I was thinking about my situation.The way I saw it, she needed me. I didn't need her. I could move out in mere days, and she would be foreclosed on.... Even if I didn't move out for the 9 months it was going to take the bank to foreclose, it was looking like she was going to be homeless then. So...I decided to test my theory. I just cut her off mid sentence."I'll be able to move out in a week or so."She stopped mid syllable and looked as if I slapped her. I could see the fight against tears. There was no need to give a name to Chrissy's husband. He was forever bound to her and could never be confused with anyone else.Having performed his vital tasks of attaching to Chrissy, her husband could rest. He was as helpless as any baby, but would quickly be far less disruptive. He had no lungs to breathe or cry with. He had no digestive tract, so there were no feedings, no spit-up, no burping, no diapers to change. He had no kidneys, relying on Chrissy to filter his blood for him. The. Only at the one site—one technician dubbed it Centerville, a name that quickly stuck aboard ship—were there clear indications of artificial construction."Maybe the real estate developer ran out of money before he could expand," remarked one of the scientists sourly as yet another planetwide scan showed nothing but apparently untenanted acreage.If so, that putative developer had made up for lack of territorial ambition with major activity on his home terrain. At the time of the Argo's visit only. The blood was rushing in my ears, and I remember we stopped a few times for hot, groping kisses behind parked cars and street corners. After he let us into his small apartment, I vaguely noticed how neat it was, and then I was partly-led, partly-carried, partly-dragged into a bedroom where an unmade cot sat invitingly in a corner. We fell onto it in a heap, his hands all over me, grabbing at buttons and zippers, clumsy with passion, lips hot and red from the kissing and nipping. I was divested.