But it was the afternoon following. I had had a good night and a reasonable morning; I was enjoying lunch and had had a good laugh. All in all, I was in no mood to waste further resentment on her. She could go her way, she could go anywhere she wanted to, and she could do so with no thought in my mind as to the advisability of her breaking a leg in the process.
Since the attendance was good and the tables rather closer together than was quite comfortable, the woman’s progress was slow. She was heading toward the front of the room, and studying the tables anxiously. I was on the point of making a small mental bet as to which table she would end up at, when all bets were off, and it became quite clear she was heading in the direction of our table.
Until, eventually, she stopped in front of me, and it seemed to me that if I was startled, she was a little confused.
The light wasn’t quite good enough for me to tell for sure.
She caught me unawares and I didn’t stand up. I had the rather vague notion that she had come to renew her attack of the evening before and my face froze into a glower as I tried to steel myself for a class-A scene.
But when she spoke, a nightingale could have spoken no more softly. She said, in her beautifully precise English, with than sprinkle of Slavic accent, «Mr. Just, I am so glad I have found you. I’m Sarah Voskovek. We met last night.»
«I remember our meeting. I remember your name,» I said austerely, four words out of eight being truthful. Then I added, «I didn’t know you knew my name.»
«I didn’t know your name last night, I’m afraid. But, of course, I know you. I have read your books. I particularly like Beware the Evening Star.»
She was talking in a low, hurried voice, as though she felt an urgent need for privacy, and I had spoken in a normal voice, as though I were in no mood to oblige her. But under the worst of conditions, a writer has to melt just a little bit under the warm sun of praise for his book. So I stood up and moved with her out of the immediate neighborhood of the table and into the open space between ourselves and the head table.
I even lowered my own voice as I said, «Did you see the picture they made out of the book? It was called Come the Evening.»
«Yes, I did. I hope you don’t mind, but it was a poor interpretation of the book. It fell far short.»
I didn’t mind at all, since that was exactly how I felt. I melted a bit more at this evidence of good judgment. We weren’t far from the wall, and I drifted in that direction. She moved with me, still looking anxious.
I said, «Now that you know who I am, do you wish to rephrase anything you said last night?» I was a little stiff about it but repressed the impulse to add «dearie» or «toots» at the end of the question.
«More than rephrase, Mr. Just. I want to erase it all, and to apologize. It was inexcusable of me to strike out at you like that.»
«Because I’m Darius Just, author of Beware the Evening Star?»
I wasn’t making it easy for her, and she took a deep breath. I couldn’t help but notice the interesting things that did to her cleavage. She was wearing a low-cut gown again and this time I was standing up. I found it rather pleasant to be able to look down at a pair of breasts. There was an easy comfort about it.
«Well,» I said, urging her on a bit roughly.
She held her temper and said, «No, Mr. Just. That’s not it. You were right to tell me that attempts at prior restraint were out of order. I was officious and unpleasant. I have already apologized to Dr. Asimov shortly before his autographing session and he assured me that he never had any intention of naming the hotel or identifying it in any way. It was only after that that I asked your name that I might apologize to you as well, and when he told me you were Darius Just, well—»
By now I was melted into a mush and had decided she wasn’t such a bad little kid if you like them squashed down.
«Forget it,» I said, «I think I would like to modify some of the things I said last night.»
«Such as telling me that I ought to indulge in my public relations? Did that have an improper meaning?»
I felt myself flushing. «I didn’t mean it that way,» I lied, «but it could sound as if it was improper. I’m sorry.»
«No offense taken,» she said gravely. It was quite a love feast and I was actually wondering, in a detached sort of way, if I ought to put my arm around her waist as a gesture of friendship, when she said, «But that’s not the only reason I have come to seek you out, Mr. Just.»
«If we’re going to be friendly,» I said, grinning, «call me Darius, because I’ve got to call you Sarah. I can’t pronounce your last name.»
«Voskovek,» she said, pronouncing it distinctly. The accent was on the second syllable, which had a long «o,» like this:
«Vos-KOH-vek.»
«Still, you can call me Sarah.» She had a dimple on the left side when she smiled; not on the right.
«Okay, then. What’s the other thing you wanted to talk about?»
«It’s Mr. Giles Devore. Is he a friend of yours?»
«In a way,» I said dryly. And then I said, «Why? Why do you ask?»
«There was a queer incident at the autographing session this morning. I had decided to come to the session since I knew Dr. Asimov would be there and I did wish to make up for last night. I lingered on for a while out of—of curiosity and there was a—a rumpus. Mr. Devore was very unhappy. It disturbed me, for it’s rather important to the hotel that there be nothing that would make unnecessarily unpleasant headlines—»
«I understand,» I said.
«It was over, however. He had been brought something and he had settled down. Later, though, I heard him mutter, ‘That Darius! That Darius Just!’ And he said it with such hate. I had to find you—I hoped you would be at the luncheon, for I didn’t know how to locate you otherwise—so that I could both apologize to you and warn you as well. Mr. Devore is a large man and you are—not large—and—»
I said contemptuously, «He’s as soft as a pin cushion, Sarah, without the pins. Don’t give it a single thought. With one hand, open-palm, I could slap him silly and make him thank me for the favor. I could—»
I think it was the word «favor» in this connection that did it. At any rate, at just about 1:15 p.m. on Monday, May 26, 1975, I remembered, all at once, and in one big piece, exactly what I had forgotten some eighteen hours before.
«Oh, my God,» I said, half strangling. «Oh, my God.» I slapped hard at my jacket pockets in an agony of embarrassment. I had changed shirt, socks, and underwear that morning, but I had the same pants and jacket I had worn the night before. The room key was in my jacket pocket; I could feel it. The ticket had to be there, too.
I said, in a gasping sort of way. «Pardon me. Got to do something.»
She said, in a frightened voice, «But what is it?»
Harold Sayers, my companion at the table, must have been watching me from a distance of some twenty feet. He rose in consternation and there were eyes at me from other directions. I had even attracted the attention of the head table, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that an ice-cream parfait was being served as dessert and that I might miss it—to say nothing of coffee.
I was off at a run, fumbling for the ticket.
6 HILDA 1:20 P.M.