Diane started to say something, but he went on, "Now I've got to convince Leonov that he can trust us, can trust me. With this thing sticking in my guts. And he probably knows about it; they have intelligence files on it. How can he trust me? How can he trust any one of us?"
"But you trust him, don't you?"
"He never killed any of us."
Diane asked, "Had you killed other people, before, when you were flying combat missions in fighter planes?"
"Never. I never even touched the firing button."
"And if it had been a male cosmonaut," she went on, "would you feel so guilty about it?"
He stared at her. "No, I guess not."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," he said vaguely. "Men expect to fight, I guess. Ifs different . . ."
"You've let this thing hang around your neck for how long now?"
He shrugged. "Ten years, just about."
"That's long enough," Diane said firmly. "It's over. It's done with. You can't bring her back. And it wasn't your fault, to begin wi—"
"I've had all the psychology lectures," he snapped. "It was my fault. Nobody else's."
"So you've got a built-in excuse for keeping a wall around yourself and not taking any chances on getting hurt again."
"Me get hurt?"
"Yes, you! You're not worried about some Russian woman you never knew. You're worried about Chester Arthur Kinsman, worried that people won't like you if they knew you killed somebody. Worried that Leonov won't be your buddy anymore. That's what's eating at you. Not her. She's been dead for ten years."
"Don't tell me what's churning my guts!"
"Chet," Diane said more softly, leaning her head against his bare chest, "you lost control, didn't you? For the first time in your life you let your emotions take over."
"And committed murder."
"So ever since then you've kept yourself all bottled up, kept your emotions under lock and key."
