has--then I have, integrity in--(_smiles, it is as if the smile lets her say it_) otherness. I don't want to die on the edge! TOM: Not you! CLAIRE: Many do. It's what makes them too smug in allness--those dead things on the edge, died, distorted--trying to get through. Oh--don't think I don't see--The Edge Vine! (_a pause, then swiftly_) Do you know what I mean? Or do you think I'm just a fool, or crazy? TOM: I think I know what you mean, and you know I don't think you are a fool, or crazy. CLAIRE: Stabbed to awareness--no matter where it takes you, isn't that more than a safe place to stay? (_telling him very simply despite the pattern of pain in her voice_) Anguish may be a thread--making patterns that haven't been. A thread--blue and burning. TOM: (_to take her from what even he fears for her_) But you were telling me about the flower you breathed to life. What is your Breath of Life? CLAIRE: (_an instant playing_) It's a secret. A secret?--it's a trick. Distilled from the most fragile flowers there are. It's only air--pausing--playing; except, far in, one stab of red, its quivering heart--that asks a question. But here's the trick--I bred the air-form to strength. The strength shut up behind us I've sent--far out. (_troubled_) I'll know tomorrow. And I have another gift for Breath of Life; some day--though days of work lie in between--some day I'll give it reminiscence. Fragrance that is--no one thing in here but--reminiscent. (_silence, she raises wet eyes_) We need the haunting beauty from the life we've left. I need that, (_he takes her hands and breathes her name_) Let me reach my country with you. I'm not a plant. After all, they don't--accept me. Who does--accept me? Will you? TOM: My dear--dear, dear, Claire--you move me so! You stand alone in a clearness that breaks my heart, (_her hands move up his arms. He takes them to hold them from where they would go--though he can hardly do it_) But you've asked what you yourself could answer best. We'd only stop in the country where everyone stops. CLAIRE: We might come through--to radiance. TOM: Radiance is an enclosing place. CLAIRE: Perhaps radiance lighting forms undreamed, (_her reckless laugh_) I'd be willing to--take a chance, I'd rather lose than never know. TOM: No, Claire. Knowing you from underneath, I know you couldn't bear to lose. CLAIRE: Wouldn't men say you were a fool! TOM: They would.