At twelve fifteen an audiogram came from Sarah. _I don't feel well enough to come. Love, S._ Well, at least it was an improvement in tone. At one o'clock, Miss Kal went into her office to open the mysterious little package of lunch that she brought with her every day. Joe stretched out his legs on the window sill and looked at the traffic jam below. That driver had really done a fine job. There were three Patrol skimmers circling the mess, darting to and fro like angry wasps. He didn't feel much like eating. Breakfast and supper were his big meals--the habit was a long-standing one. However, he thought, this morning's breakfast hadn't been much to rave about. Orange juice, some burned Pohl, some undercooked sand-hoppers. He switched on the inter-office visiphone. "I would save you the trouble," he said, when Miss Kal's face appeared, "but they built this place so that all of my inside calls have to be routed through your selective tentacles." "The usual, Mr. Caradac?" "The usual." Joe was rather proud of the fact that everything in his division of M. I. and E. worked smoothly and efficiently--even the kitchens. In a little less than forty seconds a portion of his desk folded back and the "usual" appeared on an elevator tray. A pot of light coffee and some doughnuts with powdered brown sugar. Joe dunked the solid portion of his lunch and considered the morning's peculiar happenings. Apparently unrelated incidents that were related in part always intrigued him. There was usually a logical reason for parallels. The trick, he thought, was to concentrate not on the "coincidences" themselves but to examine the circumstances under which they occurred. Sarah's illness--Kent's queer behavior. Not obviously connected. Separately neurotic. Yet what was it Kent had said that had reminded him of Sarah's strange greeting? Hone you-arnel? The two had played practical jokes on him before. He grinned. This was probably one of their special five-day jobs, designed to make him into a shattered wreck by Friday so Sarah could duck him on Saturday and get by with it. Joe repeated the syllables aloud, trying to make some sense out of them: "Hone you-arnel." * * * * * Instantly he was on his feet fighting, his lips raving silently. His big chair tipped back and fell over to the floor. A furious, icily cold intrusion was being made upon his mind. He stood with feet planted on either side of the overturned chair and threw the force off but it came back again and again. The office was suddenly oppressive and stifling, and the objects about him were small and crystal clear, as if seen through the wrong end of a hand galaxiscope. The churning, utterly loathsome invasion surged up like a wave roaring against a reef--and fell back and away in horrible desperation. From a million miles away he heard--or felt--a voice. It said: "_Uarnl--yes, Uarnl!_" and it said other things, raging things, that Joe could not understand.