The Florians. Brian Stableford

She said nothing, and if there were signs in her face, I couldn’t read them. But then logic wasn’t her department. What she wanted was some acknowledgment of the fact that she’d been right to tell me—and some apology for the fact that I hadn’t been ready to listen.

      “You’re right,” I said. “It is important. Next time, I’ll...well, I just didn’t realize. Thanks.”

      Without so much as a smile, she disappeared. I looked back at the words, and tried to sort out what thoughts had mingled with them as I’d spoken. I knew what I’d said...but what had I said to her?

      I lay back again, and for the second time I tried to unwind.

      But I couldn’t get to sleep. I turned over and over and over, knowing that I was tired, but my thoughts just wouldn’t die away. They clouded over, but they remained loud, made themselves heard. Trying to exclude sensory impressions merely left my mind awash with ideas, memories, half-formed sentences. My attention leaped from point to point in bizarre sequences controlled by the imagistic logic of the mind, often devoid of all apparent reason.

      Hours passed before consciousness slowly and reluctantly yielded its grip upon me.