"People in love can't be objective, is all. If I saw her through the same set of filters you do, I'd be in love with her, too. So let's see if you can use your brain instead of your outraged sensibilities to answer a hypothetical question. If the foregoing were true, what would _you_ do, Junior?" "I'd pass, I guess. I'd have to, if I wanted to look at myself in the mirror next morning. But that's such an _ungodly_ cockeyed picture, Clee.... But if that's actually your picture of Brownie--and you're no part of a liar--just what kind of a woman could you love? If any?" "Belle." "_Belle_! Belle _Bellamy_? Hell's flaming furies! That iceberg? That egomaniac? That Jezebel? She's the hardest-boiled babe that ever went unhung." "Right, on all counts. Also she's crooked and treacherous. She's a ground-and-lofty liar by instinct and training. I could add a lot more. But she's got brains, ability, and guts--guts enough to supply the Women's Army Corps. She's got the spine and the bottom and the drive. So just imagine her thawed out and really shoveling on the coal--blasting wide open on all forty torches. Back to back with you when you're surrounded; she wouldn't cave and she wouldn't give. Or wing and wing--holding the beam come hell or space-warps. Roll that one around on your tongue, Jim, and give your taste-buds a treat." "Well, maybe ... if I've got that much imagination ... that's a tough blueprint to read. I can't quite visualize the finished article. However, you're as hard as she is--even harder. You've got more of what it takes. Maybe _you_ can make a Christian out of her. If so, you might have something; but I'm damned if I can see exactly what. Whatever it turned out to be, I wouldn't care for any part of it. You could have it all." "Exactly; and you can have your Brownie." "I'm beginning to see. I didn't think you had anything like that in your chilled-steel carcass. And I want to apolo...." "Don't do it, boy. If the time ever comes when _you_ go so soft on me as to quit laying it on the line and start sifting out your language...." Garlock paused. For one of the very few times in his life, he was at a loss for words. He thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "Hell, I don't want to get maudlin, either ... so ... well, how many men, do you think, could have gone the route with me on this hellish job without killing me or me killing them?" "Oh, that's not...." "Lay it on the line, Jim. I know what I am. Just one. You. One man in six thousand million. Okay; how many women could live with me for a year without going crazy?" "Lots of 'em; but, being masochists, they'd probably drive _you_ nuts. And you can't stand 'stupidity'; which, by definition, lets _everybody_ out. Nope, it's a tough order to fill."