nodding like an obedient patsy.

"The verbal record is difficult enough, since much of the data you give
us must be, by its nature, foreign to us. The duplication of your
cerebral pattern, however, is even more troublesome. Besides the
inevitable distortion caused by a distance of 10,000 light-years and the
fields of gravitation and radiation of all types intervening, the
substance we use in place of brain cells absorbs memory quite slowly."
Barnes smiled reassuringly. "But you'll be happy to know that the
impression, once made, can _never_ be lost or erased!"

"Delighted," Clocker said flatly. "Tickled to pieces."

"I knew you would be. Well, let us proceed. First, a basic description
of horse racing."

Clocker began to give it. Barnes held him down to a single sentence--"To
check reception and retention," he said.

The communication box on the desk lit up when Clocker repeated the
sentence a few times, and a voice from the box said, "Increase output.
Initial impression weak. Also wave distortion. Correct and continue."

Barnes carefully adjusted the dials and Clocker went on repeating the
sentence, slowing down to the speed Barnes requested. He did it
automatically after a while, which gave him a chance to think.

[Illustration]

He had no plan to get Zelda out of here; he was improvising and he
didn't like it. The setup still had him puzzled. He knew he wasn't
dreaming all this, for there were details his imagination could never
have supplied, and the notion of spirits with scientific devices would
baffle even Oil Pocket.

Everybody else appeared to accept these men as the aliens they claimed
to be, but Clocker, fearing a con he couldn't understand, refused to. He
had no other explanation, though, no evidence of any kind except deep
suspicion of any noble-sounding enterprise. In his harsh experience,
they always had a profit angle hidden somewhere.

Until he knew more, he had to go along with the routine, hoping he would
eventually find a way out for Zelda and himself. While he was repeating
his monotonous sentence, he wondered what his body was doing back on
Earth. Lying in a bed, probably, since he wasn't being asked to perform
any physical jobs like Zelda's endless time-step.

That reminded him of Doc Hawkins and the psychiatrists. There must be
some here; he wished vengefully that he could meet them and see what
they thought of their theories now.

* * * * *

Then c