"Don't overdo it, honey," he cautioned her, lightly. "You know perfectly well I've enjoyed those long goodnight kisses when I've walked you home." She sobered reflectively. "All right, Bill. But just what was this mid-morning telegram about--or don't you want to tell me?" It was a casually-spoken question, and the circumstances made it a perfectly logical one. As a research engineer, Morrow worked on a number of things which had top-secret classification, and Gwyn knew he did. _And I'd better classify this, too!_ Morrow thought slyly. "Afraid I can't," he answered her, calmly. She nodded and sipped her coffee in silence. Finally, she asked, "Will you be glad when I'm back on a day-shift?" Morrow took his turn sipping coffee and took his time forming an answer. "I want to take you swimming out at the Lakeshore Lodge, again," he said. "I still dream about the way you rolled up your two-piece suit so it was a Bikini model--" "Uh huh," she interrupted. Her tone was hardly enthusiastic. "If we do, you'd better not try making the passes at me you did the last time!" "You expect me to resist the temptation of all that beautiful skin?" he retorted, grinning down at her. She gave a pert shake of her head. "When I give in to a man, he'll be my husband," she said firmly. "And he'll be my husband because he loves me--not because he drools over my body!" "Ummm," Morrow ummed, doubtfully. He decided it would be best to change the subject. "Read the latest _Universe_?" "Uh huh! What'd you think of Sturgeon's story?" She was at once bright, smiling, interested. "Wasn't it wonderful? I mean, the way he so perfectly defined an alien being's intelligence--" * * * * * That was science-fiction. Gwyn read the science-fiction magazines avidly, from cover to cover. Morrow read a few, along with his other reading--the _Post_, _Harper's_, the _Digest_, and half a dozen technical journals--and he'd even written and sold a science-fiction story once. Nineteen editors rejected it, but the twentieth bought it after having him revise it three times. But that one mutual interest had gone a long way in winning his esteem in Gwyn's mind, slight though it was. And she was cute as a bug, the sort of female who set a man's blood a-tingle. So they talked science-fiction. Alien creatures that inhabited other planets, trips across space and out to the other stars, travels through time and into other dimensions, civilizations which spread clear across the galaxy.... It was over an hour before a young messenger boy came in with the expected telegram. Morrow tipped the boy, excused himself to Gwyn, and ripped open the envelope. The message read: DENVER, COLORADO AUGUST 6 1960 BILL MORROW WESTERTON, NEW JERSEY ROGER, WILCO. E-T-A NEWARK AIRPORT 3:10 A.M. SUNDAY AUG. 8TH. WHERE IN HELL IS WESTERTON? D.P. SMITH Grinning, Morrow folded the yellow sheet and stuffed it into his pocket.