"I like your ship, Howard," she said. "She's swaying a little on her shock absorbers in this breeze, but that makes one feel like really being at high sea." Scriven heaved a big sigh. "Thank you Oona, my dear. And you have no idea how right you are. We _are_ at high sea; in fact, we're lost--at least I am. Unless you save my life tonight, you and Dr. Lee." Oona laughed and even Lee couldn't help smiling. There was something irresistible comic in the puzzled and worried expression of that leonine face. "Come on in, you need a drink," the girl said. The aluminum steps creaked, and then the settee by the fireplace, under the surgeon's mighty frame. "More than one. Tonight, so help me, I would be justified, I would even have a right to get roaring drunk." Lee began to wonder whether the great Scriven had already made some use of his right in Los Angeles, which would account for the startling change in the man. The drink, however, which Oona handed him, seemed to do a lot of good. He sighed relief. "This, briefly, is the story: I ran into General Vandergeest at the airplane factory. He was there to take over some stuff for the Army and he tipped me off. We are going to be invaded, Oona, a full scale invasion mounted by a Congressional Committee." "Oh God," there was sincere grief in the girl's voice. "And couldn't you ward it off?" With a gesture of despair, Scriven waved that away. "I know, I know. But after all The Brain _is_ a military establishment and I am only the scientific director of it. Yes, of course I protested, I protested vehemently, but--" he shrugged his shoulders, "it was no good. You know how the military are." He drained his glass and swung around.