"It's not for you," Lloyd said, telling as the full truth something that was only part of the whole. "It's for me. Purely selfish. I risk more if you're caught tonight. When they question you, under truth drugs, about your escape from the Temple--and I'm sure _that_ has them curious--you will be unable to avoid implicating me." "Is--Is that your only reason? Your own skin?" she said. "Yes," he said, forcing conviction into the word. She shrugged and took his arm. "A fugitive can't afford to be choosy. I have no prospect of escape _but_ you. I'll let you hide me ... if it'll make you feel safer." Lloyd nodded, and started toward the lift that would take the two of them up to the Hundred-Level. It was only as they got aboard, and he'd keyed the lift-switch with his Voteplate, that he thought to ask, "By the way--What's your name?" "Andra," she said. "Andra Corby." "A nice name. I like it," said Lloyd. "I wasn't sure if you'd tell me your name." Andra shrugged. "It'll be in tomorrow's papers, anyway." Lloyd looked at her uncomfortably, but she was staring straight ahead at the grillwork gate of the lift. CHAPTER 3 Grace Horton appraised herself in the mirror, and was not pleased with what she saw. "Face it, Grace," she said aloud. "You are positively hopeless." She tilted her head to one side. "Well, nearly hopeless." Her eyes were good, that was something. Wide, gray and thickly lashed, they were her best feature. Her nose was just too snub to be pert. Her mouth, though her lips were generous, and her teeth well-aligned, had too much slack at the outer edges. She either held it in a perpetual smile--"An easy way to be mistaken for an idiot," she remarked bitterly--or it sagged. Her hair, an unfortunate mustard-and-brass shade, would not hold a curl for more than two hours at the outside. "All I need," she decided ruefully, "is a brand-new head." Grace leaned away from the mirror to consult the alarm clock which lay almost hidden behind an impressive array of cosmetics. Five till eleven. "He's not coming," she said to her image. "Give it up girl. He said he'd come, and he probably meant it when he said it, but he's not coming." She turned from the mirror and began to undress, beside the single three-quarter-sized bed. "And why should he come?" she asked herself tiredly. "He doesn't love you. He never--to his credit, damn it--said he did, either. Hive Law requires that all males shall marry by the age of twenty-five, or be taken for Readjustment. Bachelors are not good for racial survival, unquote. Unwed girls may list themselves in the classified section of the phone book, along with their qualifications, then start sweating it out by the phone. So I did, so he called me, so we're engaged. But that doesn't mean we have to like it. Or that _he_ has to, anyhow. And I'm not sure that _I_ do."