The youngster turned impatiently, and Kerry repeated, less sure of himself, “Lew Fallon. But no, it can’t be! You’re much too young to be the Lew Fallon who was killed by Pharigs eight years ago!” “The rocket man? That was my father.” Lew Fallon’s mouth was tight. “He wasn’t dead either--until a week ago.” “I don’t understand,” Kerry said. “Ben Thrusher and I were roommates in college, and we worked at a civilian center during the Three Days’ war. He was about the best friend I had until the Pharig invasion came, and the Army took Ben for rocket research. He and your father were killed when the Pharigs sabotaged an experimental rocket.” “Rubbish!” Fallon blurted out, then added quickly, “Look I can’t explain. Ben Thrusher will have to do it.” Kerry had thought, at first, that the whole thing was a cruel or sinister hoax. But now the youngster’s attitude convinced him otherwise. He hurried along, trying to match Fallon’s stride. It was four minutes to curfew, and the streets were totally empty. But every shadow where the arch of light fell away became the possible lurking configuration of a concealed Pharig, or a uniformed Night Policeman. And there were many shadows. He slackened his pace, a hand to the stitch in his side, angry at himself for the upsurge of excitement aroused by his own guilt. He hadn’t broken any laws yet! “This is the hotel,” Fallon said abruptly. He stopped, and added with a shrug, “With just one minute to spare before curfew. Don’t inquire at the desk. Go right up to Room four-o-seven.” He swung about on his heels, and walked swiftly toward the rear of the building. Kerry started to follow, feeling a sudden desperate need to insist on a further explanation. But the sudden wail of the curfew siren drowned thought for a few seconds. When the noise died away he was standing inside the lobby, and a bellboy was bolting the doors behind him. II Kerry went on up. When he rapped at the door of Room 407, he was still breathless from climbing and it occurred to him, perhaps tardily, that he might be walking into a trap. But he put up his hand notwithstanding and knocked once loudly, determined to end the mystery as quickly as possible. “Who is it?” called a muffled voice from within the room. “It’s Kerry Donalson--” “Come in.” Kerry pushed the door open, and then stepped back in consternation. The room was in total darkness. The unseen voice arrested his retreat. “Wait! Don’t go. It’s me, Kerry--” “Ben!” Kerry moved quickly toward the sound, forgetting all caution. No one could have imitated that peculiar nasal inflection, even though the timbre of the voice itself had changed almost beyond recognition.