"This is tremendous!" Len began to blunder around the bed-room, not looking where he was going. "They thought Macaulay was a genius. This kid isn't even born. I _heard_ him. He was cussing Berry out like Monty Woolley." "He had me reading _The Man Who Came to Dinner_ two days ago." Len made his way around a small bedside table by trial and error. "That's another thing. How much could you say about his--his personality? I mean does he seem to know what he's doing, or is he just striking out wildly in all directions?" He paused. "Are you sure he's really conscious at all?" * * * * * Moira began, "That's a silly--" and stopped. "Define consciousness," she said doubtfully. "All right, what I really mean--_why_ am I wearing this necktie?" He ripped it off and threw it over a lampshade. "What I mean--" "Are you sure you're really conscious?" "Okay. You make joke, I laugh, ha-ha. What I'm trying to ask is, have you seen any evidence of creative thought, organized thought, or is he just--integrating, along the lines of--of instinctive responses? Do you--" "I know what you mean. Shut up a minute.... I don't know." "I mean is he awake, or asleep and dreaming about us, like the Red King?" "I don't _know_!" "And if that's it, what'll happen when he wakes up?" Moira took off her robe, folded it neatly, and maneuvered herself between the sheets. "Come to bed." Len got one sock off before another thought struck him. "He reads your mind. Can he read other people's?" He looked appalled. "Can he read mine?" "He doesn't. Whether it's because he can't, I don't know. I think he just doesn't care." Len pulled the other sock halfway down and left it there. In a stiffer tone, he said, "One of the things he doesn't care about is whether I have a job." "No. He thought it was funny. I wanted to sink through the floor, but I had all I could do to keep from laughing when she fell down.... Len, what are we going to do?" He swiveled around and looked at her. "Look," he said, "I didn't mean to sound that gloomy. We'll do something. We'll fix it. Really." "I hope so." Careful of his elbows and knees, Len climbed into the bed beside her. "Okay now?" "Mm.... Ugh." Moira tried to sit up suddenly, and almost made it. She wound up propped on one elbow, and said indignantly, "Oh, no!" Len stared at her in the dimness. "What--?" She grunted again. "Len, get up. All _right_. Len, _hurry_!" Len fought his way convulsively past a treacherous sheet and staggered up, goose-pimpled and tense. "What's wrong?" "You'll have to sleep on the couch. The sheets are in the bottom--" "On that couch? Are you crazy?" "I can't help it," she said in a small faint voice. "Please don't let's argue. You'll just have to." "_Why?_" "We can't sleep in the same bed," she wailed. "He says it's--oh!--unhygienic!" * * * * *