Kintyre held his glass to the light, tossed it off and followed it with a scalding sip of coffee. Why was he speaking of this? He had barely mentioned his youth to anyone else, except Trig, who was the friend of a dozen years. Trig had led him into the dojo, hoping that its discipline of mind as well as body would strangle the horror. But Corinna had the story out of him in a matter of hours, not even knowing what she did. He had taken her for Morna last night. "What happened?" she asked. Her tone said that he needn't answer unless he wanted to. "A typhoon and a lee shore," he said. "I was the only survivor." He took out a cigarette. She folded her hands and waited, in case he should want to say more. "That was in the Gilbert Islands," he continued after the smoke was curling down his tongue. "The British authorities shipped me home. The guardianship was wished onto a cousin of my mother's. So I went to the boarding school I spoke of, and summers I worked at a seaside resort. Don't feel sorry for me, it was quite a good life." "But a lonely one," she said. He grinned with a single corner of his mouth. "'_He travels the fastest who travels alone._'" "I understand a great deal now." She held her cup so lightly that he grew aware he was in danger of breaking his. Tendon by tendon, he eased his fingers. "Yes," she said after a moment. "Bruce was always puzzled by you. As I imagine most people are. You don't seem to belong anywhere, to anything or anyone. And yet you do. You belong to a world that foundered in the ocean." It jarred him. Not given to self-analysis, he had imagined he lived a logical, well adapted round of days. "Sometime you'll build it again," she said. "Oh, not the physical ship, you've more important things on hand, but a personal world." And again it was a blow, to be shown himself as alien as a castaway from Mars. "Please," he said, more roughly than he had intended. "I don't find my personality the most interesting object on earth." She nodded, as if to herself. The long hair swept her flat high-boned cheeks. "Of course. You wouldn't." "Perhaps I'd better take you home now," he said, without noticeable enthusiasm. "Are you working tomorrow?" "Only if I feel like it, my boss told me. I'd planned to, but--Are you in any hurry?" "Contrariwise." _I don't think I would sleep much._ "Then could we go somewhere and talk? I'd like to ask you some things." "I'd love to be asked. I know a place." * * * * * It was small, dark, and masculine, undegraded by jukebox or television. Kintyre led Corinna into a booth at the rear. "They serve steam beer," he said. "The only really good beer made in this country." "Oof! I couldn't. Another Irish, if I may. I promise to go slow." Her tone was not as light as the words. Nonetheless, he needed a little while to sense the trouble in her. After much time she met his eyes, obviously forcing his own. "Dr. Kintyre," she began.