PART TEN

_October 5-9, 1977_

_The Shack--Wednesday, October 5, 4_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

She switched off the half-track engine, and as the spotlight faded, the world directly ahead of her blinked out.

She opened the cab door and stepped out into heaven. Above her, the gorgeous enormous full Earth, gleaming blue-greenly against the black velvet stardiamonded backdrop of everywhere--always out there.

And right ahead, now, the muted twin glows of the Shack itself and the Shack guardhouse.

She flashed on her helmet lamp, picked her way over Moon crust to the guardhouse. Looked in, exchanged smiles, and went on to the Shack.

She sat down in front of the tank, where the greyish-white ganglions had long since ceased to show discrete patterns. Now they crowded together, piled on each other, multiplied, multiplying. The daily “watering” of a month ago would have been hopelessly inadequate now; a steady trickle of nutrient fed the tank from a storage drum--and even the daily ten gallons hardly seemed to account for the burgeoning of the white cells.

Lisa looked. Watched. Stared. And _listened_.

A nagging thought stopped her. She switched on her radio.

“Jim?”

“That you, Miss Trovi?” From the guardhouse.

“Yes. I meant to ask--will you call me at six? I want to get back for dinner tonight.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

She switched off, and let herself drift into--what? where?--

Far out. Or far in? That used to be a joke, _so far out you’re in, so far in you’re out, but it’s no joke, it’s not funny, it’s fun_.

_Swing on a star ... climb up a moonbeam_ ... featherlight, fearfree, far sands of home.... _Hello!... Hello, I know you, don’t I?... Don’t know your name, but ... funny-fun! ... the soul is familiar_....

Foolish to want a name. Baby has no name. What name for baby? _Doug, we’ll call him Doug.... Hello, Doug_....

... and the well opened up again, great valentine lake of lovelygood, lace-edged, beating heart, two hearts in three-quarter phase....

_Where are you? Hello? Hello?_

_Oh!_

“Oh. Oh, hi. Six _already_?”

“No,” Jim, the guard, was leaning over her, helmet to helmet. “They been trying to call you from Dome, Miss Trovi. We kept gettin’ the call on our sets, but you didn’t answer, so I figure your radio’s off, and come in to tell you.”

“Oh. Thanks, Jim.”

She switched on the helmet set.

“Hello?”

“Lee! Thank God! You had us worried. Been trying to get you the last twenty minutes!”

“Who’s that? Thad?”

“Yuh. Listen, we’ve a call for you. Earthside. Better hurry. We can’t hold the frequency much longer.”

_Earthside?_

“Johnny!” She jumped up. “Hold it, Thad,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

_Mexcity--Wednesday, October 5, 5:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“I’m sorry, Johnny. We’ve been doing our damnedest. She’s on her way back now, but Relay will cut out in two minutes.”

The distant voice was Chris’, but yet not Chris. He couldn’t get _through_, somehow.

“Okay,” he said. “Look, I don’t have to talk to her. Will you send her down?”

“I’ll tell her you called. I’ll tell her you asked her to come. I can’t _send_ her, Johnny.”

“Okay.” _Bastard! You’ll tell her--yeah! But what? What can you tell her to be so sure she won’t want to come?_ “Okay. If that’s it, that’s it.”

“I’ll tell her,” the voice named Chris said again.

“Hey! Chris! Listen!” He felt his throat tighten up, but the words squeezed past. “Chris! If she--never mind if--Chris, can you make room for me to come up Sunday? Maybe she ought to stay--”

“I don’t know--”

“We-are-sorry-to-interrupt-this-call-but-Relay-Station-has-passed-out- of-range-This-is-a-recorded-message-We-are-sorry-to-interrupt--”

The sound cut out. Johnny turned from the mike, and saw Jed’s hand on the switch.

“Well,” he said. “Thanks. I--appreciate everything.”

Harbridge took a single step forward. “All right, Johnny. I’m glad we could get you through. Wish you’d connected better. But I imagine she’ll be down Sunday. She _is_ on the subpoena list, you know, so--”

“She is?” He hadn’t even read that. He’d forgotten about it. The headline was all he saw, really. “You--wouldn’t care to tell me where Phil Kutler is?” he asked, feeling the ice in his gut again, just like he felt it when he saw the paper, her name, and Phil’s picture.

DANCER PREGNANT, SAYS MOON DOC

“No. No, I don’t think I’d care to tell you that, John. In fact--Al, I think I hear your phone.” He looked meaningfully at the young man, who undraped himself from the corner of the desk, mock-saluted, and left. “Now let’s get something straight, John,” Harbridge said. “I got your call through. That’s as far as I go. You had no damn business coming in here again. If you had half a brain, you’d realize what it means if they get you into that hearing room _now_. If you care about Lisa at all--Well, that’s your affair. But you busting in here is _my_ business. This is the last time you do it. Try it again, and you’ll find yourself in the jug before you’re halfway in the main door. You follow me?”

“_All_ the way,” Johnny said. “Sir.”

“All right. I’m going to do one more thing for you, and then I’m through. I wouldn’t do it for _you_; but it happens to be more convenient for me this way. I’m going to get you the hell out of here without any of the process servers who are outside by now getting hold of you. After that, will you please, kindly, _get lost_?”

“I hear you talking,” Johnny said tightly. “I’m not sure I follow you though.”

“You follow me all right. Come on.”

Johnny followed. There was nothing else he could do. What counted now was Lisa, Lisa and nothing else. No one else. If he had to eat Jed Harbridge’s crud, he could do that too. _And remember it too_--but for now, he followed. He followed the General up to the private parking roof, and accepted the loan of a heli, and took off.

For where?

Home seemed less unlikely than most other places.

_Dollars Dome--Thursday, October 6, 2_ P.M.

The woman was positively _glowing_ at him.

“You _do_ understand, Lee? I can’t take a chance on letting him come up. Not now. Maybe in a month or so, if things quiet down. But one more mess now--I’m sorry to put it that way, Lisa--”

“I _do_ understand, Chris.” She smiled impishly. “Anyhow, you wanted publicity, didn’t you?”

“God help me, I did.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You know, I keep feeling as if you’re just sitting there waiting for me to do a reverse switch and tell you I’ve changed my mind and sure he can come.”

“Well, it would be nice. Do you think it would help if I _concentrated_?”

“Concentrate any harder, and--I don’t know. I know I won’t change my mind. If I _could_, I _would_ have, by now.”

“All right, then.” But she still sat, smiling.

“You sure you don’t want to go, after all?”

She shook her head. “I don’t _want_ to. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be a good idea.” Her laughter poured out. “I can just see myself on that witness stand!”

He winced. She stood up.

“It’s all right, dear. I’m not _going_ down. Tell them to come get me, if they want me that much.”

He tried visualizing that one, and liked it. “I might just do that,” he said, and then reluctantly: “About Johnny, Lee. What do you want me to do?”

“Let him come up.”

_Damn you, woman! You know what I mean._ “Short of that,” he said gruffly.

“Give him my love. Tell him I want him to come.”

“You don’t want to--well, send a letter or anything? I could deliver it myself. Privacy--”

She hesitated. “No. No, I don’t think that’s the way. Oh, Chris, don’t _worry_ so! If _I’m_ not worried, why should you be? It’s going to be all right. _I know it._”

The worst part was: he believed her. You couldn’t _not_ believe, when she was there with you. But--

“Have a good trip,” she said.

“Thanks. Take care of yourself, Lee.” She moved to the door with that fantastic grace she seemed to have developed lately. “Oh, Lee--”

She turned back, smiling.

“If you don’t mind--I’d just as lief you stayed in Dome while I’m gone. I’d hate to think of you out at the Shack--Well, like yesterday. It bothers--”

“Oh, stop _worrying_, dear.” She turned, and was gone.

_Baja California Spaceport--Sunday, October 9, 5_ P.M. (_P.S.T._)

“No, she didn’t come this trip.”

“Well, what do you suggest, Dr. Christensen? Will you accept delivery, or should we return to sender?”

“Can you tell me the name of the sender?”

“I suppose--I don’t see why not. Colonel Wendt.”

“I’ll take it,” he said decisively.

The Port Manager handed it over with relief. “All right. Will you see the reporters now? They’ve been waiting....”

_Rockland--Sunday, October 9, 10_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He couldn’t see why he’d never thought of it before.

All the times he’d sat in this room and stared at that damn impregnable glass wall, and never realized he had something so simple that could--if not damage it, then at least--make an impression on it.

He got up from the couch and picked up the five darts from the floor. Two others stuck to the curved surface of the giant window, both from previous tries. He had been leaving them there, timing himself to see how long it took to get them all up. But that didn’t work, because he didn’t stick with the game. Now he got an absurd satisfaction out of wrenching the two suction cups loose. He’d keep score the other way instead--see how many _turns_ it took to get them all up.

At least it wouldn’t be too quick.

Not that it mattered; it was ten now; if she didn’t call soon, she wasn’t going to. Unless the landings were _really_ late this time?

He dialed for the news, and sat back, not listening to all the headline part. Landing times would come at the end.

The first shuttle had been scheduled for five-thirty, Central time. That was two and a half hours now he’d sat waiting for the phone chime; dialing for no-news; pacing the room up and down; opening the liquor cabinet and closing it again; getting--and forgetting--five cups of hot coffee from the bleak kitchen.

Somewhere along the way, he’d thought of the darts.

Given a near-impossible combination of luck and skill, you could make a suction dart stick on curved glass one time in--how many? That’s what was wrong with the first scoring system; this way he’d find out.

He threw all seven, one after another, as fast as he could. One caught, clung, dropped. The others just bounced. The phone chimed.

_The phone!_

He reached for the switch, and the screen lit up, and--_damn it to Hell, you fat bastard, where’s Lee?_--it was Chris!

“She didn’t come,” Johnny said.

Chris shook his head. “She asked me to give you a message.”

“Yeah? Okay, give it.”

“She _couldn’t come_.”

“No?”

“The doctor says....”

“_Which_ doctor? Ole buddy Phil?”

“No, the Medic. She’s not supposed to take the trip till--”

“You always were a bum liar, Chris. So she didn’t come. So?”

“All right, I’m a bum liar. If you want to know, I wouldn’t let her. And you ought to have your head examined, for wanting her to. She’s been subpoenaed.”

“Me too. If they get around to serving it.”

“Yeah, but her left isn’t as good as yours. Do you want to hear the message or not?”

“Sure. Why not? What is it? Love and kisses?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s _exactly_ it.”

“Okay.” But he had seen Chris hesitate. There was more. He waited.

Chris waited.

“All right, spill it, will you? What’s the rest?”

“You turning mindreader too?” Chris said nastily.

“Leave it lay, man,” Johnny growled. “_What else did she say?_”

“She said for you to come up.”

“Okay. Got room next trip?”

Chris shook his head.

“The one after?”

Same bit.

“_No_ room, huh? She stays up, I stay down, right?”

Chris never said a word.

Johnny switched off and got out the bottle and picked up the darts, and started keeping score by how many belts it took to get a dart up.

Damn things wouldn’t stick at all.

PART ELEVEN

_October 13-18, 1977_

_Dollars Dome--Thursday, October 13, 3:30_ P.M.

“It bothered Chris too,” she said.

“I’ll bet. And you can’t see why?” He watched her face with every bit of intelligence and knowledge at his command. He found nothing there but serenity--and some tenderness and amusement.

“Phil, what on Earth--well, all right, what in Space--could _happen_? Am I supposed to be afraid of the dark?”

“Everything spooky spooks worse in the dark,” he said. “And kid, this bit with you and the Shack has got spooky.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can say to that.” She stood up, smiling, but a little impatient now.

“Lee--suppose I say you _can’t_ go?”

She did not seem to understand.

“Suppose I _forbid_ you to?”

“Phil!”

It was complete in itself. The one word said it all. _By whose authority? With what right? For what reason? Darling--you’re fooling, aren’t you?_

“Suppose I said _Chris_ forbade it?”

“You mean you want to know what I’d do if I were actually made to believe I _couldn’t_ go?”

He nodded. She thought a moment.

“I’d try anyhow. Then if I _couldn’t_--I mean, _really_ couldn’t--” She grinned. “--I wouldn’t.”

_What does she want me to do? Throw my arms around her and hold her here?_ Maybe she did: it was a nice thought, anyhow.

Her smile changed, and he remembered, sharply, too vividly, that one kiss the day she told him about--

The baby. _Johnny’s_ baby.

“Phil, I suppose this is the time to say it. You are the kindest, most decent, most _loving_ human being I’ve ever known. Sometimes I wish it was you who needed me.”

That was all. And it was enough. Of course that was the difference, and he had, really, always understood, just as well as he did now.

But it mattered that she had told him. It mattered a great deal.

“Thank you, Lisa. I _do_ love you very much.” The words tasted good. Fresh. _Pure._ He was glad he had said them. “I--almost wish I needed you too.” _But I’d rather love you._

When she was gone, he sat and studied that one out. He didn’t get very far. It was easy to analyze--simple masochistic crap. And/or false superiority: _Better to love and not have than to be needful and get?_ Feed that to the pigs--or the bugs. It wasn’t for Kutler. Except it was. So?

_So nothing. So live with it. Someday you go back to Earth and get analyzed, lad. Till then, don’t try to understand. Relax and enjoy it._

Which was the damnedest part. He _did_ enjoy it.

He got that settled in his mind; then he tried conscientiously to worry about Lee. She had gone to the Shack again, of course. She was out there now, dreaming whatever she dreamed when she stared at the wild growth there. It was _dangerous_--

He laughed. What in hell could be dangerous about it?

_Spooky things ... scared of the dark_.... And of course: _scared of bugs_. Just that simple.

He stopped trying to worry.

_But what made her think he and Doug Laughlin were so much alike?_

He was curious; he dug Laughlin’s pre-trip psych profile out of the files.

She wasn’t so wrong.

_Rockland--Friday, October 14, 5_ A.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He wouldn’t be able to do it until all the darts stuck. He knew he wouldn’t. But he knew when the darts stuck, he could. Easy. No sweat. He knew just how, but....

_Won’ work till they stick, gotta all stick_....

He kept throwing. Took a lot of drinks to make one stick. Got to do it soon, run out of drinks otherwise.

Damn bottle was empty. More in cellar, but cellar Hell of a ways, besides he didn’t want. _Lousy stuff. Gets you nowhere._

He laughed.

_Man, I wen’ nowhe’.... This boy did that job.... Yessir, Johnny Wendt went, went nowheah atall...._

Stupid business, two darts won’t stick. _All the other ones stick, what’s matter with two?_

Maybe no-good darts?

He picked them up again and took them to the wall. Stuck one on, then the other. _See? Stick fine. See?_

He almost cheated, but it was no good, it wouldn’t _work_ unless he _threw_ them all and _made_ ’em stick.

He took the two off again and went back to the couch. Threw and picked up and threw and picked up and threw and picked up and had to get another bottle after all and threw and picked up and threw, and _there you are_.

_You wouldn’t believe it, both ’fem stick ’tonce!_

He got up and went out the back door, feeling in his pocket for keys. Somebody came up and asked him if he was Wendt, but he fooled ’em, just said, “Man, I ain’t even come yet,” and kept going, to the garage.

He got in the car and _it_ Wendt. _Jus’ fine._

_Wendt, went, when it went, Wendt went straight into the damn glass wall._

Tricky going for Wendt, but this man used to be crack pilot. Nerves of steel--all that. Slambang into window-wall, crrr-aaa-ck, and slam on brake, and _there you are_....

He climbed out and walked into the living room, feeling fine.

Not many guys could do that. _Not damn few very many._

_Crack-smash that damn wall and not touch a thing inside. Car right outside where it ought to be. Johnny inside. Good. But no damn curved glass wall. Seven damn darts and a couple of jugs, or a few maybe, and the ole car, and there you are: no damn glass wall!_

He was tired. He lay down to sleep.

_Red Dome--Friday, October 14, 4:30_ A.M. (_S.S.T._)

They sat in a group around the woman, Maria. Nobody talked.

They sat for a long time in silence. Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. Then Maria began to murmur. Nobody moved. The tape recorder ran, as it had run, since they started. Only two of them in the group knew English well, but all of them _listened_ with the same deep attention.

From time to time, someone came in and took over a seat from one of the circled sitters. Maria stayed where she was, quite content.

_Rockland--Saturday, October 15_

Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Doug, because Doug wasn’t Doug now, just a million little Dougs and his leg itched where the Dougs kept biting, _damn! damn Lisa, Lisa wouldn’t scream, ice cream, whipped cream, Lisa whip cream, lovely Lee, Lee, Lee...._

“_Leeeee!_”

He opened his eyes for one moment, saw the ceiling of the living room, felt floor rug underneath, and heard his own voice screaming, “_Leeeeee!_”

He closed his eyes, shut his mouth tight, moved convulsively, rolled over, and lay on the floor a long time, sobbing without sound, dry angry sobs that shook his frame and jarred his guts--but brought no release, so after whatever time, long time, it was, he stood up, got his balance, and walked steadily through the house into the kitchen.

Turned, went back through the living room and bedroom to the shower. Shower first. He had a sour smell that sickened him.

He came out of the shower and blower and stood in the bedroom and thought it would be nice to sleep. _One drink and go to sleep...?_

He put his shorts on, and a shirt, socks, shoes. Cup of coffee, maybe ... _might wake up_. He didn’t _want_ to sleep again. _Okay--coffee._ He started back through the living room to the kitchen. The house was a wreck, and the floor was full of broken glass, but that....

He saw the car outside, and remembered....

There it was. _The damn window was busted!_

How in Hell had he managed _that?_

He could figure that out later. And clean things up later. Right now, no time--first things first.

First thing was Lee. _Quick!_ before he was too late. _Too late already, anyhow: too late for Doug, for ever, too late._

Too late for lots of things, too late for Johnny? Maybe, but if not too late for Lee, then maybe...?

He remembered some more. He couldn’t go.

_Couldn’t_ go.

_Couldn’t?_

He took the word out, out of his aching head, and looked at it. Studied it, turned it over, tried to turn it inside out, but there it was, all the time, like a neon light:

c-o-u-l-d-n-apostrophe-t

Couldn’t.

He shook his head tiredly, but the letters danced behind his eyelids even when he closed his eyes. He was very very tired. He took off his jacket and went into the bedroom and took off his trousers and lay down.

When he awoke again, it was dusk. He knew exactly what he had to do. He was cold sober, not hung over, fiercely hungry too. But he was afraid it might already be too late to get things done today.

Which day? Friday? Saturday? _Sunday?_ Eating could wait.

He went to the phone, and flicked the switch, the operator thought he was kidding, but she finally told him: Saturday. And almost eight o’clock.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with two thick slabs of rye bread and a stack of old dried-looking boiled ham slices from the refrigerator. He was too hungry to care if it was dry or tasteless.

He took one large bite, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He started out, then remembered seeing a quart of milk when he got the ham. He went back, and drank all but an inch or so of the milk, right from the wax container. _Then_ he went out, a little worried, wondering if he’d done something to the heli too, that he didn’t recall.

The funny thing was, he was so set on getting to someone from the Committee, to tell them he’d take the subpoena now, that when the little man in the brown suit stepped out from behind the hangar, and served it on him he didn’t even think to be surprised. The only thing that startled him was the big bass voice asking his name; it came from such a _medium_ guy.

Afterwards, a hundred feet up and building speed, he was astonished at the man still being there. He shook his head and grinned. “Guts!” he said out loud to nobody, admiringly.

Later yet, over Philadelphia, he had to decide which way to go, and realized he didn’t know where they were firing from this trip. It occurred to him, hovering there, that he was not quite as clear-headed as he felt he was. The sandwich was still in his pocket, for instance, and he didn’t know where to go. Also, belatedly, he wondered if he’d have any trouble with _this_ bunch about going up.

He kept on south. It would be either Andes or St. Thom, that much he was sure of. Just beyond Wilmington he saw a field with service stations and no traffic to speak of. He dropped, left the machine for servicing whatever slipshod way the station did it, and went inside to the phones.

_Senor_ McLafferty was not at home. He was in Mexcity, at a verrree imporrrtant conferrrence.

“Can you tell me where to reach him?” Johnny asked urgently.

She was most sorrreee, but the number was one she was not allowed to give.

“Can _you_ reach him?” There was no time for arguing.

Reluctantly: Yes, she could.

“All right, now listen. Call him _right away_. I’m at a pay phone, and I haven’t got much time, and believe me, he wants to hear from me. My name is John Wendt, you understand? The number here is Wilmington Five-seven nine oh-eight jay six. Please ask him to call me _as quickly as possible_. You got the name, now, John--”

“Yes, _Senor_. I _know_ the name.” He relaxed. He could see the difference. She did know the name, and she would call McLafferty. He flicked off, bought a soda, and sat down in the old metal chair out front to wait for the call back.

It was midnight here. Ten, Central time. The rocket would blast at eight ack emma Central, _latest_--seven, more likely--from wherever they were shooting from. If the idiot congressman called back but _fast_, and if it was St. Thom, he could make it. Andes was probably impossible even now.

_Dollars Dome--Sunday, October 16, 4:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Thad Bourgnese pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and passed the news wire across the desk to Kutler. “Here we go again,” he said.

Phil glanced down the sheet rapidly. “Could be,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put any money on _where_ we go. Or he goes. Or--”

“She goes? Obviously, friend: whither he goes. I mean, you’re the doctor; you’ve noticed, I’m sure?”

“Only thing I’m not sure of,” Phil laughed, “is what you mean. Was it the belly or the heart I was supposed to diagnose? On second thought, that’s not the only thing I’m not sure of. It’s practically lost in the multitude.”

“All right. Here’s another one for you. How in the name of all that’s holy did he get on that ship? Last time I heard Chris on the subject, J. Wendt wasn’t going to hit Moondirt again till death did them.”

“One of the many uncertainties I mentioned,” Phil said noncommitally. “You never know. A lot can happen in a week Earthside. Or maybe Chris was willing to take the risk if he was on the same trip....”

“The _trip_ wasn’t the problem. They could keep him under, like last time. I dunno--the old man’s gettin’ soft, maybe--” He broke off.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, as Lisa pushed the door open. “What brings you back from the Great Unknown so early and all of a glow?”

She gave him a smile-in-passing, but her question was for Phil. “Is he coming _with Chris_?”

“Dunno, honey. They’re both coming. Hard to say whose idea it was or who’s talking to whom.” Thad was right about that _all-of-a-glow_ bit. _Pregnant women get that way_, he told himself, and now with Johnny coming....

“Hold on, beautiful. Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s bad manners to listen through keyholes? If we had a keyhole, I mean.”

“But I _wasn’t_--”

“They’re still running radiowire service, chum,” Phil stepped in. “Or were, last I heard.” Odd, now it came time to accept the idea, admit it, quit nibbling around the edges, how easy it was. Damn sight easier than querying and wondering about things that just didn’t _fit_, any other way. “Glad you stopped by, kid,” he said to Lee. “We’ve got to get moving with the new program. Never catch you any more when you’re not working or sleeping or out visiting your buggy buddies.”

“All right. But did you get the news report yet?” He nodded. “May I--?” He passed it over.

She looked it through quickly and handed it back.

“Nothing you didn’t already know, hey?” Phil stood up, trying to look brisk and efficient. “The more I think of it, the more I think we better get that new program set up _now_. I have a feeling,” he said in Thad’s direction, “I may be losing my chief assistant headshrinker a little sooner than I expected.”

He hustled Lee out of the room ahead of him, and set a fast pace for his office. He needed a little time to think, before he verbalized into his conscious intellectual Gestalt the reality that so far existed for him only in awareness.

And before the verbalizing, he had to determine--if he could--how much _she_ knew.

He closed his office door, and switched on the Busy-light. No approach like the obvious, he decided.

“Lee, how _did_ you know about Johnny?” he asked as soon as she was settled in a chair.

“How--? Oh. I thought you really thought I got a wire.” She looked at him almost warily. “I told you before, Phil, I _knew_ he’d come. When it was time.”

“Just feminine intuition?”

He had intended the remark to be neutral and light. It came out harshly sardonic.

Lisa sat forward, startled. “What do--” she started. She searched Phil’s face for--what? He didn’t know. Then she withdrew: her eyes turned inward; she sat back, not relaxed as before, but erect, spring-coiled for some as-yet-undetermined action.

“No,” she said finally. “Not feminine intuition, Phil. How about just _intuition_? The kind anyone can have?”

_Damn you!_ the outraged seeker within shrieked. _Bitch!_

She _knew_, and wouldn’t tell.

_But does she know she knows?_ The doctor was back. “All right, I’ll buy that,” he said. “For now, anyhow.” He stood up and went to the window. Looking out, because he couldn’t hurt her and see her hurt, he said, “Let me ask you another one.”

“Yes?” She was all self-possessed again. That tender-amusement bit. _Okay, kid, brace yourself; you’ll need it!_

“What makes you think Doug Laughlin was so much like me?” And he held his breath. If he was wrong--or if she lied--he would never know which it had been. The words flew from him, even as he tried to call them back: once spoken, they wiped out all slower safer ways to know for _sure_.

“Well, darling, there are so _many_--_Did_ I tell you that? I didn’t mean to. It was such a wild thought--Come to think of it, maybe it _is_ ‘feminine’ intuition, Phil. Maybe something to do with being pregnant, or--something like that? Because I sure do a lot of it these days. I never used to. Not as _much_, anyhow.... Maybe I’m just more relaxed, so that I _know_ when I think something, or when I just--_feel_ it. I mean, feel it’s _true_, so if I wasn’t watching, or rather, if I were less _aware_ of what goes on inside me, I might think I was thinking, or think I had _heard_ it or read it somewhere or actually _seen_ it. You know.”

“I know,” he said. “I know very well. Because _I_ thought I _heard_ you say that about Doug. And now you think you did. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” It was honest bewilderment.... He was _almost_ sure it was.

“No, damn it, you _didn’t_! I _know_ you didn’t--because it just happened, by pure stupid dumb good luck, that the recorder was on for the whole conversation.

“_Which_ conversation?”

“The one that left me wondering why you should think that. I got out the files on Doug, and decided you were pretty right. Then I remembered something I’d thought about down in New York, and I wanted to make a note of it while I remembered--an insight I thought I maybe had into Doug’s walkout. Seemed more likely to be valid, after I checked some of his reactions against my own. So I went to turn the tape on, and found out it _was_ on, and just for kicks, played back everything we’d said, meaning to wipe it off afterwards, and--you’d never said a word about Doug and me. _Not one damn word!_”

He had turned as he spoke, flinging the words at her in passion. Now he turned from her white face and looked out again.

“Phil--”

“Yes?”

He heard the faint female-rustling sound of her moving, but wouldn’t look around. She came up beside him. She too looked out, standing at his side.

“You know,” she said slowly, “It _could_ be that I’d mentioned it some _other_ time? And you remembered it just then for some reason, and _thought_ that’s when you heard it?”

He nodded. “Could be. When did you first think of it?”

Slowly: “I’m--not--sure.”

“But you think it was that day? Don’t you?”

“Not in your office. The first time I thought of it, it was out--_there_.” With a tilt of her head she pointed to the Shack.

“You were out there just _now_, weren’t you?”

No answer.

“When you knew about Johnny?”

Nothing.

He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and _make_ her face the truth. He walked carefully away from her and sat down at his desk.

“I want to tell you about something, Lee. You may have come across some accounts of this kind of thing yourself. It’s not too unusual. And you’ve done some reading in this type of thing--”

“Never mind, Phil.” She came back from the window and sat facing him again. “I know where you’re going. Clairvoyant and--_telepathic_ phenomena under hypnotism. Right?”

He nodded.

“You know any clear-cut case?”

He nodded again. “A couple. Clairvoyance. Not the other.” He picked up a pencil, studied it curiously. Just a pencil. He put it down. “Let me add this, Lee: every case I ever heard of that seemed reliably reported and scientifically set up involved a performance _under hypnotic command_. That is, with the help of suggestion. There are at least two or three that seem clear of any suspicion of suggestion as to _what_ to see. _Completely_ clear, I mean. But the subjects _were told to do it_.”

_Relay Station--Sunday, October 16, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Once upon a time, the great harbors of Earth used rocket beacons to signal to ships entering and leaving port: ships that rounded the globe, sometimes, under no other power than that of wind and water waves. At the ports of Space, rocket fire moves the ships in and out; waves of sound carried silently on waves of electrons convey the signals now. Otherwise, harbors have always been much alike. Even four hundred miles above ground, men sweat in their pressure suits; swear at the intractable bulk of large masses (with or without “weight”); mill in apparent confusion, behind which incredible achievements of order and planned distribution move endlessly; roughhouse and rag and joke with the blood-and-gut humor (and good humor) of haulers and movers and handlers and drovers and drivers and sailors and truckers and spacers and all men who gain their daily bread conquering space-mass-time with their hands and backs.

Relay Station is many things. Most ports are. It’s Earth’s eye on the sky and it’s the reflex nerve center of radio communication around the Earth. It is also a tunnelled labyrinth of intrigue and espionage. But first and foremost, it is Man’s greatest port to date. Every ship of all nations that lifts off of Earth stops here for inspection and servicing and then for safe-passage through the vicious rays of the Vanallens, infinitely multitudinous scyllas and charybdises of the Space odyssey.

From Relay, the Belt Balloons, air filled and skin-charged, each with its central pit of a single shuttle ship, are flung up through the twin belts of darting electrons, to meet the great wheel of the _Messenger_ in orbit at its 12,000-mile perihelion.

All passengers on U.S.A.A. ships have the option of sleeping through the two first legs of the trip, till the shuttle is safely inside the _Messenger_; but the more knowing ones come out of sedation at Relay, in hopes of traveling close enough to other Balloons to see for themselves the coruscating display of blue fire, as the wild electrons of the Belts are dashed off the charged thin skins of the bulleting spheres.

John Wendt had never seen the Belt Balloons. When he lived and trained on the Moon, and took rare leaves on Earth, the _Messenger_, with its ion drive and thermal exchange power plant, was still a drawing-board dream. The thrice he had traveled by shuttle, via Balloon and the _Messenger_, he had made the whole voyage under sedation.

His choice of minimum sleep this time out was not motivated by a desire to see the Balloons. He had avoided exposure to Space talk, Space news, Space views, so thoroughly in his twenty months on Earth that he did not even _know_ there was anything worth seeing.

He simply meant to let Pete Christensen, and anybody else who noticed, know that he _could_ make the trip. _Wide awake._

He was a little sorry when he learned that Chris was on the first shuttle, the one that left ten minutes before Mac got him to the St. Thom Port and through the snarl of red tape that wound him up on Shuttle Two. But he assumed there would be communication between the two boats, once on board the _Messenger_. Certainly, the Dome Director would be free to go between shuttles, and certainly, he would be apprised of the change in the passenger list at the first opportunity.

Johnny looked forward to seeing Chris when the time came. The shoe had changed feet, and it fit one hell of a sight better.

He never did get to see Shuttle One crackling spectacularly through the outer edge of the Big Belt, as Two’s balloon entered Little Belt; he was much too sophisticated a Space traveler to crowd to the viewports when the others did.

_Dollars Dome--Monday, October 17, 2_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“That ought to fix you up now, Miss Trovi.” He fastened the buckle that held the miniature set strapped to her suit, and said, “Now if you want to just show me how you’d work it, make sure you got it right...?”

Lisa unstrapped the kit, took out the tape, put it back in, switched the set to _record_, and turned it off again. “I’d better try it with the helmet, don’t you think?” she said doubtfully.

“Sure. Good idea.” The big mechanic beamed down at her as if he had personally built the whole combination, and not just the small machine. But when he reached to help her adjust the wire trailing from the mike in the headpiece, she shook her head and waved him off:

“I’ve got to be able to do it myself.”

It worked fine. She put three extra rolls of tape in her pocket, thanked him, and left. The big man watched her go, shaking his head.

“Guts!” he said. “Damn but that babe has guts!” He went back into the workshop and told his helper, “That bastard Wendt don’t come through, I bet there ain’t a single man here wouldn’t marry her, the day before the kid’s born, or the day after. And mop up the sonofabitch before dinner besides.”

“One mistake, chum.” The helper was married. “You don’t know how easy it is to get a divorce. Don’t just say _single_ men.”

_Red Dome--Tuesday, October 18, 9:25_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The Guards Lieutenant saluted with military precision, which was worse than wasted on Dr. Chen. The Director was not even annoyed; the irritation of acknowledging the salute never materialized, because the necessity to do so failed to impress him. Dr. Chen could be exceedingly single-minded on some occasions. He had a superior capacity for crisis action.

He also had a crisis.

And he noted, with some detached part of his mind, that he was enjoying it enormously.

It was a long time since there had been any real emergency or crisis in the Dome.

This one was not in it either.

“Very well,” he said crisply. “You will please explain to me how she contrived to leave?”

“She is a good pilot, Comrade Your Excellency. She holds all necessary permits and licenses.”

“There are no permits or licenses to leave the Dome,” Chen said coldly, “except express assignment from me.”

The young officer said nothing.

The Director considered the words that might best express his scorn and contempt for the so-called Guard who had permitted Maria Harounian to leave the Dome. Having considered them and relished them, he filed them in his mind, and said to the dutiful Lieutenant, whose fault it was _not_:

“I want Harounian found and returned to Dome immediately.”

He did not stress the words. He spoke almost softly. But his meaning was deadly clear. “Organize a search,” he said. “A full search. I will review your search plan in fifteen minutes. Excused.”

The lieutenant saluted again. Dr. Chen acknowledged with the faintest possible nod.

PART TWELVE

_Wednesday, October 19, 1977_

_Messenger--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

He came awake to vicious clarity. The long dreamless pill-induced sleep had left him over-rested, too fresh, too thinking, conscious, and aware.

But this was Wednesday: the last day. He’d be in the Dome that night. He was not absolutely sure he could make it. For the first Goddam time in his life, he was not certain he would be able to come through.

Something strangely like exultation surged through him.

_And what in hell was that for?_ What was so special about not being good enough?

He knew, but damned if he’d tell himself.

One thing he told himself, all right, at the beginning, and that was still good. He got through Sunday and Monday and Tuesday; he could make it through ten more hours and stick with it. Maybe he’d crack up and go tell Chris off or open an air lock or any damn thing. But he wasn’t drinking this trip. Not _this_ trip.

Whatever happened _after_ he got there, he’d _get_ there cold sober. Then it was up to her....

Monday night was the worst. Monday night and Tuesday. He got through that all right, he could make ten lousy hours. But he hadn’t had a goddam drink yet, and he wasn’t going to. Not _this_ trip....

_Ten hours?_

The bastard was jeering at him. _So okay, laugh. Ten hours is pretty damn long. Yeah._

He got up, and planned his time. _Breakfast._ That was as far as he could get. _Lunch, later._ And all the time in between.

Sunday, and Monday morning he had seen the control rooms and comm rooms and cargo shuttles and climbed around the massive ion engine. The heat exchangers were old stuff; so was most of the rest. But he had looked at everything, examined, inspected. He could handle this job himself if he had to now. He didn’t have to. Basil would. Basil ... he’d trained with Laughlin and Wendt, but wasn’t tapped for the _Colombo_ trip. So now he was a Space ferry jockey....

_Good boy, Basil, he made the grade. Didn’t go too far out like we did._...

Basil would brake into Zeroville orbit. _Should have started by now_, he thought, _shouldn’t they?_ Then he _felt_ the difference, and knew he’d been feeling it all along. Deceleration. Not much yet, but you started easy with ions and let it build. No blast, no sweat.

Monday, after lunch, nothing to do except sit in the damn lounge and watch them all lushin’ it up. Hell with that. Hell of a trip not to drink on; nothing else to do. Half the victims got stoned first night out and _stayed_ that way.

He spent Monday afternoon in the dining room, drinking coffee, watching out the pretty picture window while the Moon came around and around, bigger each time--if you happened to have micro-calipers to measure with. He stared out long enough so he found out one thing: empty Space didn’t bug him at all. He already knew that the birds were okay. He had almost enjoyed it, going through the business end of the wheel with the guys. It wasn’t _going_ that bugged him; it was _where_ the Hell you went.

Which was just what he’d said all along. But now he _knew_. Chris had kept him knocked out the whole trip up and back before; so _they_ hadn’t been so damn sure either...? Well, now _he_ was.

He sat there until Chris came in and saw him. Then he sat there long enough to make sure Chris knew he was looking _out_. Then he swung down to the crew lounge and found a poker game getting under way.

He was okay till the game broke up. After that, it was bad. That was the only time he almost broke down. A couple of shots would’ve put him to sleep at least. He spent the time from two in the morning till six, when they started to serve breakfast, sitting in the damn dark dining room, watching the Moon grow so slowly you didn’t know it, except that you _knew_ it.

After people started to show up, it was better; he had to keep up some front, when they were watching him.

Chris stayed out of his way; he stayed out of Chris’. He was disappointed, some, but glad; Chris probably knew he came on as Mac’s man. So that was that. No battles. Everybody knew what side they were on. At least Mac and Chris knew. Johnny knew what side he was on, too, but it wasn’t what _they_ thought.

_Turnabout, that’s all_, he thought with silent grim pleasure. _They used me; now I use them. Let ’em all bleed._...

Tuesday was bad anyhow--bad all day long. If he’d had to stay awake Tuesday night, he didn’t know--

The Medic asked him, did he want a sleeping pill. Well, Hell, plenty of people took sleeping pills. Only now he was wide-awake, rested, and much too clear in the head. _Maybe I should of stood out of bed...?_

_Ten hours_.... He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he was sure of this much: he was _not_ going to drink; and he was _not_--voluntarily, anyhow--_damn it, not without a fight_--going to sleep out anything the rest of the passengers could take.

_Dollars Dome--11_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

They stopped at the office to see if Thad had any news yet. He did; but nothing special. If there had been any trouble, or anything out of the way at all, on board the _Messenger_, it was not being broadcast.

“They probably kept him sedated anyhow,” Phil pointed out, as they crossed the Mall to the Med Building where his office was.

She shook her head. “No. Not this time.”

“Oh?” He looked at her curiously. Under his eyes, she lost some of the quiet certainty with which she had heard both Thad’s report and Phil’s comment.

“I mean, I don’t _think_ so. I--” She flashed a quick smile. “--have a _hunch_, let’s say.”

“Tell me more.”

“I will,” she said soberly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Phil.”

But she said nothing more till they were in his office. Then she took out two small rolls of sound tape, and handed them to him.

“I’d like you to hear these for yourself before I say anything,” she told him. “I made them out at the Shack. One was Monday. The other’s yesterday.”

He turned spools over in his hand dubiously.

“You care to give me any notion of what I’m listening to? Or for?”

“I thought perhaps you should just _hear_ them first, but--I guess it’ll make more sense if I tell you this much first. After we talked about that--telepathy bit, I got to thinking, and I realized I’d just been _scared_ by the idea. Kind of foolish, I guess.... All this time I’ve been going around telling people I believe in--or, well, that I think there’s a lot of sense in some of the work they’ve done in E.S.P.--Then as soon as something happens to _show me_, I back off and say, ‘Oh, no, not for _me_, friend!’” She smiled wryly. Phil grinned.

“Honey, I told you to start with, this Shack stuff was spooky. Something makes sense, that doesn’t necessarily make it _feel sensible_. I still get shivers when I try to think what they mean by an ‘infinite universe.’ Stuff like that.”

“Maybe so. Anyhow, I think I’m over--” She stopped herself. “That’s not true. I’m still scared as hell. But I’m scared of having a baby too, and scared of what might happen tonight, when Johnny comes, and--I’m scared of lots of things I know are _real_, and even know I’ll get through all right.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay, kid. I hope you love me too. Now:--what’s the bit with the tapes?”

“Well, I tried to think how I might be able to find out scientifi--I guess, _experimentally_ is a better word? Anyhow, I thought if I got a recorder fixed up so that I could talk what I was thinking out there--at least _I’d_ find out what I _do_ think there--I told you, I’m never positive afterwards just when I got some idea, or just where it _came_ from--?”

He nodded.

“And then, if it turned out to have anything on it that we could _check_.... Well, then I’d _know_. Or at least, we’d know there was something worth working on. Well, you know what I mean.”

“I think so. Just one thing, Lee. You want me to play these, so I gather you _do_ think there’s something--” He smiled. “--something ‘worth working on?’”

“I’d rather not say what _I_ think before--”

“I didn’t ask you to. I told you what _I_ think, right now. It’s just that it’s the way you talk about the whole business that makes me think so. So I play these tapes, see? And let’s say _I_ think there’s something there--let’s say, at a minimum, something that needs to be looked into more?” He paused. “Lee, you’re not forgetting that Johnny’s coming? He’ll be here tonight. I don’t know what happens after that. Neither do you. I just don’t see the news story on why he’s coming. Why in hell would he come up here for McLafferty if he wouldn’t for you or Chris?”

“Phil--” She put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Listen first, will you? I’ve heard them. _I know_ there’s _something_ that--well, just listen, will you? We’ll talk later. But I haven’t forgotten about Johnny, _believe_ me. That’s partly why I wanted to give you the tapes now--_before_ he gets here. And partly why I guess I don’t want to talk about it _right now_. I can’t decide anything much till he comes anyhow. And--well, whatever happens, I’d like to think that--I mean, let’s say I back out of the whole thing and go home and never say bad words like ESP again--_If_ there’s anything in this thing, I have a hunch it’s not _me_ especially. I just happen to be the one it--_happened to_? That’s as good a way as any to put it. So--so shut up and listen first, will you?”

“Right.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “One other thing, Lee--while the saying’s still good. Don’t forget I made an offer?”

“I won’t,” she said. She stepped forward quickly inside his arm, kissed him, and turned and left. “I’ve got a class for the next hour,” she said at the door. “Then I’ll be in my room till about two or three. After that, I’ll be out at the Shack, if you want to talk to me about any of the stuff there.”

_Zeroville--11:15_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The morning had been all right.

He’d never had more than theoretical training on ion drive; there was no working ship with one when the _Colombo_ took off. Now, roaming on invitation between the rocket rooms and control centers, he began to realize just what a monumental accomplishment the _Messenger_ was. It was one thing to have the figures in your head: thrust and cost, tonnage, performance, all that. But for John Wendt, at least, nothing convinced but performance. The math told you what to expect--what your chances were. After that, metal and plastic and power, and flesh and blood and brains made it _work_.

If it worked, it was time to believe in it; not until then.

He spent the morning acquiring belief in the ion drive. He made a point of not thinking ahead. But as the drive shut out, and the great wheel, shorn of all velocity, slid onto the Zeroville coasting track, he had no alternative. Eleven-fifteen. TOA Moon Dome announced for seven-thirty. Eight hours, fifteen minutes.

Lunch, of course. Then what? There’d be nothing doing in crew quarters, once the shuttles left--

_Sonofabitch!_

He wouldn’t be on the wheel; he’d be in the shuttle. In Shuttle Two: out like a light. With all the other squares.

All passengers made the shuttle-leg under sedation. _All passengers_....

The speaker overhead came to life: “All passengers please board your shuttles. Prepare for sedation.”

Johnny found Basil, and thanked him. “Nice of you to let me hang around so much,” he said. “I’d have flipped my top sitting it out with the damn riders the whole way.”

“Pleasure, Johnny. I mean it. Hell, it was good to see you again. I don’t want to stick my nose where it ain’t wanted, but--like man, if you’re gonna be around again--oh, crap, you know what I mean.”

“Thanks, Bass. Tell you the truth, I don’t know yet myself. But you got no one to blame but yourself if they kick you out and give _me_ your job. Hell--I felt so much like crew this trip, I forgot all about the shuttle-leg, till they hollered just now.” The announcer barked again, and started “Last call.”

Johnny took off down the shaft.

He had it _made_!

_Red Dome--3:50_ A.M. (_S.S.T._) (_2:30_ P.M. _C.S.T._)

“... helicopter sighted at base of hill 29.3 kilometres N. 17° E. from Playfair Crater. Flight reconnaissance fully establishes identity of vehicle. No indication of presence of pilot, M. Harounian. No superficial evidence of forced landing. Ground search to be conducted pending permission from U.S.A.A. authorities to conduct same within 50-kilometre zone.”

Dr. Chen tapped the stiff paper of the official report thoughtfully on his desk. Then he switched on the phone, and asked for the S.U.A.R. hostel at World Dome.

That seemed probably the best way to go about it. Besides which, Dr. Christensen was not at Dollars Dome, and no second-in-command would want to take responsibility for such a decision.

_Dollars Dome--4:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Phil Kutler sat at his desk, with a dozen sheets of rapidly typed pages spread out in front of him. He picked up one, glanced at it, put it down, picked up another. He shook his head, marveling or disbelieving, or just dazed: he wasn’t sure which.

On each page, he had collected what seemed to be associated bits from the two tapes. Now he began stacking sheets, sorting them into two piles. In one were the “weirdies”: what they _seemed_ to mean was not even worth thinking about yet, he told himself firmly. The other stack held more coherent and familiar bits which, however, seemed probable “normal” thought ramblings. He picked up the next page:

“I will come, yes, I come ... I hear you call. I know it is time now I will leave this place ... come to where love sends the call out ... I too love, have warmth, I bring my breath with ... come now to know, learn, tell, teach, exchange ... come with love to love....”

That was from Monday. From the Tuesday tape: “... came to us ... to me ... to us, _me-all_, came seeking, not knowing, almost, not-sure ... came with openness, with warm-breathing ... came to find and to speak and know....”

He put it with the others, then took it off. This one was worth at least _asking_ about. He knew in advance what the answer would be. No one had come to the Dome or the Shack; if they had, the whole Dome would know it. But--it hung together too well. He set it aside, separately. The next two went onto the stack. He pulled the remaining page toward him, and sat staring at it.

“... each time around it’s closer, bigger ... need a damn microcaliper to know it but true, it _is_ ... Lisa, Lee, love....”

It wasn’t till that bit came out near the end of the Monday tape that Phil understood why she had waited till today to tell him, or why she would not stay while he played them. Damn few things that would really _embarrass_ Lee--but her own voice talking love-talk to her would be one too much!

“... To you, just to you ... screw ’em all ... but I dammit I damn I love you, you’re too damn good for me but if I still can I’ll get you back ... round again, bigger, I can’t see the difference, but know ... too damn many things don’t see, don’t have to not-know account of that. Don’t see you either ... baby, babe, doll, _wait_ ... damn it hurts, scared, Lee, you know?, damn, I’m _scared_ ... but I’m coming, babe, here I come, _wait_!”

Also on Monday’s tape: “... bastard, but not so bad. Smart bastard anyhow ... just for now, though ... up there, he’s the boss ... good man, Goddammit, you like the guy or not, good man in his job, and he knows not here, not know ... Mac-go-to-hell, who cares which one? Just you kid, the rest of ’em drop dead all I care....”

The page was a full one. Tuesday’s sections included mentions of someone named Bass, and a man called Kenny, and something about a poker game, scraps on a smashed window, subpoena server, a bit about “Mac”--McLafferty?

Well, _this_ page at least could be checked. He folded it, tucked it in his jacket pocket, and left the office.

Downstairs, he turned, without quite planning to, in the direction of the Ad Building. In the back of his mind was the question of whether to speak to Thad about the tapes. He knew he wouldn’t; and with Chris on his way back, it didn’t make sense, anyhow. But he was not quite ready to see Lisa yet, and he very much wanted to talk to _some_one.

He’d kill some time with Thad, anyhow.

Better that way. His thoughts could work themselves out better on their own, in their hidden places, than he could do by conscious effort.

_Dollars Dome--4:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The suave exterior of the U.S. Envoy to World Dome, the Honorable Andrew Kenneth Gahagan--a diplomat of the old school--appeared sadly shaken on the phone screen: whether by emotion, bad radio transmission, or creeping senility, Thad could not tell.

When he heard what the Honorable Gahagan had to say, he ruled out the likelihood of poor transmission. The other two choices remained equally possible, since the biochemist had no way of knowing just _how_ serious, realistically speaking, a Red “invasion” of territorial boundaries might be.

“It can’t wait two-three hours?” he asked. “Dr. Christensen will be here at seven, and I think it should be authorized by him personally.”

“My own feeling in the matter,” said the Honorable Gahagan “is that it should be authorized by Mexcity or not at all. I felt obliged, however, to determine your attitudes before communicating with State on the matter.”

Thad felt an almost irrepressible urge to say, _Oh, hell, tell ’em come on over, if they’ll send their bio chief in the party_ ... or perhaps, _You know, some of the babes there aren’t bad. Tell ’em to shoot us a photo and we’ll look for ourselves_ ... or even just, _Oh, foof!_ He exercised his will power to its fullest extent and said instead:

“Look, let me buzz you back in five minutes. I’ve got something here I have to get out of the way, and then I’ll see what we can do about it.”

He switched off and said to Kutler, who had come in sometime during the conversation, “You get that bit?”

“Just the tailend.”

“The Honorable is all worked up because the Reds have asked permission to conduct a search for the pilot--girl pilot, I might add--of a helicopter of theirs that seems to have landed in some kind of trouble inside our zone. I wouldn’t’ve thought twice myself, but Old Horsefeathers has me worried. And maybe with this whole Security investigation bit--”

“Man, you don’t read the news. It’s sex they’re discovering now, not Security,” Phil interjected.

“Oh. Well, maybe being as it’s a _girl_ pilot--Got it!” he said suddenly. “What do you think of doing it this way? Tell ’em sure, and we’ll help. Set it up so any search team is mixed? Then there can’t be any snooping or anything. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” Phil said. “It can’t wait till Chris comes, hey?”

“This babe has been missing about twelve hours, and they don’t know if she’s hurt or in shock or anything.”

“Well, we can’t very well _refuse_ permission then. I guess the mixed search is about the best bet.”

“Yeah.” He reached for the phone switch, hesitated, picked up a scrap of paper from the desk. “Do me a favor, will you? Get a few guys to run on out to this location right away and look over the plane. That’s where it’s supposed to be. Meantime, I’ll tell Ole Mustachios what the score is, and let--Nope. I’ll call Plato _first_, and then tell Gahagan. That way he can’t stall.”

Phil nodded approvingly, took the paper, and started out. “Hey, Thad,” he said first. “Lee’s out at the Shack. Suppose I get the squad to drop me off there on the way, and bring her back in? You don’t need me for anything around here?”

“No. Good idea. Glad you thought of it.”

_Dollars Dome--7:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

When he came out of it, Chris was standing next to the couch, watching him. He got himself unbuckled, stood up, stretched. Chris watched, and said nothing. Johnny straightened out, felt his feet steady under him, and took a stance facing the other man, not more a foot away.

“All right, Johnny, you got here,” Chris said. “_Now_ what?”

“What I said to start with,” he replied evenly. “I want to see Lisa. I hear by the newspapers--” _The hell with that crap! He didn’t ask_ why....

“_I_ see by the newscasts,” Chris picked up on it, “That you are here as a ‘special investigator’ for Mr. McLafferty--whatever _that_ is.”

Johnny said nothing.

“Are the newscasts right?”

“Ask McLafferty.”

“You’re closer.”

“Listen, Chris. I came for Lee. You can make it easy or make it tough. We used to be friends, so I tell you this once: I came for my girl. You and Mac can both go to whatever kind of Hell they keep for guys like you. And I’ll foul you up as cheerfully as him if you get in my way. I came for my girl. The rest of your politicking fornicating foolishness doesn’t concern me at all.”

Chris thought it over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll cooperate with you in anything Lee wants. Outside of that, I warn you, step out of line just once, just by one toe, and--I’m the boss here. That’s all.”

“Okay. Now where’s my girl?”

“You know the room. If she’s not there, try Kutler.”

_Dollars Dome--7:50_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“He’s pretty damn busy,” Bourgnese said. “If it’s something I can take care of...?”

“You Number Two boy here?” Johnny demanded.

“You could put it that way,” the other man said coldly.

“Okay. I’ll put it that way. Can you authorize me a half-track?”

“You’re kiddin’!”

_Well, what in Hell is so special about wanting a car?_ “What are they, made out of solid gold or something? Nobody but the Big Cheese can sign ’em out?”

“Look, before you flip completely, friend, leave me advise you that there probably isn’t even a car in the Dome. If they’re not all out already, they ought to be. And what makes you so damn eager to get in on it?”

“In on what? I’m looking for Lisa.”

“Well, try Kutler if she’s not in her room. He brought her back in--”

“He’s not here and neither is she.”

“You _sure_ of that? He went out for her--Hell, it must’ve been five-thirty or so--”

“I’m sure. She’s at the Shack.”

Bourgnese stared at him a moment.

“You tried the dining room and dance room and all that jazz? I _know_ he was bringing her right back.”

“Listen,” Johnny said, straining all his nerves for patience. “They’re not here. They’re at the Shack. Hell, I don’t know where _he_ is, and I don’t give a damn. But _she’s_ there.”

“How do you know?”

“How the Hell do you _think_ I--?” He stopped cold. How _did_ he know? “They’re _both_ there,” he said, and knew it was true. “I don’t know who the hell else is with them, but they’re both there.”

“Wait a minute,” Bourgnese went to the phone and called the Shack Guardhouse. “Charlie! Is Miss Trovi still there?”

“Yeah. Her and the other babe and the Doc. Some half-track dropped him off couple hours ago. They’re all in there.”

“Right. Thanks, Charlie.” He switched off and got Lock Supply.

“Give me the call number on Kutler’s suit.”

“Hold on. Here it is. Five-nine-cue-six-emm.”

“Thanks.” He switched off and on again, dialled the helmet radio number. Nothing. “Damn!”

He turned back to Johnny. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.”

They strode rapidly across the Mall to Lock Supply. Bourgnese signed out suits for both of them.

Johnny turned to Thad as the other man started away. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know why in Hell you’re doing it. But _thanks_.”

“No,” Bourgnese said. “I guess you wouldn’t know why.”

_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Phil Kutler_

The two women sat, one at each side of the tank, gazing into it. Lisa’s voice droned as the tape wound from spool to spool:

“... but I-all did not know ... idea of unit-body discrete-person too far back with memory haze ... and not-alike, even when ... but _when_? how far back? ... so long I had been one-and-all ... recalled haze-memory, but too much lost with no-need-to-know ... had to begin, to learn, fresh, new ... too slow, too slow....”

“_He’s coming!_”

The words cracked like a whiplash in his helmet; he jumped back, out of touch, put a hand to his face-plate in reflexive feeling for damage, that _snap_ had been so sharply physical.

The plate was intact. Of course. He smiled foolishly, leaned toward her again; found he had to _force_ himself to retouch helmets. That crack had _hurt_.

“Johnny?” he asked.

No answer. Then out of the side of his eye he saw she was nodding her head inside the helmet.

“Can you tell if anyone’s with him?”

Pause. “Somebody, yes ... not Chris ... Thad?”

That seemed likely.

“How is he--What kind of a mood--? I mean Johnny.”

She giggled. “_Fierce!_”

_Great!_ But _she_ didn’t sound worried. “That’s good?” he asked sourly.

“Depends....”

He backed off to look at her. The half-smile on her face was--in Moonsuit and helmet, in a half-enclosed shack on the Moon’s friendless face--absurd, ludicrous ... nothing short of outrageously funny with its eternal-mysterious-female. _So laugh already!_ He didn’t. _Sure_, he thought, _funny, like ... crazy, man ... but how would it look if she smiled it for you?_ Then he realized she could probably hear _this_ as well--or more clearly than?--anything he said aloud through the helmets. And then, with relief, but with bitterness too: _If she were listening, that is_....

She wasn’t. She was listening only to one man, the man at the wheel of the half-track, now visibly nearing at full speed across the Moon dustcakes--coming for her.

And the half-smile was gone. A full, lovely smile now, and moist eyes too. _What the hell is he saying?_

_None of your damn business!_

He started again. It was going to take getting used to: getting to know when you had thought a thing for yourself, or had it thought _to_ you. That one was himself--he thought.

He leaned forward again. “Does Maria know?”

“Of _course_. We were just thinking....” Then it happened again: a sort of stereo-thought in his mind, coming from both, complete, in-agreement, and did-he-agree? Was this the best way?

He nodded, straightened up, and walked through the door to wait outside.

_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Thad Bourgnese_

“It ought to be Phil,” he said tensely. “I’ll try him again.” This time the reply was immediate; nothing wrong with Doc’s suit then; he’d just been switched off before.

_Switched off?_ The guy goes out to get Lisa, stays out himself instead, and turns off his set. _Nice going_....

“Hi,” Phil said. “Johnny with you?”

“Yeah. What in hell are you doing out here? _And where’s Lee?_”

“Right inside. Waiting. Also, we have a guest.”

“_Guest?_” If that meant what he thought it did, this was one too much. “Who’s the guest?”

“I hate to shout,” Phil said. “You dig me, man!”

_Yeah? I do, do I? Then what in the name of all-holy have you been sitting out here for? The whole damn Dome goes out hunting, and_....

The half-track ground to a screeching halt. Wendt was out almost before it stopped. Thad turned off the ignition and followed. He saw Johnny’s taller figure march like incarnate doom on the man at the door.

“For krissakes, Phil,” he started, and would have said, _Let him in!_ but it was unnecessary. Kutler had moved before Wendt got there. Johnny went through, and Phil stepped back in front of the door.

Thad walked up slowly. He was trying hard to hold onto the irritation he _knew_ he should still feel.

“What gives?” he asked, and managed a frown.

“Lee said, just Johnny, first, please. That’s all.”

“_Just?_ What’s with your company?”

“She’ll be out.” Kutler’s calm ought to be infuriating. But all he felt was: _Well, Phil’s got some sense; he must know what he’s doing_....

“You wouldn’t mind filling me in some?” he asked.

“Glad to. Turn off your radio. I don’t want to tell the whole world.”

The two men touched helmets, and Phil started talking. A moment later, a bulky figure in an ill-fitting, clearly-marked, S.U.A.R. suit came out of the Shack. The three of them headed for the pressurized Guardhouse.

_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Johnny Wendt_

He stepped through the doorway into dimness and a kind of--_warmth?_ In the center of the pavilion--that’s all it really was--a tank set on the ground bubbled evilly around an enormous hump of moldy grey-white, kneaded-looking, knobbed, and ridged.

Two suited figures sat, one on each side of the tank. As he entered, the one at the far end arose, walked around the tank, came toward him.

_Lee?_

It wasn’t, of course. He would have known by her walk, and when she came close enough, by her face.... But before he saw these things at all, he _knew_ it wasn’t. Lee sat with her back to him. The other woman--_Maria?_--smiled as she passed, and went out.

Lee sat where she was, back to him. But--

_Johnny, oh Johnny, my darling, my love!_

It was not in words. The thought of the words, the idea of speaking, was there; and it seemed that he heard: but what was most real about it came through without symbols, and surely without any sounds. It was just--

_Warmth. Lisa-to-Johnny-warmth. Love._

Nothing to question or worry or doubt or solicit or yearn for or want or need or define. Just love-as-is ... love-actuality ... love-known, love-before, love-after ... a place to rest and be warm through inside himself.

He had felt it before.

He had felt it and it had been false.

He had felt it, not Lisa-to-Johnny, but--

_No!_

If he screamed aloud, nobody knew it. _He_ didn’t know. His head ached, either from the resounding scream inside the helmet, or else from the need to scream, kept in his head.

_Doug, get out! Get out, damn it! Get out of here! Damn it, you’re dead! Don’t you know you’re dead?_

The figure at the tank rose, and began to turn.

Johnny stood helpless, rooted. He would have fled if he could. But the warm flood embraced him, caressed him, held him bound. Frightening, enticing, beckoning, threatening, stiflingly suffocating, vibrantly life-giving. And--

He had run from it before. He could run no more.

The figure turned toward him entirely, and stepped forward.

It was not Doug. Doug was dead.

It was Lee. _Lee, Lisa, Lisa-love, Lisa-loves-John_....

_Her_ walk.... _Her_ love.... _Her_ face, smiling up at him, close and closer still, through the plastic helmet plate, tearfully?, lovingly, _hers_.

_Lee!_

He reached out his arms.

She came into them--almost. His gauntletted hands gripped the backs of her shoulders, and she looked up, laughing. The rigid fabric of his suit was pressed against hers, and there they stood, each one behind his own life-saving column of air inside the pressured suits, in a mad caricature of embrace. Laughter broke loose inside him and bubbled up. He bent his head; helmets touched; and their laughing mingled and merged and grew whole. It raced into the current of love-warmth, and pulled him with it, turning and twisting and sporting in cascading torrents of lovely-Lisa-laughs-with-love....

How long they stood there in the wondrous half-embrace he did not know: two enclosed islands inside their Moonsuits, making love through glass walls by the side of a strange pool of--

He shuddered.

--of bubbling putrescence, of--

_A friend!_ she said sharply.

_Friend!?_ He looked at the tank and he shuddered again. Looked back at his Lisa. “Hey, babe,” he said gently, his helmet against hers, “I think we better get you--”

_Not yet!_ She smiled. But she hadn’t waited to hear what he said. And she hadn’t opened her mouth when she spoke.

Nor had he--the first time.

_You know it’s true, darling_....

Her voice, yes, but voiceless.... Their helmets now were clear inches apart. _Listen! she insisted._

_Monday afternoon_, she told him, reciting, _you sat in the Messenger dining room and watched the Moon, and you thought you could see it get bigger and bigger each time it went around, if you could have microcalipers to measure with_....

_This morning, you watched every step of the ion blast_....

_Yesterday_....

It went on and on. It battered, without hurt; pushed, without tearing; forced itself into his consciousness tenderly, gently, inexorably. It _was_ true. It _worked_.

Like the ion engine--like anything--_it worked_! He saw it work, felt it work, _knew_ it worked. So it was true.

_Why?_

_How?_

_I’ll show you, darling_.... He let her draw him back to the tank, and sat down beside her.

_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_In the Guardhouse_

“You are Maria Harounian?” Bourgnese asked sternly.

“Yes.”

“You speak English?”

“Only few words.”

“You are from Red Dome--from the S.U.A.R. Dome?”

She nodded.

He turned to Kutler.

“How long has she been with you in there?”

“She was there when I got there; two hours, maybe? I don’t know if you noticed, Thad. She’s--quite pregnant. You might ask her to sit.”

“All right. Would you like to sit down, Maria?”

She shook her head. “No-thank.” She smiled. When she smiled, her wide blonde face looked remarkably like Lisa Trovi’s long dark-skinned face.

“You saw her enter the Shack?”

Some shuffling of feet. “Yes, sir.”

“And you permitted her to enter?”

“Well, yessir. Miss Trovi said--”

“You did not see fit to inform us in Dome?”

“Sir, Miss Trovi said this lady was with _her_. She took all responsibility.”

“But you knew a search was being conducted for Miss Harounian?”

“Well, yes, but we didn’t know it was _her_. Miss Trovi came to the door, and said, her and her friend going in to the Shack, let ’em know if anyone tries to call....”

“You didn’t ask who her ‘friend’ was?” Thad shook his head, incredulous. These men were _good_ guards. They knew their job.

“Well, no sir.”

“Sir--”

It was the Russian girl. “Yes?”

“Sir--she want us. Calling now.”

There was an odd sort of urgency in her voice, in her face, her whole stance.

“Right!” The three of them started back to the Shack, with just one small part of Thad’s mind still wondering why neither he nor the guards had called Chris yet.

Inside the Shack, Lisa waited, with Johnny beside her. She smiled a welcome to the Soviet girl; included the two men afterwards. She beckoned Phil. “Start the tape? I’ll try to keep talking it.”

_Mars--April, 1975--Doug Laughlin_

The Earthman stood beneath a violet sky, on rusty sands, and turned, inch by inch, slowly, feeling with all his ... something he had no word for ... exactly as at home he might have felt with a moist finger for the source of wind.

He made three complete turns before he stopped. He nodded, satisfied. That was the way. It didn’t change. The tenth time in four days now, and always the same.

He went into the ship, and entered the direction in the Log.

The brother-Earthman slept. The first one sat at the big book and wrote. He covered two pages, and went back and read them through, nodding. Then went back to what he had written before, and read that. He nodded again.

He closed the book, and sat thinking. Then he stood up and went to the bunk where the brother-Earthman slept. He reached out a hand and drew it back again. Reached out and drew back. As if a wall stood between them. It seemed like a wall: from the brother-Earthman there was a sort of cloud of _No--Don’t touch!_

He backed off from the bunk, somewhat sadly. Got into his heat suit and mask. Went down to the cargo hatch. Checked out a sand-cat. Started it up. Stood out on the sands while the motor warmed in the dawn chill. Made his inching turns again: nodded, deeply satisfied, _certain_ now.

In his mind, he went back inside to the brother-Earthman, walled in his bunk with sleep and _No_. Stood there, thinking, and went back inside and to the Log. Looked through the pages, four of them on which he had written what at last he believed, what he was going to find out for sure.

Wanted to leave what he said, but not leave information to follow with. If he was mad, let one death be enough. Four pages, two sheets, and each sheet somewhere on it had the destination. He thought:--

If he was right, explanations would follow. If he were wrong--what difference _why_?

He tore out the sheets. Left the ship. Started out, to find the Mars-people whose love-thoughts, greetings, warm yearnings and welcomes came like a wind, like a breeze, like a flood of light, beam of caresses, from a direction he now knew he knew....

_Mars--April, 1975--Martian_

_I-all waited, eager, sending out callings: joyous, rejoicing, preparing reception; calling in airmakers, calling in watercells, calling in; calling for the Earthman coming_....

... _I-all, a planet-wide oneness of readying: for new exchange, learning, contact, emotion, give-and-take, take-and-give; from/to/with/alongside/between/together with this unit-body of Earthman approaching_....

... _I-all, ready now, knowing from last time, from Earth-other-brothers who came in first great ship, knowing ahead this time: air, water vapor--without these the Earth-bodies cannot survive; old memories stirring, from before me-all, once on a time when the I-we who lived before me-all were discrete bodies alive in a fluid of water-air; back, distant-far back before the drying and thinning of atmosphere_....

... _I-all, descended, evolved, changed, mutated, attenuated, substance of sentience: broken to one-cells; joined in one-thinkingness; stretched out to use all the sparse vapors spread round a planet; combined, united, one-minded but many-celled--starch-makers, water-bags, air-holders, carriers, sun-suckers, thought-senders, soil-savers, moss-tenders, all of the others, all of the kinds of me-us, one-cell and one-cell; and here in the dim place of safehold, the grouped one-cells, planners and thoughtmakers fed, watered, warmed, by my-our other-I’s, sending out callings for feeders, airers, for heaters, waterers, all to send extras with carriers to the vault, to tend the Earth-brother_....

* * * * *

Doug would have been all right, except that he misjudged the distance. If he had realized he’d have to go all the way to the old city to reach It-Them, he would have done the whole thing differently. He’d have told Wendt where he meant to go--if not why--and taken a heli. If he realized, he would have lived.

If _They-It_ had realized--if the two Russians had come to It-Them sooner after the crash, had lived a bit longer to tell more and learn more, if They-It had been able to learn from the first two that for Earth-bodies the life of the brain alone is not sufficient--If It-They had understood the whole human mechanism, perhaps he’d have lived.

Whether the Martian (call it that; call it “it”, there is no proper pronoun) could have summoned resources sufficient to keep Doug alive--for years, as it would have been--until help came, the Moon-Martian did not know. But the Martian had too little information to plan ahead, and it took planning.

It _could_ have stopped him; _would_ have, had it known his supplies would run out before he reached the vault, or that its own preparations were foolishly inadequate. But the centuries--aeons? millennia? How long, Moon-Martian also did not know--of one-ness, alone in togetherness with all just oneself, the long-long loneliness had only been outlined, sharp-edged, and identified, when the two Russians came for so short a time.

Laughlin came closer, and it sent its call stronger and clearer, more endearing. Laughlin’s cat sputtered and failed, and without thinking, he strapped the spare oxy tank on his back and set out afoot.

He lived ten days inside the vault beneath what he and Johnny had decided must have been a Martian bank, but had been built especially to guard, preserve, tend, grow, the brain-centre of the planet-wide “body” of the last Martian--the brain into which was poured the memory and knowledge, skill and affections and hopes and dreams and lost beliefs and yearnings and ideals of a race which could not in its own first form survive the stripping of the atmosphere from the old planet.

He lived, intact, ten days; his brain, for which there was enough starch, air, and water, stayed alive and able to communicate--how long?--Moon-Martian did not know--a long time, too-long, till he was sure the Martian knew _enough_ now for the next Earthmen; then he chose not-to-live.

It was his choice to make. The Martian did not like it, but complied; it had no choice.

_Wednesday, October 19, 1977, 10:15_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The two bulky figures entered the half-track, and the taller one sealed the door behind them.

When he turned back to her, the woman had already opened the car’s oxy valve, and removed her helmet.

Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached up and undid the clasps on his, broke the gasket seal, and lifted the bowl off his head. He stepped forward, and she took one step at the same time, meeting him. For the first time in two months, they met each other’s lips.

He stripped off his gauntlets, and held her head in his hands, drinking in the touch and look and scent and feel of her. From the neck down, the limp pressure suits swathed them both in formless fabric armor; but hands and heads were free to caress; a smile could be finger-traced as well as seen; a murmured word was clear to a close ear.

For minutes, they stood close as the cloth barriers would let them be, not thinking anything, not saying anything in words that mattered. Then, still without words, he started the car, and they sat together, his arm around her, her head on his chest, for all the world like two wistful teenagers, while the ’track chugged torpidly back over the black face of the old Moon, under the gleaming greenfaced glow of Earth.

Perhaps half way back, the words began. And then they tumbled out, questions on both sides coming so eagerly that nothing could really start to be answered.

It was a curious double-level conversation, too: because while their spoken words explored the wide new world opened up by the events at the Shack, the unspoken dialogue between them continued to re-enforce itself, and re-create their private world of love and close communication. The contact, once made, seemed quite able to function on its own, independent of the--

--_whatever-it-was?_ Lisa, in snatches, told Johnny as much as she had been able to figure out, with Thad’s help and Phil’s, about the growth and differentiation of the Mars-bugs. The bubbling vat was a sort of brain-center. It extended nerve-like networks to all other colonies of bugs. Here on the Moon, where zealous “jailors” fed and tended the “brain,” the network was just a sort of habit; on Mars, it served the vital function of connecting the water-holders, the oxygen-makers, the perceptors and proprioceptors and nutriment-synthesizers. The adaptation-or-mutation puzzler which had first caught the attention of the Dome scientists was not too different in nature from the sort of “instinctive” decision that sets the sex and functions of each new-made egg in an ant colony. All genes for each caste are present at birth; the environment of the particular cell determines the final role of the member. And the choice of environment for that cell? With a functioning conscious brain, it was much easier to understand in the--Martian? Moon-Martian? _The friend_, was the way Lee thought of it--than it was in an ant colony.

She was telling him how Phil had forced her to recognize and experiment with the _psi_ effects, when the call came. It came on the radio--but that was one minute after they had reversed direction, and started back toward the other half-track. It came first in Lee’s awareness.

In the middle of a sentence, she broke off, and at the same instant, in the wordless sentence of love she was “speaking”, she stopped to say, _They’re out of gas_.

Later, John realized that if she’d said it aloud, he _still_ would have doubted. But in the inner dialogue there was no space for doubt or disbelief. He heard it, knew it, and acted on it, long seconds before they had switched on and warmed up their radio set, to call for help.

And by that time, he’d had the next thought.

He told Bourgnese, on the radio, that they were on their way, and asked them to stay tuned in. Then he switched off and started to ask Lee if she would try something--then knew she already knew, and before he could tell her exactly what it was he wanted, felt the opening channel between his own mind and the--_friend_--and switched on the set again.

“Bourgnese?”

“Right here.”

“Listen, this might be just for laughs, but give your buggy a try again, will you?”

“Tonight I’ll try anything, man,” Thad said, and then, “She won’t catch, John. We’re bone dry.”

“Forget the starter. Listen--just get in gear and _drive_. I mean--damn it, this sounds nuts. _Pretend_ you’ve got gas. Like, try it once, okay?”

“What can I lose?”

A moment’s wait, and an exclamation--hardly more than a _whoosh_ of air, but it contained all the bafflement, delight, suspicion, excitement, and fascination that gave them the answer. Then, very calmly: “Nice going, John. We’ll make it back, I guess.”

The new world of collaboration had started.

EPILOGUE

_Dollars Dome, Thursday, October 20, 1977--2:30 A.M. (C.S.T.)_

In the conference room, Dr. Christensen sat at one end of the table; Dr. Chen sat at the other. Down one side of the table were ranged the U.S.A.A. staff, including Trovi, Kutler, Wendt, Bourgnese. Down the other side were S.U.A.R. men in equal numbers--and Harounian.

The last of the tapes slid to an end, and turned itself off. There was silence. Then Kutler rose and started to speak.

He explained in detail what he knew of the development of Lisa Trovi’s ability.

He sat down, and the Soviet’s Gregoriev rose, and told a rather more methodical and experimental tale of the discovery of Maria Harounian’s talent. “We came to the conclusion, tentative, that the pregnancy might be a factor,” he finished. “It now seems this is justified.”

Lisa whispered to Phil. He rose again. “Miss Trovi suggests that the particular pregnancy that was operative was hers--only because the child carried genes familiar to the--the Martian. She understands that it might be possible for a mind which has not yet developed semantic centers to--receive?--more readily. Thus, she believes her unborn child and Miss Harounian’s might have been in contact more easily than two adults.”

The first stir of reaction across the table subsided; there were nods of slow agreement.

Bourgnese rose: “Begging the pardon of the two ladies,” he said, “I’d like to call attention to another matter. It happens these two infants were conceived prior to a certain--ah, noticeable change in--well, I’m sure you gentlemen have all been aware of the furor in our press about our--ah, _morals_, here? Of course, we don’t know how things are at your Dome, but--?” He stood a moment, grinned, found two, then three and four answering grins across the table. “My suggestion was that perhaps the--emanations? _callings?_--from the--Martian--might have been in part responsible for--shall we say?--an extraordinary goodwill in the two Domes blessed with--Martian extensions?”

As he sat down, one of the Chinese delegates leaned forward. “I was just thinking,” he said, without bothering to rise, “I wonder how good this Martian is at PK?”

The words raced round the table, with the thought right behind. In a moment, a babble of voices was following. After a short time, John Wendt stood up.

The room quieted slowly. Slowly, and with precision, he told the story of the fuelless half-track.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “It appears that we may have at hand a fuel--if you call it that--which will make any kind of space travel more practical. Excuse me; I am doing my best to understate. Assuming this--fuel--does not exist, we now know--” He swallowed, opened his mouth, cleared his throat. “Oh Hell. What I’m trying to say is: I’d like to volunteer three of the crew for the next trip out--anywhere.”

--THE END--

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.

Dates corrected as follows: page 106: Aug. 23. to Sep. 6. page 106: Aug. 21. to Sep. 4.