He followed Vayle through the dusty, thick-carpeted lobby. Vayle slept in a disorderly room adjoining the cavernous hall of the dining room, where the tables were covered with dust and the band instruments lay rusting on the bandstand. The astrophysicist swept a litter of loose manuscript pages from his bed and sat down. He fished a bottle of gin from under the bed and took a long drink. "For my nerves," he apologized. Greg saw a score of empty bottles in the debris on the floor. Apparently Vayle had been treating his nerves for a long time. Greg picked up one of the manuscript pages. It was a part of a book. At least the patter of phrases was familiar, but the whole context was incoherent, without beginning or end. "My new text," Vayle explained. "When it's finished, the kids have promised to publish it. That's why they let me stay here, so I can work in peace." He pulled at the bottle again. "They're still children at heart. An adult can twist them around his finger, if he goes at it properly." "You mean the book's just a blind?" The scientist eyed Greg carefully. "You're too old. You can't be one of them." He rolled back the mattress and took out a thin file of paper, holding it tenderly in his hand. "I'm analyzing the cause, sir. I'm going to demonstrate how the children have made us believe they are able to defy the laws of physics. When I publish this, the nightmare will be over." Vayle handed over the file reluctantly. Greg turned back the cover--and the shock sobered him. Vayle was an established authority; Vayle was an eminent scientist; Vayle was a man Greg had learned to respect. But the book Vayle showed him contained nothing but blank pages. "You're interested in our project?" The throaty, silky voice came from the open door. Greg whirled. He saw a tall, thin woman, heavily painted. She was wearing a bangled, scarlet gown, which hung loose from her shoulders. Her beauty had faded long ago; her face was a lined, marble mask; her yellow hair was streaked with gray. Fifteen years ago Greg could have found her counterpart lurking in any Port City honky tonk, her thin hips swaying with the brassy jargon of the music and invitation in her eyes. "This is Holly Wilson," Vayle said. "My secretary." Secretary! Greg thought. So that's what they were calling it now. Holly Wilson's profession had gone by many names. The pickings on earth must have become mighty thin, if she were satisfied to saddle herself with a white-haired professor of astrophysics. Greg introduced himself, grinning contemptuously. "You're just in from the colonies, Captain?" she asked. "Yes." "Staying long?" "That depends. I have a cargo to auction and--" "The kids will take care of that. But you'll stay through tonight, of course. Let's see if we can find you a room." Greg thought he knew what she had in mind. But as soon as they were out of earshot of the scientist's bedroom, she said, "Come outside, Captain; I have to talk to you."