Then Lao appeared and under the artificial lighting of the chemilamps, Lynne was surprised to note how tired the Eurasio-Martian girl looked. She appeared thin enough to be blown away by the first breeze and there were deep purple circles under her slightly tilted black almond-eyes--yet the fingers that gripped her skinless cigarette were rock-steady. She said, "They've done something to Revere, haven't they?" "I think so," Lynne replied. "How did you know?" "I felt it--until just lately," said Lao. "Most of us are somewhat telepathic on Mars. In moments of emotional stress especially." "I'm not sure what's happened," Lynne told her. "They were trying to get him to record the shape of the invaders on a grid." Lao's already pale face turned ashy-white. She whispered, "I _knew_ it! They've used the necro-recorder on him." "What is it?" Lynne inquired. "It's a Martian device--supposed to get impressions from the minds of dying men. It was used in the early days when we had more crime." There was sudden listlessness in her manner. Lynne read her thoughts all too plainly. Lao Mei-O'Connell was stunned with grief. No one, it seemed, had ever survived treatment with this machine--survived to sanity at any rate. So Revere was dead--or as good as dead. Lynne looked blankly at the Eurasian woman, utterly unable to think under the sudden shock of her words. And then, out of nowhere, came the fragment of a thought. _Don't give up the space-ship, Lynne--tell Lao I'm not completely batty yet._ It was Revere--unquestionably. Lynne tried to get him again but the blank wall was back. Only now, for some reason, it didn't seem so terrifying. She looked at Lao, who said, "You got something just now, Lynne. Was it...?" Lynne nodded. "It was Revere. He--he asked me to tell you he's okay--not completely batty yet was the way he put it." For a moment doubt blanked Lao's face. Then she smiled and looked on the verge of passing out herself. She said, "I might not have believed you, Lynne. But that phrase--it's--well, it's the way he would have said it." "It was Revere," Lynne repeated. She looked at the chronometer above the door of the room, realized it was getting late. "I've barely got time to eat dinner," she said. "I don't want to miss my shift." "No, you don't," the other told her. "There might be a message." "Why not share it with me?" Lynne offered. "I could use some company." Lao shook her head regretfully. "I've got a million things to do here," she said. Then, with the ghost of a smile lighting her exotic features, "Besides, I'd be afraid it might be bad news." "I'll send you a message via the ground-communicator the second I learn anything," Lynne told her. Then the two women went in to dine at the head table. They were two islands of preoccupation amid the rough good-humored gaiety of the room. It was Saturday night at Barkutburg and there was going to be a dance.