"You're going to be too busy," Lynne told him. "And don't worry about me, Ray. I've already talked to Jan." "You mean you're not angry about _us_?" Lynne shook her head, glanced at Janet, was again startled by the blazing hatred that was beamed her way. She wondered what it must feel like to hate in such thorough fashion. She was relieved when she heard Mother Weedon talking to someone at the door. A moment later the widow entered and said, "This is Rolf Marcein, kids. He's going to be staying with us a little while." She introduced the three of them to the newcomer. Lynne barely acknowledged the greeting. She was too startled. The most recent addition to Mother Weedon's charmed circle appeared, in the semi-dark room, to be the man who had given her her walking papers that morning on the eightieth floor of the brain-station tower. He was tall, dark, lanky, saturnine. His name was Marcein. At least that was something Lynne hadn't known before. And then she noticed that this Marcein's face was not so pale, that his eyes were brighter, his manner and movements more athletically poised than the man on the eightieth floor. Mother Weedon pressed the polarizer to let more light into the room, since the vidarbox was not on. The stranger's tan, seen in the light, was startling, especially to Lynne, who had seen his pale double so recently. * * * * * His double--that meant his twin, she thought. And if his twin worked in the brain-station, then _this_ man must be a Martian. Certainly that would account for his tan, caused by living under the thin atmosphere of the red planet--as it would account for an athletic poise acquired during the hardships of Martian existence. _You're right, of course. I am Dolf's twin and I am from Mars._ It took her almost a full second to realise the thoughts had not been spoken. She was telepathic again, aware not only of the newcomer's thoughts but of those of the others in the room--though not as much aware of theirs as of Rolf Marcein's. She looked at him with something like panic, saw his brilliant dark eyes upon her, noted that he wore his clothes well, that there was something almost lupine in his grace, something almost overpowering.... _You must know you're beautiful yourself, Lynne Fenlay--if soft and unawakened. I have an idea I could turn the trick...._ It was like a blow. Not only could she read _his_ thoughts, Lynne realised--but he could read _hers_. She felt her face flame and a sudden surge of resentment toward his arrogance that forced her to leave the room lest she reveal the weakness it caused. And as she left his soft laughter rang like hailstones in her ears. III