The doctor's gaze was fixed and glassy. "Vagitus uterinus," Berry muttered. He pulled the stethoscope off abruptly and stared at it. "No, of course it couldn't be. Now isn't that a nuisance? We seem to be picking up a radio broadcast with our little stethoscope here. I'll just go and get another instrument." Moira and Len exchanged glances. Moira's was almost excessively bland. Berry confidently came in with a new stethoscope, put the diaphragm against Moira's belly, listened for an instant and twitched once all over, as if his mainspring had snapped. Visibly jangling, he stepped away from the table. His jaw worked several times before any sound came out. "Excuse me," he said, and walked out in an uneven line. Len snatched up the instrument he had dropped. Like a bell ringing under water, muffled but clear, a tiny voice was shouting: "_You bladder-headed pillpusher! You bedside vacuum! You fifth-rate tree surgeon! You inflated--_" A pause. "_Is that you, Connington? Get off the line; I haven't finished with Dr. Bedpan yet._" Moira smiled, like a Buddha-shaped bomb. "Well?" she said. * * * * * "We've got to think," Len kept saying over and over. "_You've_ got to think." Moira was combing her hair, snapping the comb smartly at the end of each stroke. "I've had plenty of time to think, ever since it happened. When you catch up--" Len flung his tie at the carved wooden pineapple on the corner of the footboard. "Moy, be _reasonable_. The chances against the kid kicking three times in any one-minute period are only about one in a hundred. The chances against anything like--" Moira grunted and stiffened for a moment. Then she cocked her head to one side with a listening expression ... a new mannerism of hers that was beginning to send intangible snakes crawling up Len's spine. "What now?" he asked sharply. "He says to keep our voices down. He's thinking." Len's fingers clenched convulsively, and a button flew off his shirt. Shaking, he pulled his arms out of the sleeves and dropped the shirt on the floor. "Look. I just want to get this straight. When he talks to you, you don't hear him shouting all the way up past your liver and lights. What--" "You know perfectly well he reads my mind." "That isn't the same as--" Len took a deep breath. "Let's not get off on that. What I want to know is, what is it like? Do you seem to hear a real voice, or do you just know what he's telling you, without knowing how you know?" Moira put the comb down in order to think better. "It isn't like hearing a voice. You'd never confuse one with the other. It's more--the nearest I can come to it, it's like remembering a voice. Except that you don't know what's coming." Len picked his tie off the floor and abstractedly began knotting it on his bare chest. "And he sees what you see, he knows what you're thinking, he can hear when people talk to you?" "Of course."