long-fingered hand, that appeared almost alive of its own volition. The silver music discs were no longer inside his ears.
Magdala threw her body hurriedly into retreat, commencing the turn which would carry her to safety.
"Don't run away."
Magdala halted in the midst of her turning, listened for what would come next. Nothing came. Magdala completed the turn and assayed a step.
'Why do you persist in running away, when I just told you not to?"
11
The voice was cool and virtually expressionless.
Again Magdala had involuntarily halted. She did not look about. She sensed rather than saw the young man, full face to her now, waiting, his arm casually draped across the back of the booth.
"Sit down," he said.
Something galvanized Magdala. She was able to move again, and did so. He said nothing further as she walked gradually along the line of vacant booths.
She was not sure why her fear had sharpened with such vehemence. Surprise, maybe. Perhaps this man was one of those who sometimes burst out into speech with her, sickly fascinated into uncontrolled
conversation. But he had not spoken in that way at all. And control did not seem to be, at the moment, his problem.
Magdala entered a booth and laid out her tray. Her wrists were trembling. She put a mouthful of food
between her lips, chewing carefully. When the mouthful had been swallowed, she introduced another.
She had been eating for five minutes when his shadow fell across her tray.
He moved around the table and sat down facing her.
This time, her eyes flickered once over his face. She could not help that. Then she dropped her head lower over her plate. She kept eating, but she could not taste the food. He sat, immobile, watching.
Long ago, she had been warned that she might meet those who took an unwholesome interest in her condition. Those who might wish to harm her, eradicate her
From three or four short glimpses, he had been recorded in great detail on her retina. The bleach-colored hair appeared natural, and naturally striped through with curious subsidiary streakings: dun, gold, gray. The eyes, seen close to, like the hair were multitudinously blended, striped, flecked, which amalgam, from a short distance, formed two extraordinary lenses of polished greenish brass.
12
His proximity was truly terrifying. Not because of any previous warning. Not even because of his
frightening uniqueness. But because of some unseeable, totally lethal thing. As if he were radioactive.
"What's your name?"
His voice had not altered. Still cool, unhurried and flat. Magdala ate, eyes on the food.
"I said, what's your name?"
Magdala ate, and found she could not swallow.
"What's the matter? Are you afraid of me? There's no need."
Magdala managed to swallow. She had had to, she wanted to say something. She said: "Please leave me alone."
"I want to know your name," he said.
"Why?" Now that she had communicated with him, it was difficult to resume silence.
"You won't tell me your name because you're patently afraid to. But, as you see, I followed you from the commercial area, and a minor inquiry led me to anticipate your visit here, even your chosen booth. I can probably locate your apartment as simply. In fact, withholding your name won't prevent me from
discovering as much about you as I wish."
Magdala dragged herself along the seat and upright. Leaving her meal unfinished, she walked toward the
elevator. She could not travel fast. Any moment she expected his shadow to slant again across her path, his inexorable voice to jerk her to a standstill. He could catch up to her with no trouble. But he did not.
She entered the elevator with several men and women who were vacating the cafeteria.
Between their bodies, and across all the sun-glowing tangle of booths, tables and human movement, she saw his beautiful and horrifying face staring straight back at her. And even as the door slid to and the singing elevator dropped softly toward the earth, his face remained,
Magdala threw her body hurriedly into retreat, commencing the turn which would carry her to safety.
"Don't run away."
Magdala halted in the midst of her turning, listened for what would come next. Nothing came. Magdala completed the turn and assayed a step.
'Why do you persist in running away, when I just told you not to?"
11
The voice was cool and virtually expressionless.
Again Magdala had involuntarily halted. She did not look about. She sensed rather than saw the young man, full face to her now, waiting, his arm casually draped across the back of the booth.
"Sit down," he said.
Something galvanized Magdala. She was able to move again, and did so. He said nothing further as she walked gradually along the line of vacant booths.
She was not sure why her fear had sharpened with such vehemence. Surprise, maybe. Perhaps this man was one of those who sometimes burst out into speech with her, sickly fascinated into uncontrolled
conversation. But he had not spoken in that way at all. And control did not seem to be, at the moment, his problem.
Magdala entered a booth and laid out her tray. Her wrists were trembling. She put a mouthful of food
between her lips, chewing carefully. When the mouthful had been swallowed, she introduced another.
She had been eating for five minutes when his shadow fell across her tray.
He moved around the table and sat down facing her.
This time, her eyes flickered once over his face. She could not help that. Then she dropped her head lower over her plate. She kept eating, but she could not taste the food. He sat, immobile, watching.
Long ago, she had been warned that she might meet those who took an unwholesome interest in her condition. Those who might wish to harm her, eradicate her
From three or four short glimpses, he had been recorded in great detail on her retina. The bleach-colored hair appeared natural, and naturally striped through with curious subsidiary streakings: dun, gold, gray. The eyes, seen close to, like the hair were multitudinously blended, striped, flecked, which amalgam, from a short distance, formed two extraordinary lenses of polished greenish brass.
12
His proximity was truly terrifying. Not because of any previous warning. Not even because of his
frightening uniqueness. But because of some unseeable, totally lethal thing. As if he were radioactive.
"What's your name?"
His voice had not altered. Still cool, unhurried and flat. Magdala ate, eyes on the food.
"I said, what's your name?"
Magdala ate, and found she could not swallow.
"What's the matter? Are you afraid of me? There's no need."
Magdala managed to swallow. She had had to, she wanted to say something. She said: "Please leave me alone."
"I want to know your name," he said.
"Why?" Now that she had communicated with him, it was difficult to resume silence.
"You won't tell me your name because you're patently afraid to. But, as you see, I followed you from the commercial area, and a minor inquiry led me to anticipate your visit here, even your chosen booth. I can probably locate your apartment as simply. In fact, withholding your name won't prevent me from
discovering as much about you as I wish."
Magdala dragged herself along the seat and upright. Leaving her meal unfinished, she walked toward the
elevator. She could not travel fast. Any moment she expected his shadow to slant again across her path, his inexorable voice to jerk her to a standstill. He could catch up to her with no trouble. But he did not.
She entered the elevator with several men and women who were vacating the cafeteria.
Between their bodies, and across all the sun-glowing tangle of booths, tables and human movement, she saw his beautiful and horrifying face staring straight back at her. And even as the door slid to and the singing elevator dropped softly toward the earth, his face remained,
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