re it's all right. The address is Landing City,
Hotel Byron, Mendez."

"Thanks, Thorn; I'll do you a favor some day."

"Sure. See you."

Turnbull cut off, dialed Interstellar Communications, sent his message,
and relaxed. He was ready to make a night of it. He was going to make
his first night back on Earth a night to remember.

He did.

* * * * *

The next morning, he was feeling almost flighty. He buzzed and flitted
around his apartment as though he'd hit a high point on a manic cycle,
happily burbling utter nonsense in the form of a perfectly ridiculous
popular song.

_My dear, the merest touch of you
Has opened up my eyes;
And if I get too much of you,
You really paralyze!
Donna, Donna, bella Donna,
Clad in crimson bright,
Though I'm near you, I don't wanna
See the falling shades of night!_

Even when the phone chimed in its urgent message, it didn't disturb his
frothy mood. But three minutes later he had dropped down to earth with a
heavy _clunk_.

His message to Mendez had not been delivered. There was not now, and
never had been a Scholar James Duckworth registered at the Hotel Byron
in Landing City. Neither was his name on the incoming passenger lists at
the spaceport at Landing City.

He forced himself to forget about it; he had a date with Dee again that
night, and he was not going to let something silly like this bother him.
But bother him it did. Unlike the night before, the date was an utter
fiasco, a complete flop. Dee sensed his mood, misinterpreted it,
complained of a headache, and went home early. Turnbull slept badly that
night.

Next morning, he had an appointment with one of the executives of
U.C.L.I.--University of Columbia in Long Island--and, on the way back he
stopped at the spaceport to see what he could find out. But all he got
was purely negative information.

On his way back to Manhattan, he sat in the autocab and fumed.

When he reached home, he stalked around the apartment for an hour,
smoking half a dozen cigarettes, chain fashion, and polishing off three
glasses of Bristol Cream without even tasting it.

Dave Turnbull, like any really top-flight investigator, had developed
intuitive thinking to a fine art. Ever since the Lancaster Method had
shown the natural laws applying to intuitive reasoning, no scientist
worthy of the name failed to apply it consistently in making his
investigations. Only wh