"All right," Parr snapped irritably. "Now, listen. This is the most important thing. Each of the lots has to be mailed at the proper time. Your bonus is conditional on that." "Okay," the trucker said. "I can't overstress the importance of that," Parr said. He handed the slip of paper across the table. It was a list of mailing information, Ship compiled, that was designed to assure that the packages would all be distributed by the mails as near simultaneously as possible. "You deliver the Seattle lot, that's number, ah, eighteen on the list, the last." "I understand." "When your trucks are loaded, you may leave. I'll pay you for lay-over time." "I've got a bill here," the trucker said. The two huddled over it, and after the trucker had gone Parr leaned back staring at the ceiling, his nerves quivering. * * * * * He knew what he was guilty of, at last. Knowledge came suddenly, from nowhere like an electric shock, and it stunned him. Logically he demanded proof; but there was no proof. It came, it was; it was beyond logic. Nothing in his memory ... and for a moment he thought he had lost the memory under Lauri's first vicious assault ripping into his mind; but, and again without reason, he knew it was not in the memory she had destroyed. She was connected with it, but not like that.... He was guilty of treason. He could not remember the act, but he was guilty. What? When? Why? He did not know; he was guilty without knowing what the treason was: only the overpowering certainty of his guilt. Wearily he let his head droop. Treason.... "Mister Parr?" "Eh? Eh?" "There's somethin' heavy in this one. It don't feel like paper. I think it's metal of some sort. Now, look, Mister Parr, I don't want to get tied up with somethin' that's not square. You said all these packages had paper in them. And I'd kinda like to see what else there is in this one, Mister Parr, if you don't mind." Parr wanted to jump out of the seat and smash at the man's face. But he forced himself to relax. "You want to open the package, is that it?" he said, gritting his teeth. "Yes, Mister Parr." "... Then go ahead and open it." Having expected refusal, the worker hesitated. "Go ahead," Parr insisted. He kept his face expressionless, although, beneath desk top level, his hands bundled into knobby fists, white at the knuckles. Then at the last possible second, as the worker's fingers were fumbling at the wrapping, Parr leaned forward. "Wait a minute. It won't be necessary to waste the parcel.... Unless you insist." The worker looked at Parr uncomfortably. A question of timing. Events hung in a delicate balance between exposure and safety. Parr reached for the drawer of the desk, his movements almost too indifferently slow.