John Summersby opened his eyes. The last voice had told the truth: the room didn't look like a hospital. It didn't look like anything that he could think of offhand. It was about living-room size, with flat yellow walls and a gray ceiling. There was a quantity of musty-smelling straw on the floor. Four tree trunks from which the branches had been lopped were planted solidly in that floor, which felt hard and a little warm on Summersby's back. Near the roof was a round silver rod, running from wall to wall; over in a corner was a large shallow box filled with something, he saw as he slowly stood up, that might have been sand. An old automobile tire lay in the straw nearby, and a green bird-bath sort of thing held water that splashed from a tiny fountain in its center. Five other people, four men and a woman, were standing or sitting on the floor. "If it was a hospital, we'd be hurt," said a thin yellow-haired man with a briefcase under one arm. "I'm all right. Feel as good as I ever did." Several men prodded themselves experimentally, and one began to take his own pulse. Summersby stretched and blinked his eyes; they felt gummy, as though he'd been asleep a long time, but his mouth wasn't cottony, so he figured the blacked-out interval must have been fairly short. "Where's the door?" asked the woman. Everyone stared around the room except Summersby, who went to the fountain, scooped up a palmful of water, and drank it. It was rather warm, with no chemical taste. "There isn't any door," said a Negro boy. "Hey, there isn't a door at all!" "There must be a door," said the heavy man with the accent. Several of them ran to the walls. "Here's something," said the blond man, pushing with his fingertips. "Looks like a sliding panel, but it won't budge. We never came in through anything _that_ small, anyway." He looked over at Summersby. "You didn't, at least. I guess they could have slid me through it." "They?" said the woman in a piercing voice. "Who are they?" "Yes," said the heavy man, looking at the blond man accusingly, "who put us here?" "Don't ask me," said the blond man. He looked at a watch, held it to his ear, and Summersby saw him actually go pale, as at a terrible shock. "My God," he gasped, "what day is this?" "Tuesday," said the Negro. "That's right. We got on the coaster about eleven Tuesday morning. It's three o'clock Thursday!" His voice was flat and astonished as he held up the watch. "Two days," he said, winding it. "This thing's almost run down." "How do you know it's Thursday?" asked Summersby. "This is a chronograph, High-pockets," said the blond man. "Calvin, we've been kidnapped!" the woman said shrilly, clutching at a man who must be her husband or boy friend. "No, no, dear. How could they do it on a roller coaster?" "_Maria y José!_" said the Mexican. "Then for two days that idiot relief man has had charge of my chili stand! It'll go to hell!"