I paused, disconcerted by background voices translating my words into dozens of foreign tongues; then, steeling myself, I went on, concluding with the question, "Is Miss Schoener present at this moment in any one of your installations?" There were noes, _nons_, _niets_, _neins_--and then a hesitant _oui_ followed almost immediately by a resounding _da_. My eyes went to the Siberian monitor and Elaine was suddenly facing me on the screen, saying, "Doc, I'm in a lab in Russia and there's not a soul here who can speak English, just a bunch of leering old bearded men. I'm scared, doc, and--" She wasn't there. Sosnowski's voice came from Hanford, "She's here now, Bob. I cut the AGS out and then back in and bingo!" Elaine was behind him, sporting a Cossack hat. "Elaine, I would--" I started. And stopped. She wasn't there. "_Du bist wunderschon_," a guttural voice proclaimed. I swung to the Munich monitor. I didn't need a translation. Elaine was there and making an impression. She swapped the Cossack hat for a Tyrolean one which a grinning Bavarian had been wearing--and vanished. "_Elle est ici!_" a nasal tenor said. "_C'est la Sorbonne ou elle est. C'est DuBois qui parle. Ma foi! Elle est vraiment magnifique!--Mon dieu! Elle n'est plus!_" Though sadly neglected since college days, my "knowledge" of French told me that Elaine had arrived, conquered and departed, leaving Monsieur DuBois of the Paris AGS in a state of bemusement, indeed! "Fellows!" I cried. "Someone's not playing fair! In the last few minutes, Miss Schoener has been in Siberia, in Hanford, Washington, U.S.A., in Munich, Germany, and in Paris. This--" "She's back again!" Sosnowski cried from Hanford. I swung to the Hanford screen. "Ted," I said, "stop switching the AGS off and on. It could be dangerous. The gauss level might even bring her to critical mass. You're playing with something we know little about." Sosnowski rolled his eyes from the screen to Elaine. "Brother," he said, "this girl's always near critical mass! And I'm not playing. I'd be happy if she'd stay right here!" But she wasn't there. "_Ona krasavitsa_," a jubilant voice said. The Siberia screen displayed a Russian doing the sabre dance before Elaine's eyes, and an interpreter somewhere in the vast UNACME network was helpfully murmuring, "She is beautiful." At which point Monsieur DuBois said throatily to an abruptly materialized vision, "_Tu es belle. Reste ici, ma chere!_" And then swore with Gallic fluency as thin air alone vibrated to his impassioned words. While Al Benson at Phoenix began a John Alden speech in my behalf. I was silent, studying Elaine's lovely face as Al spoke to her. She was apparently enjoying every second of her fantastic flitting yet I could see perplexity deep in her dark eyes. I thought I could see a bewilderment, a lostness. "Al," I said, "I've got to talk to her." Was it wishful thinking or did I see a warmth leap into her face as she turned to see my image?