"_Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami...._" The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only the eyes were alive. "_... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom...._" "I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?" "_... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous._" He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there, swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled slowly.... "_Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre._" His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't--Go back!" The horrible, mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress. His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the floor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. * * * * * Somebody said, "Doctor!" He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei--" but his mouth only twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. "Doctor." "Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him; in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean, starched odor. "Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand pressed him back into the sheets. "You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please." He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?" "She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a very sick man." Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. "Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?" The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't--fool me. It's been _more_--than three--months."