"One moment, sir." Her right hand moved off-screen, and her eyes shifted to look at a screen that Turnbull couldn't see. "Mendez," she said shortly. "The message will reach there in five hours and thirty-six minutes total transmission time. Allow an hour's delay for getting the message on the tapes for beaming. "The cost is one seventy-five per symbol. Spaces and punctuation marks are considered symbols. _A, an, and_, and _the_ are symbols." Turnbull thought a moment. It was high--damned high. But then a man with a bona fide Ph. D. was not exactly a poor man if he worked at his specialty or taught. "I'll call you back as soon as I've composed the message," he said. "Very well, sir." He cut the circuit, grabbed a pencil and started scribbling. When he'd finished reducing the thing to its bare minimum, he started to dial the number again. Then he scowled and dialed another number. This time, a mild-faced young man in his middle twenties appeared. "University of California in Los Angeles. Personnel Office. May I serve you?" "This is Dr. Dave Turnbull, in New York. I understand that Scholar Duckworth is on leave. I'd like his present address." The young man looked politely firm. "I'm sorry, doctor; we can not give out that information." "Oh, yap! Look here; I know where he is; just give me--" He stopped. "Never mind. Let me talk to Thornwald." Thornwald was easier to deal with, since he knew both Duckworth and Turnbull. Turnbull showed him Duckworth's letter on the screen. "I know he's on Mendez; I just don't want to have to look all over the planet for him." "I know, Dave. I'm sure 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.