They could be hurt, even killed by humans in a three-dimensional world. How? Tennant did not know. Perhaps as a man can cut finger or even throat on the edge of a near-two-dimensional piece of paper. It took valor for them to hunt men in the world of men. In that fact lay a key to their character--if such utterly alien creatures could be said to have character. * * * * * Cass Gordon was smiling at him, saying something about one for the road. Tennant accepted only because it was luxury to drink liquor that smelled and tasted as liquor should. He raised his glass to Agatha, said, "I may turn up again, but it's unlikely, so have yourself a time, honey." "Oh, Rog!" said Agatha and her eyes were fraudulently wet. Tennant felt pure contempt. She knew that Cass intended to try to kill him--and she couldn't play it straight. She had to ham it up with false emotion, even though she had silently pleaded with her lover to do something, anything. He put down his empty glass. The thought that he had spent eighteen months yearning for this she-Smithfield like a half-damp puppy made him almost physically ill. "You'll make out," he told her with savage sincerity. In her way, in accord with her desires, Agatha would. At bottom she was, he realized, as primitive, as realistic, as the three who waited beyond the gateway. An ex-waitress, an ex-forewoman, an ex-model of mediocre success--and Agatha. He tried to visualize his wife as a member of his involuntary harem and realized that she would adapt as readily as the other women. But he didn't want her. He turned away and said, "Ready, Cass?" "Right with you," the ex-halfback replied, hurrying toward the hall. Tennant considered, took another drink for his own road. The signals had been given, the game was being readied. He had no wish to upset the planning. He had some plans also, and theirs gave his enough moral justification to satisfy his usually troublesome conscience. Agatha put her arms around his neck. She was warm and soft and moist of lip and playing her part with obvious enjoyment of its bathos. She murmured, "I'm so sorry, Rog, darling--" "Cut!" he said almost in a snarl and wrenched free. He brought out a handkerchief--he had remembered to have one created, praise Allah--and rubbed lipstick from his face. He tossed the handkerchief to Agatha. "You might have this analyzed," he told her lightly. "It could be interesting. The handkerchief, not the lipstick." "I'm glad you're going!" she blazed, although her voice was low. "I'm _glad_ you're going. I hope you _never_ come back." "That," he told her, "makes exactly two of us. Have fun." He went out into the hall, where Cass was waiting, wearing what was intended to be a smile. They went out to the car together--it was a big convertible--and Cass got behind the wheel. He said, "Where to, old man?" "The Upham Road," said Tennant, feeling nothing at all. * * * * *