“Maybe Carl was right,” she said.
He frowned. “Right? What do you mean?”
“Maybe it is better outside than in here.”
“You thinking about joining him?”
Barbara did not answer. She considered. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think so. But I ought to.”
Verne thought that over. Did it mean anything? Was it some sort of a carefully-thought out dig, pregnant with implication? He could not tell.
“Maybe so,” he said vaguely, staring around the room. “Well, don’t let me keep you here.”
They were both silent. Neither of them moved. Verne watched her, his eyes half closed. She sat leaning back, indifferent to him, self-contained. But she was on edge, nervous. He could tell. She was very conscious of him. The way she had always been. That hadn’t changed.
No, there was a lot still the same. She had grown up, filled out, got older and harder. But underneath there was the same person, the same girl he had known before.
He studied her critically. She had learned a lot, in four years. It showed. Once, there had been an aggressive fear, a stubborn fright that had made her back away from people like an hysterical child. Men had not been able to come near her—at least, none before him. She scared them away. But had they seen what he had seen they would have realized it was all bluff. A covering of gruffness that hid terror and an almost pathetic fear of being struck down. He had seen that; they had not.
Now she was calm, adult. Certain of herself. Once, she had quavered in fear, fear that she could be made a victim. But that was over with; she was no longer worried about that. Why? Perhaps because she had been made a victim. What she had feared had actually happened to her. How odd that a man does not understand that, at the time. He had not understood it, although now, so much later, he could look back and see it. It had happened; she had lost her treasure. Her jewel. What she had sheltered and protected and crooned over was gone.
Well, there was no use worrying about it. She did not seem to have been too badly ruined. She appeared to be all right. She had survived, even prospered. She no longer cowered in fear. But perhaps that was because she no longer had anything to lose!
Verne smiled. That was absurd. Women didn’t think of it that way, not any more. Or did they? Something had changed her, made her hard. The great moment had passed; now she could stare around calmly. But her fear had been more than just a fear of that, of losing her virginity. It had been a great fear, general, unspecific, a fear of being hurt and humiliated. Everyone had it. He had it himself. And his virginity had been gone a long time.
In any case, she seemed to have survived everything that had happened. She was older and stronger. What they had done together—what he had done to her—had certainly done no harm. In fact, it seemed to have done her good. It had brought her realism. That was it. Her experience had removed the phantasies, the terrors. She had seen it for what it was: normal, natural, much like any of the processes of life. It had matured her, made her into a woman, not a child any more. She should thank him.
But even he could not take that seriously. Thank him? Verne smiled and rubbed his chin, amused.
“Why are you smiling?” Barbara asked.
“No reason.”
“None?”
“Just my good nature coming out.”
Barbara nodded, serious and wise. She had never seemed to have much of a sense of humor. Life was too grim, too deadly for that. Or perhaps she thought laughing and smiling were for children. A sign of youth, of being too young. Like Carl. His booming humor annoyed her; he knew that instantly. Poor Carl! Well, it was his own fault. He would have to learn not to leap around and laugh all the time. He would have to grow up, too. They way everyone did. It could not be prevented. Carl, Barbara, himself—everybody had to face it, sooner or later. The world. As it really was. Not as one might wish it were. As one hoped to find it.
“Well,” Verne said, “I suppose we should do something today, before the day’s over with.”
“Yes.”
How solemnly she agreed! As a good adult should. She had learned well; she had absorbed her lesson....
“Do you think it’s really too hot to go outside?” she said suddenly, looking up. She had been thinking. “I love the sun. But not when it’s too hot. And dry. I hate it when it gets dry, and you squirm and bake.”
“Hot and dry, hot and damp. It’s all the same.” He watched her. She was about to get up. “Don’t go!” he said quickly. “Stay here.”
“Why?”
“It’s cool in here.”
“Is it?”
“Cooler than out there.”
“All right.” She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out. She lit another, slowly, carefully. Smoke drifted up into the beams of sunlight.
“This is close enough to nature.”
“You know,” Barbara said, “it seems very odd to be sitting here like this, after so many years.”
Verne grunted, watchful. “Does it?”
“Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“How do you mean, you don’t know?”
His gaze flickered. “I mean, there’s nothing so terribly strange about it. We both work for the same Company. We’ve both been here for a long time.”
“Perhaps I mean strange in a different way than you do.” She did not amplify. “Perhaps that’s it.”
Verne considered, choosing his words carefully. “You don’t think He had anything to do with it, do you?”
“Who?”
Verne pointed up with his finger.
Barbara smiled thinly. “You never can tell. They say He’s everywhere, watching over His flock.”
“Are you of His flock?”
“We all are.”
“Not me,” Verne said. “My soul is as black as sin. I’ve been thrown over the fence long these years.”
Her expression changed. It almost said: I know what you mean. He was sorry he had spoken. It was so damn hard to tell what a woman was thinking. When he tried to figure out a woman’s mind he left out factors and added false factors. It was a hopeless task for a man. Better to forget the mind and concentrate on the rest. But he had made a mistake. He had led with his chin, and much to fast.
“Verne,” Barbara said.
“Yes?”
“Is there going to—to be any—”
“Any what?”
“Any friction.”
“Between us, you mean? Between you and me?”
She nodded.
“I don’t see why,” Verne said.
“I hope not. I don’t want to mix in any trouble. I’d rather just forget the whole thing.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He grinned good-naturedly. “I don’t see why there should be any trouble. I certainly have no ill-feeling toward you. I have a great deal of respect for you. Why should there be any friction? I can speak for my side. I assume you feel the same way.”
There was silence. Barbara considered what he had said. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Only—”
“Only what?”
“Only sometimes we don’t really know our own minds. Sometimes we don’t know until—until a thing actually comes along. Then it just happens.” She went on: “One night I was sitting, reading a book. Through the window a whole lot of god damn moths flew in, between me and the page.”
“So?”
“I killed every one of them. Perhaps fifty of them. All over the floor. Ten minutes before I would say I’d never do a thing like that. Do you see what I mean? Sometimes you don’t know, not in advance. Not until it happens.”
“Not until what happens?”
She shrugged. “Anything.”
Verne hesitated, licking his lips. “You don’t feel any ill-will toward me, do you?”