Barbara's fingers rumpled my hair, the grafted hair which by now felt more a part of me than my own lost crest. "You're an odd fellow," she said quietly. "On the surface so frank and friendly and cheerful, and down underneath you're hiding yourself and your private unhappiness." "Why," I looked up at her, astonished, "even the psychologists--" "They're limited, Con. They can measure, but they can't feel. Not the way--" She stopped, and the light glowed in her hair and her eyes were wide and serious on mine and one small hand stole over to touch my fingers. Blindly, I wrenched my face away. Her voice was low. "It's some other woman, isn't it?" "Other--? Well, no. There was one, but she's dead now. She died ten years ago." _Ydis, Ydis!_ "Your wife?" I nodded. "We were only married for three years. My daughter is still alive; she's going on twelve now. But I haven't seen her for over two years. She's not on Earth. I wonder if she even thinks of me." "Con," said Barbara, very softly and gravely, "you can't go on mourning a woman forever." "I'm not. Forget it. I shouldn't have spoken about it." "You needed to. That's all right." "My girl ought to have a mother--" The words came of themselves. What followed thereafter seemed also to happen without my willing it. Presently Barbara stood back from me. She was laughing, low and sweet and joyous. "Con, you old sourpuss, cheer up! It isn't that bad, you know!" I managed a wry grin, though it seemed to need all the energies left in me. "You look so happy your fool self that I have to counter-balance it." "Con, if you knew how I'd been hoping!" We talked for a long time, but she did most of it--the plans, the hopes, the trip we were going to take and the house we were going to build down by the seashore--"Mary," my daughter, was going to have a home, along with the dozen brothers and sisters she'd have in due course--after the war. After the war. I left, finally, stumbling like a blind man toward my quarters. Oh, yes, I loved her and she loved me and we were going to have a home and a sailboat and a dozen children, after the war, when Earth was free. What more could a man ask for? It had been many years since I'd needed autohypnosis to put myself to sleep, but I used it now. VII A month passed. The delay was partly due to the slowness with which I had to work, even after a plan had been laid. I could only do a little at a time, and the times had to be well separated. Each day brought the moment of onslaught closer, but I dared not hurry myself. If they caught me at my work, there would be an end of all things. But I cannot swear that my own mind did not prompt me to an unnatural slowness and caution. I was only human, and every day was one more memory.