_Like Unk._ Bill's throat grew something big in it. Fear. He whispered huskily, "_Was_ it Unk? Are you sure it was a dream?" She eased back against the pillow. "I haven't been feeling good," she sighed. "Maybe--I don't know what to think. Bill, lie down beside me. Let's listen together." Listen. Listen to Unk? But Unk was dead. Maybe Unk's ghost.... It couldn't be Unk. So what was there out here beyond the ship in a pointless universe? He lay down with her, goose pimples all over his big body. Then he heard it, and every square inch of his skin got the blue chills. His body seemed to lose identity and floated buoyantly in a sea of horror. A voice. A voice, gnarled with age, high and angry, spoken so fast, like a speeding phonograph record, that the words could not be made out. That ghostly running stream of inarticulated words came from nowhere, blatted in from everywhere. Birthed inside their heads, grew in demanding volume from outside the ship. A voice that pervaded space, that pulsed like a yammering animal gone mad, that hooted sometimes like a locomotive lost on a whirling track. "It's Unk," Bill chattered. "I know it's Unk. Somehow he's followed us here. He's after me, Molly. After all the dirt I did him. His ghost." "Silly." She put her cold palm on his mouth. Is came running down the corridor. She jumped into Bill's arm, shivering. She was frightened. Bill almost sobbed. "Darn that Unk! If he makes Is lose her pups--" After awhile he lay down again, drawing the covers over him, Is under one arm, Molly warm under the other. In the darkness somewhere, Was sniffed rather unconcernedly around the room. All night they listened to the Voice's peevish mutter. Molly gripped his hand under the covers. "It's slowing down. I made out a word then. It sounded like--like dogs. Bill, it's not Unk. I'm sure of that." Bill went nuts. "That makes it worse," he yelled, jumping out of bed. "If it isn't Unk, who is it? There isn't anybody out here. There aren't any suns, any planets, any nothing. Who would be out here?" He paced the room, pulling at his hair. Then abruptly he climbed back in bed, shivering and mortally scared. And listening.... On bumbled the Voice. Speeding. Slowing. Sometimes seeming to catch up with their thought processes, then going past. "He's trying to synchronize," said Molly quietly. "He's going nuts doing it. He's getting madder and madder. This is liable to go on for days. I'm going to get up and fix breakfast." After she left, Bill mentally told the Voice to go to hell, and fell asleep. Was climbed all over him a half hour later to let him know breakfast was ready. The Voice had stopped. * * * * * "What a coupla mutts we were," Bill told Molly. "Letting our imaginations run haywire." "Oh, I agree with you," said Molly, being agreeable as usual. "We imagined it all, didn't we, Is?" Is wagged her prize-winning tail in agreement.