It was perhaps, Trigger thought, like an unspoken
ultimatum along those lines. And she'd felt herself freezing up a little
in response to the thought.

The apartment was very beautiful. Nelauk, she guessed. Or somebody else
like that. Brule's taste was good, but he simply wouldn't have thought
of a lot of the details here. Neither, Trigger conceded, would she. Some
of the details looked pretty expensive.

He came back into the living room in a dressing gown, carrying a couple
of drinks. It was going to get awkward, all right.

"Like it?" he asked, waving a hand around.

"It's beautiful," Trigger said honestly. She smiled. She sipped at the
drink and placed it on the arm of her chair. "Somebody like an interior
decorator help you with it?"

Brule laughed and sat down opposite her with his drink. The laugh had
sounded the least bit annoyed. "You're right," he said. "How did you
guess?"

"You never went in for art exactly," she said. "This room is a work of
art."

He nodded. He didn't look annoyed any more. He looked smug. "It is,
isn't it?" he said. "It didn't even cost so very much. You just have to
know how, that's all."

"Know how about what?" Trigger asked.

"Know how to live," Brule said. "Know what it's all about. Then it's
easy."

He was looking at her. The smile was there. The warm, rich voice was
there. All the old charm was there. It was Brule. And it wasn't. Trigger
realized she was twisting her hands together. She looked down at them.
The little jewel in the ring Holati Tate had given her to wear blinked
back with crimson gleamings.

Crimson!

She drew a long, slow breath.

"Brule," she said.

"Yes?" said Brule. At the edge of her vision she saw the smile turn
eager.

Trigger said, "Give me the plasmoid." She raised her eyes and looked at
him. He'd stopped smiling.

Brule looked back at her a long time. At least it seemed a long time to
Trigger. The smile suddenly returned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, almost plaintively. "If it's
a joke, I don't get it."

"I just said," Trigger repeated carefully, "give me the plasmoid. The
one you stole."

Brule took a swallow of his drink and put the glass down on the floor.
"Aren't you feeling well?" he asked solicitously.

"Give me the plasmoid."

"Honestly, Trigger." He shook his head. He laughed. "What _are_ you
talking about?"

"A plasmoid. The one you took. The one you've got here."

Brule stood up. He studied her face,