me help you, darling."

The whisper was her own and it ended in a sob.

* * * * *

Brent Taber was studying some reports on his desk. They were not sources
of satisfaction in any sense. Most of them were memos noting changes in
the departmental assignments of staff men: _Due to unforeseen
emergencies and the reassessment of current workloads it has become
necessary to transfer from your subdepartment three ... two ... four
..._

And so it went.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He was tired and he conceded it, which
was a stark admission for Brent Taber. And he wondered: Was it worth it?
Banging your head against a stone wall. It would be so easy to say,
_Okay, it's your world, too. If you aren't worried why should I bother?_
Maybe it's not worth it. Why not assume that if there is a superior race
standing off somewhere in space, they're only a bunch of paper tigers
and to hell with it. Or maybe they wish us only the best. Maybe--

The door opened. Marcia Holly pushed her head in. "Have you eaten
anything today?"

"Get lost, sweetheart," Brent said absently.

"Maybe you look on eating as a bad habit, like sleeping, but it would be
nice to avoid a breakdown and stay out of the hospital, too."

"You're such a pleasant person to have around, except when you get up
off your chair and start making noises like a woman."

"Just to accommodate you, I'll change my sex. But right now, there's a
man to see you."

"Tell him to go to hell but don't offend him."

"I think you ought to see him. He's got an official paper of some kind.
You didn't steal a car or anything, did you?"

"I parked in the middle of an intersection, but I didn't think they'd
mind." Brent Taber sighed. "All right. Send him in."

The man was small, ingrown and, as Brent Taber learned, somewhat
stubborn.

"My name is Charles Blackwell," he said. "My brother has been lost for
over two months now."

"I'm sorry," Brent said politely.

"My brother was a source of concern to us--"

"Who is _us_?"

"Why, the family. Who else? We all worried about Charlie. He had fits of
depression. Kind of a maniac-depressive."

"_Manic_-depressive," Taber corrected gently.

"Yeah, that kind, ah--kind of. Well anyhow, he hides from us sometimes
and we worry."

"Who sent you to me?"

Charles Blackwell waved a vague hand, "Oh, they told me you were the man
to see."

"Tell me their names," Brent said politely. "I'd like to th