There was only one explanation left. Not time travel. Not alternate universes. Not an ordinary confidence game. Not--decidedly not--a hoax. If he was wrong, then tomorrow morning he'd take the whole business to Mr. Gross. But he had a hunch he wasn't going to be wrong. * * * * * It was 12:15 by his wristwatch when he saw it coming. It had no lights; nobody could have spotted it as it appeared suddenly out of nowhere and climbed straight down. It landed lightly as a drop of dew. The port opened and a small, spare man, very neatly dressed, as Sam could see with eyes accustomed to the darkness, stepped out. Orville K. Hesterson in person. He tiptoed quickly to the paper bag. Then he saw Sam and stopped short. Sam reached out and grabbed a wrist. It felt like flesh, but he couldn't be sure. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" the newcomer said in a strained whisper, just like a scared character in a soap opera. So he spoke English. Good: Sam didn't speak anything else. "I'm from the United States Post Office," Sam replied suavely. Well, he had been, long enough, hadn't he? "Oh. Well, now look, my friend--" "_You_ look. Talk. How much are you paying the elevator operator to put your mail up here every day?" "Five dollars a day, in dollar bills, six days a week, left in the empty bag," answered Hesterson--it must be Hesterson--sullenly. "That's no crime, is it? Call this my office, and call that my rent. All I need an office for is to have somewhere to get my letters." "Letters with money in them." "We have to have funds for postage, don't we?" "What about the postage on the first mailing list, before you got any dollars to pay for stamps?" If it had been a little lighter, Sam would have been surer of the alarm that crossed Hesterson's face. "I--well, we had to fabricate some of your currency for that. We regretted it--we aim to obey all local rules and regulations. As soon as we have enough coming in, we intend to send the amount to the New York postmaster as anonymous conscience money." "How about the $1,000 prize? And those dollar book credits?" "Oh, that. Well, we say '_when_ our publishing firm has been established,' don't we? That publishing thing is just a gimmick. As for the $1,000, we give no intimation of when the poll will end." Sam tightened his grasp on the wrist, which was beginning to wriggle. "I see. O.K., explain the whole setup. It sounds crazy to me."