But a sense of security is an even rarer commodity in the Deathlands than a hot breakfast. Given just the ghost of a sense of security and/or some hot breakfast, I'd have told myself that she was merely being amusingly coquettish about her bald streak and her hair, that it was natural for a woman to try to preserve some mystery about herself in front of the man she beds with. But you get leery of any kind of mystery in the Deathlands. It makes you frightened and angry, like it does an animal. Mystery is for cultural queers, strictly. The only way for two people to get along together in the Deathlands, even for a while, is never to hide anything and never to make a move that doesn't have an immediate clear explanation. You can't talk, you see, certainly not at first, and so you can't explain anything (most explanations are just lies and dreams, anyway), so you have to be doubly careful and explicit about everything you do. * * * * * This girl wasn't being either. Right now, on top of her other gaucheries, she was unscrewing the comb from her wrist--an unfriendly if not quite a hostile act, as anyone must admit. Understand, please, I wasn't _showing_ any of these negative reactions of mine any more than she was showing hers, except for her stopping smiling. In fact _I hadn't_ stopped smiling, I was playing the game to the hilt. But inside me everything was stewed up and the other urge had come back and presently it would begin to grow again. That's the trouble, you know, with sex as a solution to the problem of the two urges. It's fine while it lasts but it wears itself out and then you're back with Urge Number One and you have nothing left to balance it with. Oh, I wouldn't kill this girl today, I probably wouldn't seriously think of killing her for a month or more, but Old Urge Number One would be there and growing, mostly under cover, all the time. Of course there were things I could do to slow its growth, lots of little gimmicks, in fact--I was pretty experienced at this business. * * * * *