"'Definite' and 'resounding,' yes. 'Final,' I won't accept. I'll wait." "You'll wait a long time, Buster. My door will be locked from now on. Good night, Doctor Garlock, I'm going to bed." "So am I." He walked with her along the corridor to their rooms, the doors of which were opposite each other. "In view of the Code, locking your door is a meaningless gesture. Mine will remain unlocked. I invite you to come in whenever you like, and assure you formally that no such entry will be regarded as an invasion of privacy." Without a word she went into her room and closed the door with a firmness just short of violence. Her lock clicked sharply. * * * The next morning, after breakfast, James followed Garlock into his room and shut the door. "Clee, I want to tell you.... I don't want to get sloppy but...." "Want to lep it?" "Hell, no!" "It's about Brownie, then." "Uh-huh. I've always liked you immensely. Admired you. Hero, sort of...." "Yeah. I quote. 'Harder than Pharaoh's heart.' 'Colder than frozen helium,' and all the rest. But this thing about Brownie...." He reached out; two hard hands met in a crushing grip. "How could you possibly lay off? Just the strain, if nothing else." "A little strain doesn't hurt a man unless he lets it. I've done without for months at a stretch, with it running around loose on all sides of me." "But she's so ... she's got _everything_!" "There speaketh the ensorcelled bridegroom. For my taste, she hasn't. She told you, I suppose, when explaining a certain fact, that I told her she wasn't my type?" "Yes, but...." "She still isn't. She's a very fine person, with a very fine personality. She is one of the two most nearly perfect young women of her race. Her face is beautiful. Her body is an artist's dream. Her mind is one of the very best. Besides all that, she's a very good egg and a mighty tasty dish. But put yourself in my place. * * * "Here's this paragon we have just described. She has extremely high ideals and she's a virgin; never really aroused. Also, she's so full of this sickening crap they've been pouring into us--propaganda, rocket-oil, prop-wash, and psychological gobbledygook--that it's running out of her ears. She's so stuffed with it that she's going to pair with you, ideals and virginity be damned, even if it kills her; even though she's shaking, clear down to her shoes--scared yellow. Also, she is and always will be scared half to death of you--she thinks you're some kind of robot. She's a starry-eyed, soft-headed sissy. A sapadilla. A sucker for a smooth line of balloon-juice and flapdoodle. No spine; no bottom. A gutless doll-baby. Strictly a pet--you could no more love her, ever, than you could a half-grown kitten...." "That's a _hell_ of a picture!" James broke in savagely. "Even with your cold-blooded reputation."