CLAIRE:  (an instant playing) It’s a secret.  A secret?—­it’s a trick.  Distilled from the most fragile flowers there are.  It’s only air—­pausing—­playing; except, far in, one stab of red, its quivering heart—­that asks a question.  But here’s the trick—­I bred the air-form to strength.  The strength shut up behind us I’ve sent—­far out. (troubled) I’ll know tomorrow.  And I have another gift for Breath of Life; some day—­though days of work lie in between—­some day I’ll give it reminiscence.  Fragrance that is—­no one thing in here but—­reminiscent. (silence, she raises wet eyes) We need the haunting beauty from the life we’ve left.  I need that, (he takes her hands and breathes her name) Let me reach my country with you.  I’m not a plant.  After all, they don’t—­accept me.  Who does—­accept me?  Will you?

TOM:  My dear—­dear, dear, Claire—­you move me so!  You stand alone in a clearness that breaks my heart, (her hands move up his arms.  He takes them to hold them from where they would go—­though he can hardly do it) But you’ve asked what you yourself could answer best.  We’d only stop in the country where everyone stops.

CLAIRE:  We might come through—­to radiance.

TOM:  Radiance is an enclosing place.

CLAIRE:  Perhaps radiance lighting forms undreamed, (her reckless laugh) I’d be willing to—­take a chance, I’d rather lose than never know.

TOM:  No, Claire.  Knowing you from underneath, I know you couldn’t bear to lose.

CLAIRE:  Wouldn’t men say you were a fool!

TOM:  They would.

CLAIRE:  And perhaps you are. (he smiles a little) I feel so desperate, because if only I could—­show you what I am, you might see I could have without losing.  But I’m a stammering thing with you.

TOM:  You do show me what you are.

CLAIRE:  I’ve known a few moments that were life.  Why don’t they help me now?  One was in the air.  I was up with Harry—­flying—­high.  It was about four months before David was born—­the doctor was furious—­pregnant women are supposed to keep to earth.  We were going fast—­I was flying—­I had left the earth.  And then—­within me, movement, for the first time—­stirred to life far in air—­movement within.  The man unborn, he too, would fly.  And so—­I always loved him.  He was movement—­and wonder.  In his short life were many flights.  I never told anyone about the last one.  His little bed was by the window—­he wasn’t four years old.  It was night, but him not asleep.  He saw the morning star—­you know—­the morning star.  Brighter—­stranger—­reminiscent—­and a promise.  He pointed—­’Mother’, he asked me, ‘what is there—­beyond the stars?’ A baby, a sick baby—­the morning star.  Next night—­the finger that pointed was—­(suddenly bites her own finger) But, yes, I am glad.  He would always have tried to move and too much would hold him.  Wonder would die—­and he’d laugh at soaring, (looking down, sidewise) Though I liked his voice.  So I wish you’d stay near me—­for I like your voice, too.