Robert Silverberg - In the Group

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she said a few minutes later.

“I love you,” he said.

“What?”

“I love you.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Come live with me. Please. Please. I’m serious.”

“What?”

“Live with me. Marry me.”

“What?”

“There’s only one thing I ask. No Group stuff. That’s all. Otherwise you can do as you please. I’m wealthy. I’ll make you happy. I love you.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“I love you.”

“Mister, you must be out of your head.”

“Please. Please.”

“A lunatic. Unless you’re trying to make fun of me.”

“I’m perfectly serious, I assure you. Live with me. Be my wife.”

“A lunatic,” she said. “I’m getting out of here!” She leaped up and looked for her clothes. “Jesus, a madman!”

“No,” he said, but she was on her way, not even pausing to get dressed, running helter-skelter from the room, her pink buttocks flashing like beacons as she made her escape. The door slammed. He shook his head. He sat rigid for half an hour, an hour, some long timeless span, thinking of Kay, thinking of Group, wondering what they’d be doing tonight, whose turn it was. At length he rose and put on his clothes and left the hotel. A terrible restlessness assailed him. He popped to Karachi and stayed ten minutes. He popped to Vienna. To Hangchow. He didn’t stay. Looking for what? He didn’t know. Looking for Kay? Kay didn’t exist. Looking. Just looking. Pop. Pop. Pop.