Jokan, working at my side, has done much to conquer the evil virus of the Spartan menace. Her scientific knowledge, and her telepathic acumen, place her above many of our greatest minds. This is enhanced by an almost fanatical desire to destroy those who would destroy social progress. Her faithfulness to duty is legendary. We love each other with ties no one can understand who hesitate to conceive of bonds extending through dimensions of space and time. She never leaves my side in the unceasing night and day, crusading against the Fascistic disease that is being stamped out, though painfully and with aching slowness, that has extended over six centuries. But between us there is an uneasiness. Sometimes this uneasiness finds expression in little episodes--like the conversation at the last meeting of the International Agencies in Casablanca. We were having drinks before going into the Presidium. Jokan was lovely--that's a dismal understatement--in a low cut evening gown of plasti-silk. Her eyes were half closed. "Will we ever win?" she said over the brim of a Tom Collins, which is still the world's favorite cocktail. "Yes," I said. Then I turned casually, though I didn't feel casual at all. I knew what she was thinking. "You must be the greatest optimist of all time," she said. "And I'll help you and myself and all of us stay that way. I'll never mention it again. Perhaps we can both forget." "Try to forget what?" I said, though I knew well enough. Her eyes fixed mine as only her eyes can. "Forget that the great world we're fighting so hard to build we will be destroying a million years from tonight." I coughed and ordered another drink for myself. But I can't forget. End of Project Gutenberg's Prisoner of the Brain-Mistress, by Bryce Walton