Sweet， sharp white teeth—a smile. In the open cup of the armchair she was like a bee， sting and honey combined.
Yes， duty....I turned over in my mind the pages of my records； indeed there is not a thought about the fact that strictly speaking I should...
I was silent. Exaltedly， and probably stupidly， I smiled， looking into the pupils of her eyes. I followed first one eye and then the other， and in each of them I saw myself， a millimetric self imprisoned in those tiny rainbow cells. Then again the lips and the sweet pain of blooming.
In each Number of the United State there is an unseen metronome that tick-tocks silently； without looking at the clock we know exactly the time of day within five minutes. But now my metronome had stopped， and I did not know how much time had passed. In fright I grasped my badge with its clock from under the pillow. Glory be to the Well-Doer！ I had twenty minutes more！ But those minutes were such tiny， short ones！ They ran！ And I wanted to tell her so many things. I wanted to tell her all about myself； about the letter from O- and about that terrible evening when I gave her a child； and for some reason also about my childhood， about our mathematician Plappa， and about the square root of minus one； and how， when I attended the glorification on the Day of Unanimity for the first time in my life， I wept bitterly because there was an inkstain on my unif—on such a holy day！
I-330 lifted her head. She leaned on her elbow. In the corners of her lips two long， sharp lines and the dark angle of lifted eyebrows—a cross.
"Perhaps on that day..." her brow grew， darker； she took my hand and pressed it hard. "Tell me， will you ever forget me？ Will you always remember me？"
"But why such talk？ What is it， I-， dear？ "
She was silent. And her eyes were already sliding past me， through me， away into the distance. I suddenly heard the wind beating the glass with its enormous wings. Of course it had been blowing all the while， but I had not noticed it until then. And for some reason those cawing birds over the Green Wall came to my mind.
I-330 shook her head with a gesture of throwing something off. Once more she touched me for a second with her whole body， as an aero before landing touches the ground for a second with all the tension of a recoiling spring.
"Well， give me my stockings， quick！"
The stockings were on the desk， on the open manuscript， on page 124. Being in haste， I caught some of the pages and they were scattered over the floor， so that it was hard to put them back in the proper order. Moreover， even if I put them in that order there will be no real order； there are obstacles to that anyway， some undiscoverable unknowns.
"I can"t bear it，" I said. "You are here， near me， yet you seem to be behind an opaque ancient wall； through that wall I hear a rustle and voices； I cannot make out the words， I don"t know what is there. I cannot bear it. You seem always to withhold something from me； you have never told me what kind of place it was where I found myself that day beneath the Ancient House. Where did those corridors lead？ Why was the doctor there—or perhaps all that never happened？"
I-330 put her hands on my shoulders and slowly entered deeply into my eyes.
"You want to know all？"
"Yes， I do."
"And you would not be afraid to follow me anywhere？ Wherever I should lead you？"
"Anywhere！"
"All right then. I promise you， after the holiday， if only ...Oh， yes， there is your Integral. I always forget to ask； will it soon be completed？"
"No. "If only" what？ Again！ "If only" what？"
She， already at the door： "You shall see."
I was alone again. All that she left behind her was a barely perceptible scent， similar to that of a sweet， dry， yellow dust of flowers from behind the Green Wall； also， sunk deeply within me， question marks like small hooks similar to those the ancients used for fishing （vide the Prehistoric Museum）.
...Why did she suddenly ask about the Integral？
