He opened his eyes. A slight red-headed girl in white nurse's uniform was standing there. She stepped back a pace, a web of wet gauze bandage in her hands, looking at him. "Hello," he whispered. "You--where am I?" "In the sick bay," she said. "You got caught out when the ship changed course. Lucky you weren't hurt, Peter. The man you were with--the old, white-haired one, Stevens--wasn't so lucky. He was underneath when the jets went on. Three ribs broken--his lung was punctured. He died in the other room an hour ago." Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened them again there was alertness and clarity in them--but there was also bafflement. "Girl," he said, "who are you? Where am I?" "Peter!" There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. "I'm--don't you know me, Peter?" Duane shook his head confusedly. "I don't know anything," he said. "I--I don't even know my own name." "Duane, Duane," a man's heavy voice said. "That won't wash. Don't play dumb on me." "Duane?" he said. "Duane...." He swiveled his head and saw a dark, squat man frowning at him. "Who are you?" Peter asked. The dark man laughed. "Take your time, Duane," he said easily. "You'll remember me. My name's Andrias. I've been waiting here for you to wake up. We have some business matters to discuss." The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: "I'll leave you alone for a moment. Don't talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias. He's still suffering from shock." "I won't," Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room, the smile dropped from his face. "You play rough, Duane," he observed. "I thought you'd have trouble with Stevens. I didn't think you'd find it necessary to put him out of the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it's no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I've got your money here." * * * * * Duane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest--gray tunic, gray leather spaceman's boots. It was unfamiliar. He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was. He looked at the man named Andrias. "Nobody seems to believe me," he said, "but I really don't know what's going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I--why, I don't even know my own name! My head--it hurts. I can't think clearly." Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. "Don't play tricks on me," he said savagely. "I haven't time for them. I won't mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is."