April 17

M and N -- How was Paris? Did they treat you well there? I heard from Dr. Sanders that you weren’t able to give your presentation on black holes, Michael -- sorry to hear that. Hope the food poisoning wasn’t as bad as Sanders made it out to be. He had you at death’s door, I’m sorry to say -- but you know he always does exaggerate.

Rosie Posie is well. You should see her -- passed her 1-year exam with flying colors. She’s already pestering me for swimming lessons this summer. She wants to learn how to dive, so I guess we’ll enroll her in the Y.

There’s not a lot going on in Campbell right now -- spring semester is almost over and everyone is deciding what to do about summer. I’m taking it off and spending it with Rosie. My sister has a ranch in Montana -- we may take a road trip, bring a grandmother (or two) along, make an excursion out of it. I figure we can camp along the way, if Rose is up to it. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet -- want to make sure everything is really fine with her heart before I take her out to the boondocks where there aren’t any doctors familiar with her case. They say she’s an excellent patient, but we came so close to losing her I don’t want to take the chance.

A friend of mine, Joseph Patrick, works with the physics department at Texas Episcopal in Dallas. He and a couple of other profs are going to Cal this summer to work with Frank Pierson and his new project. Thing is, they need someone for summer classes. They asked me, and normally I’d say yes, but I really need the time off. So I thought of you. I don’t know what your plans are yet for the summer, but I told Pat I’d talk to you and see what you thought about it. It’s a good school, strong department -- old Justin Parks is still in charge of it -- he had something in the Nov. Physics mag, I know you saw it.

Anyway -- give it some thought, will you? Pat’s a good friend, Parks is a scream to work with, and don’t worry about the Episcopalian business -- they aren’t as strict at TEC as we are in Campbell. They don’t care where you go to church as long as you show up for classes.

Talk to you soon -- Rosie sends her love --

Jeff

********************

“Madeleine?” Birkhoff’s voice came through loud and clear, and Madeleine put down Jeff Redmond’s latest letter to Michael.

“Yes?”

“I just downloaded that information to you -- it’s under the F directory.”

“Thank you, Birkhoff.” Madeleine waited a few moments, then accessed the directory.

Whenever operatives went undercover -- no matter who they were pretending to be -- Section kept files on the aftermath, concocting stories to satisfy curious neighbors, hastily made friends and even the postal service to explain sudden disappearances of operatives.

In Michael and Nikita’s case, the mission in Campbell had been a great success. They’d finished the semester and brought in the Red Cell contact, who in turn led Section to a number of other sources. That one mission had done more for Section than it had accomplished in years. Michael had ostensibly entered the science department in Campbell as a replacement for a professor on sabbatical, so no one really questioned his absence at the end of the mission. But he’d made friends -- and Nikita had, too -- and those contacts had to be kept up, at least on the surface.

As far as Michael’s profile went, periodically he submitted articles to Physics. Madeleine kept up with his correspondence with Jeff Redmond. Michael’s name -- well-respected in the field -- was occasionally mentioned in conjunction with various scientific projects, and sometimes he was even listed as a speaker in a conference program. Of course, he never attended. Something always happened -- stomach flu, unavoidable emergency, broken leg.

Nikita’s case was handled much the same. Her profile was easier, in some ways. She’d been an artist in this scenario, so occasionally Madeleine released canvasses to certain galleries in New York or Miami. Some Nikita painted at one time or another; others were ghost painted. She’d even had a few gallery showings -- all well-attended. The only person missing at these gala events was Nikita. Something always conveniently came up -- stomach flu, unavoidable emergency, broken leg ...

As Madeleine scrolled through the catalogue of Nikita’s paintings which had sold, a pattern began to emerge.

Interesting.

First of all, the ghosted paintings weren’t selling as well as Nikita’s. Second, Nikita’s were selling for high dollar -- at least, high dollar for an untrained, unprofessional painter.

Her work was getting attention. Not just from corporations who wanted something big to hang in their lobbies, but from high-dollar private citizens.

And not just any citizens, either. Madeleine studied the list carefully. Jaston Coward. Evan Fellows. Cylinda Pierce-Surrey. And a man known in the art world only as Chester.

Jaston Coward was the step-son of a high-ranking foreign official in Washington. He’d been in the news recently after a hit-and-run; because of his diplomatic immunity, he’d been sent back to the U.K. rather than charged. Evan Fellows was heading up an organization that, had Alec Chandler still been alive, would have given Chandler a run for his money. Pierce-Surrey, though not as highly placed as the others, was wealthier. She owned her own software development company. Chester ... he was well-known for picking artists out of obscurity. He’d discovered at least four up-and-comers in the past two years and, in his circle at least, was spoken of with awe.

Interesting.

Madeleine sat back, thinking. Then she punched in his code and asked, “Birkhoff?”

“Yes?”

“Can you find me some art galleries in the Dallas area that we can use?”

“Ah ... New York would be better.”

“I know, but this time it has to be Dallas. Besides, this is just a stepping stone.”

Silence. Madeleine waited. After a few minutes, Birkhoff’s voice came back on line. “I have two. One is pretty well respected and very established. The other one does contemporary art -- it’s new. I have something else in Fort Worth ...”

“According to this file you just sent me, we have four paintings left that Nikita did. I want you to place one picture each in the Dallas galleries. We’ll hold off on Fort Worth.”

“All right.” Birkhoff sounded a little doubtful.

“What is it, Birkhoff?”

“It’s just ... if you’re looking for exposure, we ought to enter one in the Cirque gallery auction in New York. They’re having a big charity event in a couple of weeks -- remember the Zander mission last week? The intel showed up on the tape. I had someone look into it and it’s legit. There’s going to be a lot of press coverage. That guy ... I can’t remember his name, he only has one ... anyway, he’ll be there. Supposedly, this is a big deal.”

“All right,” Madeleine decided. “Do that. Do you know the status of Michael’s latest mission?”

“He just aborted about five minutes ago. The contact didn’t show.”

“Reroute him to Dallas.” Madeleine rose, glanced at the letter from Jeff Redmond again, and said, “And see if you can contact a Dr. Justin Parks with Texas Episcopal College.”

***********************

TEC was in an older part of Dallas. Oak and magnolia trees dotted the campus, shading the walks so that on the hottest of days, it was almost bearable.

Almost, but not quite. It was the beginning of May and hot. Students wore shorts and sandals. There was a steady stream in and out of the 7-11 across the street and trash containers were stuffed with Slurpee cups. Warm puffy breezes stirred the trees over his head, making the day seem even hotter than it was, and late afternoon sunlight slanted across the lawn, casting long shadows.

The first day of classes for Michael had been pretty easy. His students, mostly upperclassmen, seemed determined to learn everything he could teach them as quickly as possible. After all, he theorized, no one likes summer school. Especially when the summer is as hot as this.

Michael had one week to get adjusted to Dallas -- far more time usually allowed operatives -- and to meet with the skeleton faculty staffing the school for the first summer semester. Dr. Parks, the dean of the science department, was teaching two classes; Michael had two and a lab; and another professor, Dr. Gerry Leslie, taught a class and a lab. The rest of the science department was either at Cal or Los Alamos for the summer.

He reached his car, a small, white Audi with a dented fender, and gingerly unlocked the door, careful not to touch the hot metal any more than he needed to. He stood for a moment, the rush of stifling hot air mingling with the now seemingly cool outside air.

“Dr. Samuelle! Hey -- Michael Samuelle!” The voice was thin and high, and Michael turned around, trying to locate the source. A pink-clad figure across the parking lot waved her arms wildly, and Michael gamely waved back and watched her come closer.

“My car -- battery’s dead,” Dr. Leslie huffed, half running toward him, her shoulder-length blonde hair wild and slightly damp with sweat.

When he’d first met her, Michael supposed she was about his own age, but now, he wondered if he’d miscalculated. She looked as young as some of his students today. She’d sweated off her make up -- or maybe hadn’t bothered with any to begin with -- and her hair was pulled back with a limp white ribbon. Her face was pink with heat but she smiled at Michael, a wide, friendly smile that made him want to smile back. “Can I get a jump --?”

“Certainly.” Michael unlocked the other door and Dr. Leslie slid in, wincing as her bare legs came into contact with the leather seats.

“Ouch. Mercy, turn on the air --”

“Where are you parked?” Michael turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. Hot air blasted out of the air vents, gradually cooling off.

“Ahhh ....” Dr. Leslie closed her eyes and held her face close to the vents, then held her arms out so the cold air could go up her short sleeves. “How did your first day go?”

“Fine, thanks,” Michael answered. “Yours?”

“Good. Summer classes are always easier than the semester though, you know? It’s just more ... relaxed. Oh, I’m over there -- under the tree. The red car.”

Michael drove as directed, positioning his vehicle nose-to-nose with Dr. Leslie’s. He turned off the motor and Dr. Leslie got out, retrieved her jumper cables from the trunk of her car and watched while Michael attached them to the proper terminals. Then Dr. Leslie hopped in her own car and turned the ignition.

The car sputtered but the engine didn’t catch. Michael held up his hand for her to stop, and he readjusted the grippers on the cables, then motioned for her to try again.

Nothing.

“I was sure it was the battery,” Dr. Leslie said, sliding out of her car. “What do you know about cars?”

“Not enough. Fixing cars ... that’s my wife’s forte, not mine.”

“Good. Let’s call her,” Dr. Leslie said.

“Can’t. She doesn’t get in until next week.” Michael and Dr. Leslie stared at the innards of her car, then finally, Michael sighed and detached the jumper cables. “Come on. I’ll take you home and maybe you can call someone about it tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thanks. I don’t live far ... where are you?”

“Just down College. We’re only here for the summer, so we got half a duplex.”

“Oh, yeah, those are nice, aren’t they?” Dr. Leslie slid back into Michael’s car and he started the engine. “Hey, do you want to get something to eat? I’ll pay. I planned to go to the grocery store tonight ... I think the only thing I have in my refrigerator is Popsicles.”

“Thanks, but I have to paint the living room tonight, Dr. Leslie --”

“Please, call me Gerry. And I’ll call you Michael, shall I? It doesn’t have to be sit down. Just something quick. Drive-through is fine with me.”

They stopped for fried chicken and since it seemed practical, Michael agreed to stay for dinner at Gerry’s. She cranked up the air conditioner, put on some Bach and made space at the end of her dining room table for their box of chicken and two Cokes she pulled from the fridge. “Hey, Parks said you’re going to speak this weekend downtown for American Scientists. I am, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I spoke for them last year when they met in Syracuse. I don’t know why they chose Dallas in the summer ... must have got a good deal on hotel rooms or something. They’re a real great group of folks. You’ll probably know a ton of people there. What’s your topic?”

“I’m on a panel,” Michael answered. “We’re discussing the future of R and D... not a great subject, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Don’t be surprised if the conversation gets totally out of control. You know scientists. Not afraid to ask questions and everyone thinks he knows the most,” Gerry grinned. “Didn’t you go to that meeting Dupont did last fall?”

“I was supposed to, but we had an emergency,” Michael said easily. “Death in the family.”

“That’s too bad. It was a good conference.”

Munching on a breast, Michael looked down the table at the tangle of papers, crayolas, textbooks and something made of Styrofoam balls and wiring. “What’s that?”

“That’s Harold’s project. Harold is my son. He’s eight. He’s spending the summer with his dad in Colorado.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Yeah, for Harold. For his dad, too. His dad runs a tourist service -- he takes groups down the Colorado River in rafts. Along the way he tells them about the ecology, stuff like that.”

“You must have met in school.”

“Yeah, he’s a chem geek. Well, he used to be. Now he does research for contracting firm -- they do stuff for 3M, big names like that. Harold loves to go visit him and I can’t blame him.”

“How long have you been separated?”

“Couple of years.” She shrugged, plainly unhappy. “It was the best for both of us, but I guess I still miss him. Well, parts of him. I don’t miss the messes he made. Harold’s bad enough. But still ... what about you? What’s your wife like?”

Michael thought for a moment, then finally said, “I don’t know anyone else like her. It’s hard to explain. I don’t like it when we’re apart.”

“Control freak, right?”

“We both are,” Michael said, smiling faintly. “But we seem to get along all right.” He finished his chicken, pushed aside his roll, sticky with sugary honey, and stood up. “I should be going. Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for the ride. Can I offer you a Popsicle by way of dessert?”

Michael wandered out into the cooling night air, a grape Popsicle dripping down his hand. He bit off a chunk, wiped his sticky hand on his pants leg, and got in his car. Then he drove home.

***********************

He hadn’t been giving Gerry an excuse when he said he had to paint the living room. It was only half finished and he wanted to have it done by the time Nikita arrived. Michael took off his school clothes, washed his sticky hands, and put on his painting clothes.

He and Nikita had the top half of a duplex. The good thing about the apartment was, it was near campus and their neighbor below was gone for the summer, so it was quiet. The bad thing about it was, the kitchen floor sloped downward and the previous owner had been overly fond of dark colors.

Though they were only spending the summer there, Michael knew Nikita wouldn’t like it in its current state. He’d talked the owner into paying for paint if Michael did the painting. In the short week that he’d been in Dallas, Michael had painted the bathroom bright lemon yellow and the bedroom a pale blue. The hall, enclosed porch and kitchen were a warm white. Now he only had the living room left.

He’d saved it for last because he knew it would take the longest. A combined living room/dining room, it was the largest room in the house and the previous occupant painted everything the color of peanut butter. Just being in the room made Michael depressed; he could imagine what it would do to Nikita. He’d already sanded the room and put sealer on the walls; now, he dipped his roller in the pan of creamy white paint and slowly ran it up the wall.

This duplex, like others on the street, had been built in the ‘30s. The exteriors were brick; each unit had a porch, but most of them were now enclosed. Michael thought Nikita could use their porch for her painting. It certainly had enough light. Throughout the apartment the rooms were large, the ceilings high and the windows strategically placed for cross-ventilation. Whoever built it carefully planted trees to shade the roof; Michael had the attic fan on and the apartment felt cool enough.

Michael rolled white paint over the sealant, turning dingy walls into clean, fresh ones. He avoided the molding -- he’d paint that last. Maybe a pale yellow. Nikita would like that, he thought.

He painted in silence. No radio. No television. The windows were open; outside, he could hear the steady hum of crickets and an occasional passing car.

*******************

Finally. Nikita sighed and lowered her weapon, and Walter gave her an approving smile. “Scores are above average, Sugar. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Walter.” She unloaded her gun and Walter added her new scores into her file, doing some quick tabulations necessary to grant her full operative status.

“You’re welcome,” he grunted. “Good thing, too. Madeleine said yesterday she needed you ready by this morning to go out.”

“This morning? That’s a little ... quick,” Nikita frowned and twisted her hair down from it’s make-shift pony-tail.

“Actually, she’s needed you for the past week but you weren’t ready.”

“Maybe if she hadn’t poked me in a sanitarium for anorexics for a month, I’d have been ready sooner,” Nikita said.

“Maybe,” Walter shrugged. “All I know is, I’m supposed to outfit you and tell Birkhoff you’re ready for transport.”

“I don’t get a briefing?”

“You want a briefing?”

“Well,” Nikita hesitated, then said, “It’s usual, Walter. I’ve never been out where there wasn’t some kind of briefing involved ... except for the first time. This isn’t going to be like that, is it? Some kind of sick test to make sure I’m really up to par?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. If it is, you’d better start thinking inventive.”

“Why?”

“Because the only things I’m supposed to give you are a hand-held, $100 in small bills and a plane ticket to Dallas.”

“Great. If I get in a spot of trouble, I can hooker my way out of it,” Nikita said sourly. “Be a sport, Walter: give me a handgun, too.”

“Now, Sugar --”

“Please? It’ll make me feel better. Sort of a just-in-case-never-going-to-use-it backup.”

Walter laughed. “Can’t, even if I wanted to. You’re going on a commercial airline, you’re not checking luggage and besides, when have you ever had to hooker your way out of a tight spot?”

“I’ve almost had to on a couple of occasions.”

“Ah, you’ll think of something,” Walter said. “Come on. By the time you get changed, Birkhoff will have your transport to the airport ready.”

“Great,” Nikita said sarcastically. “So, Walter, what am I wearing? I assume not mission blacks.”

“Casual, baby.”

“Stop it, you sound like Mick.”

“Casual, and make it cool. Dallas in May can be hot.”

“Yeah. I remember the heat from last time.”

Feeling a little surly, Nikita set off down the hall and went directly to the women’s showers. If she had to go on this mystery mission, at least she could go clean.

She bathed quickly, dried off and was trying to comb out her hair when Chandra walked in. “Hey, Nikita. Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“Hi, Chandra.” Nikita pulled the comb through and hit a knot. “I’m getting ready to go back out.”

“Yeah? I’m hoping I can stick around here a few days. Never thought I’d say that, but the last thing I was on was a doozy.” Chandra took off a sweat-stained shirt and shucked off her workout shorts. She picked up a clean towel and lounged against the tile wall, watching Nikita. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine. Made status,” Nikita answered steadily. “I just need to gain some weight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Nikita glanced in the mirror at Chandra, a pretty, exotic woman, which could work either way in Section: it was a way to get the attention of a mark quickly, but sometimes that was detrimental. After a long-term mission involving several layers of key players, Chandra was banned from working in Vegas, Los Angeles ... basically, anywhere on the West Coast because she would have been recognized.

She had tawny hair and gold eyes; her skin was a pale brown that tanned easily. She was several inches shorter than Nikita and a great deal curvier. Now, with both of them in their underwear, the differences between the two were more pronounced.

Nikita had been without food for a month before Michael found her. On one hand, she’d had water and probably a few more weeks before she actually starved to death; on the other hand, she’d never had a lot of body fat to lose in the first place. She’d thought she’d gain her weight back just a quickly as she’d lost it, but apparently it didn’t work that way. While in the san, she’d gained exactly four pounds. She’d lost a cup size, which really irritated her, but standing there with Chandra and mentally comparing herself to the other woman was depressing. Chandra had dimples in her knees, round, plump shoulders, C cup breasts and curvy hips.

Nikita looked like a 12-year-old boy with stringy hair.

“Night and day, eh? You make me feel like I need to lose some weight.” Chandra grinned at Nikita in the mirror, and Nikita smiled faintly back. “Hey, while you were gone, I had the pleasure of working with our Michael.”

“Really.” Nikita started on another section of hair, carefully working the comb through. “So, you had a successful mission?”

“Well, I don’t know if you could say that,” Chandra grinned ruefully. “You tell me: you’ve pretended to be married to him before. Maybe it would’ve been better if we hadn’t been under surveillance.”

“Whose? Section’s?”

“Yeah, plus the mark’s. It sucked. Michael was nice though. That’s the first time I’ve done something that lasted more than a day or two, and it was the first time I’ve been alone with him for any length of time. We were out for two weeks. He really helped me with my field mechanics.”

Nikita blinked and lowered the comb.

“Well, anyway.” Chandra shrugged and smiled at Nikita. “Good luck on your mission. I’ve gotta get ready for a bar thing.”

“Bar thing?”

“Yeah, place and trace, that kind of deal.” Chandra shrugged again. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Nikita said. She watched Chandra’s retreating form -- even her backside was attractive -- then she laid the comb down and stared at her own face in the mirror.

Field mechanics?

********************

Nikita sat back in the cab and watched the landscape pass by in the noontime heat. Flat. Endless. Hot. Then, as they neared the city, buildings crowded around the freeway. The cab driver got off the tollway and began lacing his way through residential streets, finally stopping at the address Nikita had given him.

She looked up. It was a quiet house on a quiet street. Perfect for Section. She sighed and got out, payed the driver $30 and wondered if the mission profile had been sent to her yet.

Nikita sighed again and made her way up the walk. It was only when she was standing in front of the door that she realized she didn’t have a key.

And, thanks to Walter, she didn’t have her tools.

Nikita cursed softly under her breath. She glanced at the curb; the driver was already gone. She turned back to the door, undecided. Sometimes people left keys under potted plants. Nothing here, though. Not even a door mat.

Nikita bit her lip and tried the handle.

Locked.

There was a small window in the door; Nikita cupped her hands and tried to look through, but the room was dark and she couldn’t make out anything.

Well. She had two options: break in, or knock and hope someone would answer.

Neither was appealing.

Nikita finally took a deep breath and lifted her fist. She hesitated a second, then knocked on the door.

She stood back, prepared to run if necessary, but she couldn’t hear any footsteps or any sign that she’d been heard. Growing a little bolder, she approached again and this time knocked louder.

Nothing. Nikita bit her lip, took another step back and surveyed the entrance, looking for a hiding place. Where do normal people hide a key?

She checked the flowerbeds; nothing. The door was plain and there wasn’t much room to hide anything. The windows on the top floor were open, but no trees stood comfortably close enough for her to gain access. On the off chance she’d get lucky, Nikita ran a hand along the top of the lintel.

A silver key dinged onto the concrete; Nikita bent down, picked it up and fit it into the lock.

The first thing she noticed when she came inside was the smell of fresh paint. She’d stepped into an entrance hall; this was a duplex, and someone else must have the downstairs portion. Very quietly, she crept up the stairs.

On the right of the hall was the enclosed porch, with all the windows open to air out the house. A couple of bags with “Asel Art Supplies” on them littered the floor; Nikita peeked in one and saw a couple of hundred dollars worth of oil paints. Resting on one wall were blank canvasses, and she began to get a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Next to the porch was a closet, then a bathroom, painted an eccentric yellow. On the left of the hall was a large living room/dining room, white, big, and devoid of furniture except an old-fashioned desk with a brand-new computer on top of it and a folding camp chair. Boxes were stacked neatly in the corner and when she glanced in one, she saw it was full of books. Nikita walked through the room; at the back was the kitchen. A coffee cup and a juice glass sat on the drain board next to an unread newspaper. Nikita’s eyes narrowed and she opened the refrigerator.

Milk. Juice. A bottle of mustard. White wine, unopened. Two containers of half-eaten take-out, one Mexican food, the other a turkey dinner. The freezer held ice cube trays, Popsicles and a half-gallon of chocolate swirl ice cream.

Across from the kitchen at the very back of the apartment was a bedroom. But unlike the rest of the rooms, this room was completely, if sparsely, furnished. Like the rest of the house, the wooden floor was bare and polished. The bed was huge, with a low headboard and footboard painted white. Everything else in the room -- including the pocket half-bath -- was a pale handkerchief blue. It was like being inside a cool blue cave. The walls were pale blue, the bedspread, even the curtains, which were a very thin cotton and let through the bright afternoon sun and an occasional puff of warm wind.

In one corner of the room was a Morris chair, a floor lamp placed behind it. A book lay face-down on the chair cushion. Across from the bed was a large double dresser with a small mirror above it, but it was the photo on top of the dresser that caught Nikita’s eye.

It was a black and white picture of the backs of Nikita’s legs; she’d given it to Michael after their mission in Campbell. The only other thing on the dresser was a thin platinum wedding ring and a matching engagement ring. Nikita didn’t have to try them on. She knew they’d fit.

Hanging over the bed in a neat row were three professionally framed crayoned pictures with a child’s handwriting spilling across the newsprint pages: ASK one demanded; the others encouraged one to SEEK and KNOCK. They were Rose Redmond’s pictures, and Michael had apparently saved them and framed them.

Nikita sat down rather suddenly in the Morris chair and winced when her backside came into contact with the spine of the book. She pulled it out from under her and grimaced when she saw the title. “Physical Properties II.”

It was the same text Michael had taught out of in Campbell.

Nikita groaned faintly and slumped back in the chair. Perfect. Another long mission with Michael. Had she not seen Chandra maybe she would be looking forward to it. But spending a few weeks with Michael when she knew he’d been with someone else was not her idea of a fun time.

Well, Nikita thought fatalistically after a few minutes, might as well check in. Maybe by now they’ll have uploaded the profile ...

She hauled herself out of the chair and went back to the living room. She plugged her hand-held into the larger computer, dialed in, and waited.

Text began to scroll down the page, and as she read, Nikita’s bad mood worsened. It wouldn’t be a short mission -- it would last all summer. And neither she nor Michael had an objective other than to expand their profiles. In fact, Michael was scheduled to speak at two conferences and she was expected to attend a charity event in New York in a few weeks. Not only that, but she was to produce some pictures.

With a sigh, Nikita slumped back into the camp chair. Perfect. Just perfect.

****************

Nikita spent the rest of the afternoon working off her anger. Along with the keys to a car, a stack of credit cards and a joint checkbook, Michael left her a note on the dresser saying he was speaking to some scientists downtown and would be late. He’d also left a Dallas Morning News in the kitchen, and thus armed with current furniture sales and a map she found in the car, Nikita started shopping.

The closest furniture store was Weir’s. Next door was a pharmacy, and Nikita ran in, thinking of buying aspirin and maybe a candy bar. To her surprise, in addition to aspirin, there was also a lunch counter, so she had a quick grilled cheese, some cheesy poofs and a chocolate soda. Feeling much better, she tackled the furniture store.

It was big and crowded. It was also blessedly cool after the hot afternoon. Nikita wiped the sweat off her forehead and looked around, getting her bearings.

“May I help you?”

Nikita smiled and nodded at the salesman. His tag said his name was Harvey, and he looked as if he didn’t expect her to buy anything.

“I need a kitchen table and chairs. I need a sofa. Maybe a little coffee table or something. I need,” Nikita realized, “A lot of things. Do you deliver?”

“Absolutely.” Harvey looked a little happier, and when he caught a glance of her engagement ring, he almost smiled. And why not? A lot of Highland Park women ran around looking like a bus ran over them. You could never tell the wealthy ones from the normal ones, unless, like Harvey, you learned to look at jewelry. “Would you like to look around a little bit --?”

“Actually, Harvey, I’m in a bit of a hurry. So if you’ll just point the way --”

Harvey followed Nikita around the store; in an hour she’d picked out a table and chairs, a comfortable sofa, some side tables and lamps and three bookshelves for Michael’s books. Weir’s wasn’t really her style -- it was conservative and the furniture tended to be, in her opinion, a little dull, but she consoled herself by buying two bright blue easy chairs that more or less matched the red fruit-print sofa.

“Now,” she announced to Harvey, who was looking a little dazed. “I’m afraid I need some household things ... towels, sheets, dishes ...”

He blinked.

“Our house burned down,” Nikita lied smoothly. “So, you see, I’m starting over, more or less.”

“There’s a big Crate and Barrel across the street. They have most household items,” Harvey said. “I can call over and tell them you are on your way ...”

“That would be perfect, Harvey,” Nikita smiled. “And is there any way we could get these things delivered today?”

“Oh, I don’t think --”

“It would really mean so much to me if you could manage it,” Nikita said, eyes trusting. “Here’s my credit card and my address. Can you please see what you can do?”

Harvey nodded, took the card, tallied her bill and came back with a smile. “Janice will meet you at the front door of Crate and Barrel. And the delivery people can come by late this afternoon. Will someone be there by six o’clock?”

“Harvey,” Nikita said, putting her credit card away and signing the slip, “If I’m not home by six, I’ll be dead from shopping.”

*******************

Michael came home to a dark house and experienced a momentary flash of panic. Gerry dropped him off with a cheerful “See you Monday” and, not knowing exactly what to expect, Michael walked up the sidewalk and slid his key in the lock.

He came up the stairs slowly. It was quiet. He could hear the steady click-click-click of a clock in the living room.

Michael frowned. He didn’t have a clock.

At the top of the stairs he felt for the light switch. He flipped it up; the light blinked on then burned out. Michael cursed under his breath, and, still in the dark, walked into the living room.

He promptly stubbed his toe on something, lost his balance, and fell on something large and soft.

Completely disoriented, Michael sat up and felt around. A couch? Was he in the right apartment? Yes, of course he was: his key fit the door. Squinting in the dim room, he could barely make out shapes of other pieces of furniture, and, more carefully this time, he made his way to the dining room portion of the room and turned on the light.

He blinked.

At the end of the dining room were three empty bookcases. His boxes of books still were stacked in the corner. In the middle of the dining room was a small oval table and four chairs resting on a thick blue and green carpet. Next to the table was a low cabinet for china; through the glass doors, he could see plates and coffee cups. A large red couch dominated the living room, flanked by overstuffed easy chairs. She’d moved his desk too: it now took up one corner of the living room.

A little afraid of what he’d find, Michael entered the kitchen. But here, things were pretty much the same. Behind the folding doors of the utility closet he could hear the hum of the dryer, which abruptly stopped with a ding. Slowly, Michael opened the door and peered inside.

Towels. And ... a tablecloth?

He unloaded the dryer and methodically folded the contents, then opened the refrigerator. Like everything else in the house, this had changed too, but not for the better: now the only thing inside was the mustard, half of the milk, the juice and a half-bottle of wine. Michael poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, and rinsed out the glass. But when he started to put it in the dishwasher, he found it was full of unfamiliar, new dishes and glasses. He shrugged, added his glass, found some detergent, and started it.

Then, a little apprehensively, Michael headed toward his bedroom. He turned on the closet light and closed the door partway so he could see her without waking her.

Nikita lay sprawled across the bed. He’d not cared about the rest of the house, but he wanted the bedroom to be finished. It should be a place of security and peace, he thought, and he bought the bed on purpose. It was the largest one he could find and he’d had a difficult time getting the mattress and box springs up the stairs. But neither of them were used to sleeping together; Nikita tended to spread out and Michael tended to steal the blanket, so it was best if they got a big bed with enough room for both of them. His eyes scanned the room. On the night table nearest her there was a bowl with the melted dregs of ice cream clinging to the bottom and a open package of cookies he’d bought the week before, along with a glass of water and his physics text he was using in his classroom.

Michael tilted his head and looked at her, studying the parts of her he could see.

She was thinner, of course. He knew she would be. She was laying on her stomach and her hair was spread out behind her. The nightgown she was wearing was sleeveless and dipped in the back, giving him a good look at her backbone, which was all knobs. She looked tired, even relaxed in sleep, and he carefully took off his shoes and padded closer to her. Her forehead wrinkled up in a deep frown, and very gently, he passed his hand over her brow, smoothing out the bad dream she must be having. Nikita burrowed deep into her pillow, and Michael, still trying to be as quiet as he could, disrobed and climbed into bed. Little cookie crumbs grated against his skin.

He gave a deep sigh and relaxed.

Next to him, Nikita jerked in her sleep and reflexively threw out an arm, which landed with a thump on Michael’s chest. He jumped involuntarily, then brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Warm fingers curled around his, and he carefully placed her hand on his neck. Then he yawned, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

Nikita twisted and sighed in her sleep. Every time she turned over or a leg or arm kicked out, Michael woke up. Finally, in desperation, his eyes gritty with sleep, he yanked her over to his side of the bed, turned her on her side and pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her middle and pinning her arms down. He nudged his face into the crook of her shoulder. She muttered something unintelligible and, still more asleep than awake, Michael murmured softly, “Hush ... sh-h-h-h ... shush ... ss-s-s-sh-h-h-h ...”

Nikita struggled to consciousness. In her dream, she was Michael, and she was trapped in a cellar. From outside the window, she could hear someone calling to her, sobbing her -- or rather, Michael’s -- name. But she couldn’t get out, and she realized the person who was calling to her was Chandra.

Feeling suddenly hot and confined, panic-stricken, Nikita awoke with a jerk. Michael was wrapped tightly around her, talking in his sleep. And the name he whispered was Chandra’s.

*************************

“Nikita. Nikita, wake up. Nikita ... wake up, we’re going to be late.”

Nikita squinted up at a tall shadowy form, eyes screwed up against the bright light.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“No. Come on, get up. Here’s some juice --” Michael thrust a glass of orange juice at her and Nikita clumsily took it. “Coffee’s on the way --” then he was out the room.

Blinking and yawning, Nikita sat up, drank her juice and tried to orient herself. From across the hall came the smell of coffee and the sounds of Michael getting breakfast. She yawned again and stumbled into the kitchen. Michael was just finishing a bowl of cereal.

“Where are you going?”

“Church. So are you. Go on, get ready,” Michael nodded at her and Nikita frowned.

“I’m not going to church.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s part of the profile,” Michael answered, “And since the only reason we’re here is to improve our profile, yes, you will go to church.”

Feeling like a rebellious child, Nikita stomped to the bathroom to shower; by the time she was finished, Michael was dressed and sitting in the living room reading the paper. He glanced up at her. “Twenty minutes,” he said, and Nikita, her temper worsening, frowned at him.

She’d drastically underestimated this mission. It wouldn’t be bad. It would be awful. Grinding her teeth together, she brushed out her hair, pulled it off her neck so she wouldn’t faint from heat and yanked on a dress. It hung on her, and Nikita ripped it off and tried another.

It was too big, too.

“What are you doing?” Michael suddenly appeared in the doorway, and Nikita jerked around, grabbing for something to cover her too-skinny body.

“Trying to find something to wear. Do you mind?” she said icily.

“Nikita, we have to go. Just put something on.”

“Nothing fits.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s just church.”

“Just ... just give me a minute, Michael,” Nikita snapped, annoyed.

“Five. You have five minutes.” Then he turned and left her alone.

Nikita sat down on the bed and felt her eyes fill up with tears. The mission wouldn’t be just awful. It would be worse than the san. Worse even than being forgotten in a cellar. She swiped her eyes, and pulled a dress on. It looked horrible. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything if Michael didn’t love her anymore.

***************

Alone in the living room, which to him seemed very crowded with bright furniture, Michael put aside his paper. Five minutes. That was enough time to send Chandra’s e-mail.

****************

If Nikita thought being alone with Michael was painful, it was positively excruciating being in public with him.

He introduced her to several members of TEC’s faculty as his wife; he held the songbook and draped an arm around her during services; and afterward, they were invited to a potluck.

Nikita blinked. “Potluck?”

“Yes, you must come,” an older lady in a flowered dress smiled warmly at Nikita. “It’s for all the new members. Everyone brings something --”

“-- we’ve not brought anything --”

“No, no, you’re our guests, come on ... we’ll find you a plate and a place to sit ...”

Nikita was herded into line; two long tables stretched out in front of her, loaded with chicken, baked beans, string beans, noodle casseroles of every description, Jell-O salads, green salads, fruit salads ... all in a variety of crock pots and bowls. Nikita’s mouth began to water. Michael appeared at her side and handed her a plastic foam plate and fork. Then he turned to the woman behind him, a small, curvy strawberry-blonde in a sundress.

“Nikita, this is Gerry Leslie. She teaches with me. Gerry, Nikita.”

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Gerry smiled and picked up a plate for herself. “Michael hasn’t told me much about you. We always get side-tracked, somehow.” Gerry giggled and Michael smiled congenially. “So, what do you do?”

“Paint.” Nikita speared a piece of brisket. She was going to load up on protein today. Maybe then she’d gain a little weight. She moved down the line and picked out a piece of barbecue, then a spoonful of macaroni-and-cheese. Homemade. She licked her lips.

“What kinds of things do you paint?”

“This and that. Modern, mostly.”

Sounding proud, Michael said, “She shows her pictures in galleries all over the country. In a few weeks, she’s got a charity event ... we’re hoping she’ll get a lot of exposure from it.”

Nikita shot Michael a suspicious look, but Gerry said, “Really? That’s great. Must be exciting to see your name in print.”

Try terrifying, Nikita thought sourly, but instead she said, “But don’t you publish articles? Michael’s always got something in those science magazines.”

“Well, yes, but that’s different. You know ... science.”

Meaning, Nikita supposed, that she wouldn’t begin to understand it. They got through the line and someone handed them sweating plastic cups of sweet tea; Nikita nearly choked on hers when she took a sip. Michael guided them to a table and they sat down.

Nikita was quiet throughout the meal. Michael and Gerry discussed work; they had a lively discussion about a new star that had been discovered. Gerry maintained it was a planet; Michael said it was possibly a moon, or perhaps a dying star. Nikita couldn’t even follow the conversation, and finally, she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

It was cool and quiet in here. She washed her hands and patted her face with a damp paper towel and took stock of her life.

She’d thought Michael had a thing for Chandra. And why not? She would swear he’d spoken her name last night; according to Chandra they’d gotten along well on their mission, which apparently had involved sexual intimacy.

Nikita grimaced. I’m thinking like Madeleine.

Nikita knew there was no way for Michael to be faithful to her. It wasn’t practical. He belonged to Section, just like she did, and when Section called, you had to answer. What did bother her was Michael’s apparent affection for Chandra. She didn’t mind that he’d been physically unfaithful, but for him to have an emotional link to someone other than herself was difficult to swallow.

But what was even more confusing was his attitude toward Gerry. He was affectionate, he paid attention to her ... to anyone else, their relationship looked like two colleagues with a lot in common. But to Nikita, who knew Michael inside and out, it looked like flirting.

He’s flirting. With someone who isn’t me, she thought forlornly, and stared at her image in the mirror.

And why shouldn’t he? Look at yourself, she told her image sternly. You are about the most unattractive woman I’ve ever seen ... not only that, but you don’t know the first thing about stars, planets or moons.

If it were only Chandra, I could fight. But it’s not that he’s in love with Chandra. It’s that he’s out of love with me.

Staring into her reflection, she made several snap decisions. First, she’d have to let Michael go. It wasn’t fair for her to keep hold of him when he didn’t want her, and perhaps, if she did things right, they could remain friends. She loved him. But she could live without a physical relationship -- she’d lived without one for a long time, and surely they could go back to some kind of working relationship. Because the truth was, if she couldn’t have Michael as a lover and she couldn’t have him as a friend, there wasn’t a lot of incentive to stay alive in Section.

He’s everything, she realized, a little panicky. He’s everything in the world to me. I can’t lose him. How did I let this happen? How did I let my life get so enmeshed with his?

Nikita turned away from her reflection and leaned against the sink, her hands clammy and her heart hammering in her chest. She took three deep breaths. “Just calm down,” she said out loud.

Okay. She’d let Michael go. She’d even make it official. It was only fair, and besides, maybe it’d help her get on with her life.

Her future thus decided, Nikita took another deep breath, prayed she wouldn’t throw up, and rejoined the potluck dinner.

************************

They drove home silently. Nikita rested her head on the back of her seat, eyes half shut. Michael interrupted her thoughts.

“You were busy yesterday.”

Nikita frowned, then guessed, “You mean the furniture?”

“It looks nice, Nikita.”

“Thanks,” she answered uncertainly.

“We didn’t get a chance to talk before. How was your mission?”

Nikita blinked. Michael wanted to talk? Carefully, she answered, “It was fine.”

“Closure?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Michael turned into the driveway and stopped the car, but when Nikita reached out for the door handle, he said, “But how was it, Nikita?”

“The mission? You want details?”

“Yes.”

“It was ... hard. A sanitarium for anorexics isn’t exactly a fun place to be. Better than a cellar, but not much.”

Michael waited, looking at her expectantly, so Nikita continued. “Here’s what it was like: imagine spending four hours a day with Madeleine.”

“Oh.” Michael dropped his eyes and Nikita climbed out of the car. At the front door, she turned around.

“I’m going to take a nap.”

“All right.” Michael sounded a little surprised, but Nikita didn’t care. It was only 2 o’clock, but already she’d had a very long day. Besides, depression took a lot out of a girl. She closed the door to their room, fell across their big blue bed, and was asleep in minutes.

****************

Imagine spending four hours a day with Madeleine.

Michael shuddered and tried to focus his attention on the Sunday newspaper he was supposedly reading. Finally, he gave up and tossed the paper aside.

He didn’t have to imagine. He knew. It was awful. He wondered exactly what happened at the san and considered contacting Birkhoff for details, but the truth was, he was a little afraid of what he’d find out. Anyway, it didn’t really matter: the result was the same. Nikita had been subjected to heavy-duty therapy for a problem she didn’t have. That, in itself, was not such a devastating thing, but she seemed to be troubled with something else and that did bother Michael.

Michael thoughtfully stared into space, trying to pinpoint exactly what was wrong with Nikita. She didn’t seem as ... friendly as usual. Not as trusting. Maybe that was it? The therapy involved their relationship and now she was questioning him?

Or maybe ... maybe it was too much to expect her to continue their relationship as if nothing had happened. She wasn’t rubber elastic, after all; she was a person, and probably just needed a little bit of time to adjust to their mission.

That must be it. Just don’t push her, and she’ll be fine.

Satisfied, Michael picked the paper back up and became immersed in a long feature about a refugee camp in Eastern Europe.

************

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. The week was slipping by. Michael held fast to his promise to not push Nikita, who remained silent and withdrawn. She painted a lot, ran errands, unpacked the books. He wasn’t really sure what she did during the day, but at night she fell into bed obviously exhausted.

She wasn’t sleeping well, so he wasn’t either. Occasionally she cried in her sleep. More often, he’d wake up with parts of Nikita on top of him: an arm, a leg. One night he woke up to find a long leg laying across his midsection. Then he realized that Nikita’s head was at the foot of the bed and her feet were at the head. Rather than wake her, Michael simply moved his pillow down to the bottom of the bed and went back to sleep.

*****************

On Thursday, Nikita stepped up on the bathroom scales, shut her eyes, made a wish, then, knowing she’d be disappointed, she looked down at the meter. The dial jiggled, then steadied. 121.

She blinked. She stepped off the scales. Then she stepped back on.

121.

That’s more than enough to give blood without fainting, she thought numbly, then she grinned, a wide, pleased smile. For two weeks she’d been stuck at 119. Her goal was 135: if she could make it that far, she’d almost be a normal size for her height.

No, she thought quickly, don’t think that far ahead. Only four more pounds, and I’ll be at 125. Four pounds. Surely, surely, I can gain four pounds.

She felt so good, she ate an apple, put on her running shoes and took a brisk walk around the neighborhood. Then she came home, had a big breakfast and put on Michael’s painting clothes, which she’d adopted as her own. In the afternoon she took a break, had a snack and put on a pot roast for dinner; she spent the rest of the day working on her picture, and when the smell of meat begin to permeate the house, she saw Michael come up the sidewalk.

Michael had been leaving the car for her during the day; either Gerry picked him up, or he walked to school. It wasn’t far, and in the mornings it was pleasant. In the afternoons, he took his time coming home because it was so hot.

His jacket was slung over one shoulder and he carried his briefcase. His stride was slow. He looked tired, and Nikita knew it was probably because she’d tossed and turned, keeping him awake the night before. Tonight, she thought, I should sleep on the sofa. Then maybe he’d get a good nights rest.

She put her brush down and leaned on the windowsill, watching him turn in at their sidewalk. He put his briefcase down on the cement, then walked over to the lawn sprinkler. He carried it to a dry patch of grass, positioned it, and walked back over to the house. In a moment, Nikita saw the arms of the sprinkler start to slowly spin, water spitting out in long, slow arcs. The sprinkler sped up, and Michael reappeared in her line of vision.

The sun was low in the sky; it glinted on his hair as he turned to talk to one of their neighbors, and a sad, melancholy feeling shot through Nikita. She loved him. So much and so fiercely she would have done anything to make him happy. Tears flooded her eyes -- she was so weepy lately! -- and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. When she could see again, Michael had disappeared.

The front door banged open. “Nikita? I’m home.”

Home.

To Nikita, his voice sounded tired and dead. A trapped man coming home to a prison. And she was the warden. That’s what he sounds like, she thought sadly. Nikita squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. You can do this. You have to. It’s for his own good.

She swallowed hard and answered. “Up here, Michael.”

*****************

Tired from a long day at school, Michael trudged up the stairs and stopped at the enclosed porch. This was Nikita’s domain, so he knocked on the door frame. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Nikita turned to him and smiled, and Michael held his breath. “How was your day?”

“Fine. Long. Yours?”

“Okay. I made a pot roast.”

“It smells good.”

“Well, we can only hope.” Nikita shrugged diplomatically, then slid by him and headed for the kitchen.

Michael let his breath slowly out. Something had changed. He wasn’t sure what, but there was a certain look in Nikita’s face that he hadn’t seen in a very long time, and, in fact, he had been wondering if he’d ever see it again. She’s back, he thought, relieved. Wherever she’s been, whatever’s been bothering her, it’s over.

Michael smiled. Not a huge, earth-shattering, get-up-and-dance-till-you-drop smile, but a small smile of quiet relief. He put his briefcase down carefully in the hall and went to the kitchen. The least he could do was set the table.

A little roast, a little wine, a little conversation. They ate quietly at their new dining room table, new silver clattering on new china, muted requests for salt, for pepper, for more bread. Nikita took the plates to the kitchen when they were finished and Michael followed her with the leftovers, covering them with plastic and putting them in the refrigerator. As he washed the dishes, he could hear Nikita hammering a crate together on the porch; she had to attend a show in New York on Saturday and she’d take a painting with her.

Michael lay the damp teatowel over the dishes and took a quick, cool shower to wash the day away, then began refilling the bath for Nikita. He found her crouched over her crate, carefully labeling it with her name and the address of the gallery in New York.

“Need some help?”

“Thanks. I’m done,” she answered.

“I started your bath.”

“Thanks, Michael.” She stood and stretched, then ambled off to the bathroom.

Michael glanced at the other picture she’d been working on today -- still wet -- and hefted the crate up with a grunt to take it downstairs. As he came back up, he heard Nikita leave the bathroom and smelled the soft scent of bath salts and steam. He flicked off the lights in the living room and hall and headed for the bedroom.

Nikita sat cross-legged in the middle of their bed. She had on summer pajamas: a loose, white short set, and Michael could faintly see a light smear of green paint on one ankle that she hadn’t quite washed off. The ceiling fan was on, but the overhead light was off; the only light came from the lamp on Michael’s side of the bed. She held something in her hands: an envelope or a folded paper.

Michael took off his summer robe and hung it on the hook in the closet, then sat down on the bed. “What’s this?” he nodded toward her hands, and her fingers reflexively tightened on the sheaf of folded papers.

“I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Michael waited.

“The thing is ...” Nikita looked down at the papers in her hand and swallowed. “I know the whole marriage thing wasn’t your idea. It wasn’t mine, either.” Her throat closed up and she took another deep breath. “You’ve done a lot of good things for me, Michael. I just ... I want you to be happy. If you can be.” She thrust the pack of papers into his hands and waited, rubbing at the streak of green paint on her ankle.

Michael unfolded the papers and silently scanned through them. Then, very quietly, with no emotion in his voice whatsoever, he said, “What is the meaning of this?”

“I know ... I know our marriage isn’t for real. I mean, maybe in the eyes of the law, but ... you never really asked me and I never really consented, and the fact is, it was just a crazy idea of Madeleine’s. It’s just for the mission, I know that, but ... I don’t want you to feel like you are tied to me or anything. I know what you’re thinking: it’s not the mission profile, but I don’t see why we couldn’t alter the profile. Lots of people get divorced, especially artists.”

“That,” Michael said, “Was not what I was thinking.”

Nikita looked up and bit her lip when she saw Michael’s face: unmoving, completely devoid of emotion, he looked like a figure carved in stone. He folded up the sheaf of papers and tapped the edge against his hand. “Nikita.”

“Yes?” She looked a little nervous, and Michael forced himself to speak calmly. Don’t push, he reminded himself. Do not push her.

“I want you to answer a question for me,” he said calmly.

“Okay.”

“What is this really all about?”

“I told you, Michael.” Nikita frowned. “You ought to be free to be with whomever you choose.”

“I already am.”

“I know,” Nikita nodded. “Gerry. I like her better than Chandra. And not just because we’ll leave in a few months, either, and never see her again. She’s --”

“-- a co-worker. Just like Chandra. Nikita, what are you talking about?”

Suddenly looking a little flustered, Nikita said, “I’ve seen the way you look at her. And you have a lot to talk about. She knows all about ... about nova stars and lava and black holes. The only thing I know is, Einstein couldn’t drive a car. And Tyco Brahe had a gold nose.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter, Michael. Really, it doesn’t. She’s really, really smart. And she’s pretty, too. She has beautiful eyes.” Nikita paused, then said very brightly, “She’s very curvy. Don’t you think she’s got a nice figure? It’s much better than mine. She’s even got dimples on her knees. We’re only going to be here a few months; you should take advantage of --”

Michael got to his feet and jerked Nikita to hers. “Get up.”

“What --?”

“Close your eyes. Your eyes, Nikita, close your eyes.”

Nikita obeyed and Michael pulled her across the room to stand in front of the dresser mirror. This time, he didn’t care if she objected to his touch; he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and lay his cheek against her temple. “Open your eyes, Nikita,” Michael said softly, and Nikita, after a slight hesitation, did.

“You said I’m free to be with whomever I choose,” Michael said. “This is who I choose.”

“Oh, I don’t think --”

“Nikita, stop. Just listen.”

Nikita’s mouth snapped shut, and Michael continued in the same low voice. “This is the woman I love. She’s weak, because her heart is too soft for the life she has to lead. She cares too much about things that she can’t remedy. She’s strong, because she stands up for what she thinks is right, even if she gets in trouble for it later on. And I love her.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes.” Michael kissed her temple and Nikita tensed up. “Yes, I do.”

“You shouldn’t.” Nikita’s voice was tight with strain, and Michael hugged her closer.

“Why not?”

“Because one of these days, I’ll get you canceled. I’m not worth it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“If you’re not worth it,” Michael said logically, “Then tell me why I spent a whole month combing Mexico City for you, consorting with drug dealers and pawn shop owners, eating street vender food which gave me cramps and going into mandatory refusal?”

Nikita’s eyes dropped, and Michael nudged her face up with his chin. “Gerry is smart. And she does know about lava and black holes and nova stars. I don’t know why you mentioned Chandra; she’s a good operative, but she needs work.”

“On ... on her field mechanics?”

“Yes, among other things.” Michael’s arms tightened a bit. Even if she’d wanted to, Nikita couldn’t have wriggled out of them. “It’s fortunate we were only visually monitored. It’s harder to simulate sexual relations when you have audio, too.”

Nikita’s eyes froze on his. “What?”

“It was simulated, Nikita. What did you think?”

“I thought ... Chandra ... she’s very pretty ... and I thought ...”

“It was never real, Nikita. And even if we had been intimate, it wouldn’t have affected the way I feel about you. Being paired with Chandra was my punishment for going into mandatory refusal. Chandra was willing to make it look good; now I owe her a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

Michael smiled faintly. “Cyber sex.”

”What?!” Nikita clawed at Michael’s arms, but he held her tight.

“Really, it’s more like ... cyber foreplay.”

Nikita began to shake. Not much, but enough for Michael to notice, and he hastened to add, “It’s all part of the plan.”

“Which plan?”

“When I found you ... then they assigned you to the eating disorder clinic ... ” Michael’s eyes clouded over and he held her tightly. “I had a lot of time to think. I still don’t know for certain who kidnaped you in the first place. But I think it’s highly likely it was Section.”

“So?”

“So ... we’ve become predictable, you and I. Section knew I’d find you; they knew I wouldn’t give up. Your health was a radical variable, but you were not important enough for them to ensure your safety. I’ve tried ... but it’s only a matter of time before something happens.”

“How ... how does this fit in with Chandra?”

Michael shrugged. “Our mission was initially unsuccessful. But when Madeleine saw the surveillance tapes, she asked both Chandra and I a lot of questions. It was a good opportunity for us.”

“You and Chandra?”

“No, Nikita, you and I.” Michael paused, then said, “Madeleine believes Chandra and I are having an affair. She believes this began on the mission. To encourage this belief, I send Chandra e-mail on a regular basis.”

“What kind of e-mail?”

Michael had the grace to blush -- not much, but a little. “It is ... somewhat ...”

“Racy?”

“Ah ...”

“Well, are you going to let me read it?”

“If you like.”

“But Chandra --”

“-- has improved her status among the other operatives considerably. She’s given more leeway in some missions. She’s ... protected.”

“Because people are afraid of you? Of what might happen to them if she doesn’t come back?”

Michael looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps.” As an afterthought, he said, “She reports that her dating life has improved since we’ve ... ahh ... well.”

“I bet it has,” Nikita muttered. “And this helps me ...?”

“Because,” Michael said simply, “If Madeleine believes she can no longer use each of us to control the other ... it will be better. And much safer for you.”

“It’s dangerous for Chandra,” Nikita said slowly. “I know you said she agreed to this. But does she know what she’s doing? What does she get out of it? Besides more dates?”

“Chandra doesn’t like Madeleine. It pleases her to be able to fool Madeleine; and, since Madeleine is concentrating on our nonexistent affair, she’s let other aspects of Chandra’s life go unpunished. Chandra’s only a level one op. She’ll never make a higher status. She knows this, and she’s trying to get reassigned to other duties. Until she manages this, our affair is a good way to keep her alive.”

“Oh.”

Nikita suddenly felt very foolish, and Michael must have seen a little of what she was thinking, because he lightly kissed the side of her neck and relaxed his hold on her. “You thought you’d give me my freedom with divorce papers?”

Unable to speak, Nikita nodded and held on to his arms, which were still wrapped around her.

“But Nikita, I don’t want to be free. Not if it involves being without you. All right?”

She nodded again, and Michael finally let her go. He took her hand, led her to their bed and silently, they both climbed in.

“Nikita.”

“Yes?” She looked almost scared, and Michael forced himself to speak softly.

“What would you have done if I signed the papers?”

“Hoped that we could ...”

“...go back and be friends?” Michael suggested, and Nikita nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“I see.” He flicked the light off and waited.

“Michael.”

“Yes, Nikita?”

He heard her turn toward him, though she didn’t reach out for him or move nearer. “Are you ... are you angry with me?”

“No,” he sighed. “No, I’m not angry.”

“Good.”

To prove his point, Michael felt across the sheets for Nikita’s hand and laced his fingers through hers. It was quiet for a few moments. Then he asked softly, “What made you think that I was interested in Chandra?”

“She’s nice. And she’s pretty. Everyone thinks so. And I’m ugly now. ”

“You aren’t ugly. You’ve never been ugly.”

“Michael. I look like a scarecrow. Or a concentration camp victim,” Nikita said crossly.

“I’ve seen you covered in blood from head to foot,” Michael said quietly. “I’ve seen you tortured, beaten, made up like a harlot from Vegas. I’ve seen you in awful clothes; I’ve seen you in no clothes. But I’ve never thought you were ugly.”

Silence. Then, Nikita cleared her throat and took a deep breath.

“Yes, Nikita?”

“I --” she hesitated, then plunged on. “I was just wondering something, Michael.”

“What?” He could feel the tension in the hand he held, and he rubbed his thumb absently against her palm.

“There is another reason I thought you were interested in Chandra. You haven’t ... that is, you don’t act like ...” She struggled for a moment, then in a rush she said, “This is the first time you’ve touched me since we’ve been here, Michael.”

“I didn’t want to push you.”

“Oh.” Silence. She let go of his hand. He felt her move closer to him and then her breath stirred on his cheek. A little hesitatingly, Nikita said, “I ... I wouldn’t mind if you pushed just a little bit.”

Michael reached out and cupped her face in his hands. He brought her gently down for a brief kiss. Nikita put her hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer and the mattress dipped, reversing their positions. Michael loomed above her, an indistinct dark shadow. Lips moved across her forehead, her closed eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. Then he pulled back.

“Michael?” She reached up and brought his face back to hers.

His hands drifted across her body and under her nightclothes. A sigh. An answering moan. His mouth moved over her stomach, so light she couldn’t distinctly feel his lips, but she could feel his breath.

Sometimes when they made love, Nikita cried. And sometimes Michael could make her laugh. But she’d never felt the depth of emotion that emanated from him that night. It wasn’t that he was passionate -- although he was; and it wasn’t that he was gentle -- though he was that, too.

He went very, very slowly, giving her ample opportunity to push him away. Nikita didn’t push him away. She brought him closer. And when they finally lay in a dazed, boneless heap, tangled up in each other and damp with sweat, Nikita closed her eyes, curled herself around Michael and relaxed.

This is what she wanted. She could have made it on friendship. But this kind of communion was better than anything else.

A little breathlessly, Michael said softly, “Nikita.”

“Mmmm ...?”

“You could have ... gone back to being friends?”

“I would have, if that’s what you wanted,” she whispered. Then, after a pause, she admitted, “But I’m glad it’s not.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Go back to what we were.”

They shifted and sorted out their limbs, gently pulling away and pushing closer till they were arranged in a more comfortable pattern.

“Damn,” Nikita muttered.

Michael made a wordless rumbling in his chest; it reverberated through Nikita.

“I forgot today is Thursday. I have to go to New York tomorrow for that damn show.”

“The show’s Saturday,” Michael said sleepily. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

She sighed. “I was going up a day early to find something to wear. I don’t have anything that fits properly.”

Michael yawned and turned them on their sides, pulling her close. “Buy something here,” he murmured. “And leave Saturday morning. Then I can come, too.”

“Well ... do you want to come, Michael?”

“Mmmm ...” Michael agreed.

“But you don’t like New York.”

“I’ll be with you,” he sighed. “I’d go to the dark side of Calcutta, if you came, too.”

Nikita wasn’t sure how awful the dark side of Calcutta was, but she’d seen parts of it that were pretty bad. With that declaration of love, Nikita twisted around, kissed Michael, and then went to sleep.

And this time, neither of them moved an inch.

*****************

The Cirque gallery was near Washington Square, not quite in SoHo but nearer to NYU. In fact, a lot of university students exhibited here; standing outside on the pavement, looking through the huge plate glass window at the black-clad crowd milling around inside, Nikita shivered in the summer heat. “Is there time to go to Banana Republic?”

“Why?”

“I need something black and stretchy. This is all wrong.” Nikita pulled at the hem of her jacket. She was wearing a blue iridescent suit that masked her thinness and brought out her eyes. Nikita believed the bright color took attention away from her bony face and wrists; the jacket sleeves were three-quarter and the skirt was modestly at her knee. “I never should have listened to that lady at Neiman’s. People dress differently in Dallas than they do in New York. I’ll be the only one in color.”

“You look fine.”

“I look like a scrawny peacock,” Nikita corrected, studying her reflection in the glass.

Michael waited, his hand at the small of her back, ready to guide her into the gallery.

“Michael.”

“Nikita, we have to go in. Your picture is waiting, along with some people we need to meet.”

“There are,” she observed, “A lot of people in there that know an awful lot about art. And I don’t know anything.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Michael said. “Remember who you are.”

“I’m having a bit of trouble with that lately,” Nikita said conversationally.

Michael folded his arms and stared at her. “Okay. What’s the real problem?”

“There are people in there who would pay five figures for a square of canvas I’ve splashed paint on. I know I’m no good. You know I’m no good. Even Madeleine knows I’m no good. Why don’t they?”

Michael frowned, then, after a minute, he said, “Beanie Babies.”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you explain the phenomena of Beanie Babies?”

“They’re collectibles ... they’re small ... they’re kind of ... they’re weird, Michael, I don’t understand why people like them.”

“You don’t have to understand the attraction. It’s enough that there is an attraction. Beanie Babies,” he continued, looping an arm around her and watching the crowd inside as if he were at a performance of some kind, “Started out as children’s toys. Then, suddenly, they became collectable. Not for the intrinsic value -- they’re just pieces of material. And not for the sentimental value -- they’re only a few years old. Why?”

“Because people are nuts?” Nikita guessed.

“Correct.” Michael kissed her forehead. “They are a fad. Just like your paintings. Although I’d a lot rather have a painting you did than a Beanie Baby.”

Nikita grinned. “You have to say that. You’re married to me.”

“Mmmm ... ready?”

“Okay.” Nikita took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face and, with Michael at her side, they entered together.

*****************

The days slipped into weeks. Michael went to school. Nikita continued to paint rather lackluster paintings that she knew were bad. In fact, she got to the point that she painted only what would sell; no heart was put into her work at all.

She saved the heart for Michael. They both knew their time was limited, and used it accordingly. As May wore on, the days grew hotter. Nikita began to go to the local Y to exercise rather than run in the neighborhood: it was just too hot. Sometimes after the sun set, she and Michael would take a walk around the neighborhood. If she had her way, they often ended up at Baskin-Robbins or 7-11 -- some place they could get something cold and wet.

Sometimes they went to the movies, but it was difficult to agree on a picture: Nikita didn’t like anything “too real life” which included all slasher and cops-and-robbers movies, most action films and some science fiction. One theater, not too far away, showed foreign movies, so sometimes they went there, but even then they had disagreements.

“I’m not seeing that --” Nikita said, nodding to the marquis.

“Nikita ... it’s French. You know some French. And it’s subtitled.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it’s French, Michael. That means, the whole movie is depressing and then everyone dies at the end. That’s too real life.”

There were other minor problems. Nikita still drempt, and Michael, unfortunately, bore the brunt of her dreams. One night he woke up with her pounding on her chest; he immobilized her and she woke up. “Oh. Michael,” she said, confused. “Good. I thought you were dead. I couldn’t remember if I was doing CPR right or not.”

“We’ll go over it tomorrow,” Michael promised, shakily.

“Okay,” Nikita agreed, and fell immediately back to sleep. Michael pulled her in close, kissed her neck, and tried to follow her example.

The last week of May was particularly hot. The enclosed porch where Nikita painted got excellent light, but it was also like an oven. Nikita worked under a ceiling fan and had another oscillating fan in the doorway to draw in cooler air-conditioned air, but sometime before lunch one day she realized she was soaking with sweat.

She put down her brush and padded out to the hall to look at the thermostat. It was on 72. The thermometer was at 89.

Nikita frowned and jiggled the thermostat, listening for the air conditioner to kick on. When nothing happened, she shrugged, located the number of the repair man and placed a call.

“My house is hot,” she said, getting straight to the point. “I think something’s wrong with the air conditioner. Can you send someone over right away?”