"A cocktail," he told her. He pushed it toward her, ordered another for himself. Deborah sipped it, made a face, then sipped again. "Why!" she exclaimed. "'Tis like strong rum! I must tread warily or my poor head will spin like a windmill." "Right," he told her. Finishing his drink he ordered himself a small steak, medium rare, with mushrooms, soufflé potatoes and a tossed green chef's salad. They arrived in seconds, perfectly done and equipped with the finest sort of silverware, bearing his initials. He had just about decided that Belvoir, real or otherwise, was a promisingly pleasant if bizarre place, when a rasping voice filled the hall, saying, to Justin's ears at any rate, "Now hear this--now hear this. Your final briefing will follow immediately. Please return to your chambers and await further orders!" IV Alone in his cubicle Justin longed for a cigarette. Fortunately he did not have long to wait. The man who entered with brisk graceful steps wore soft grey flannels, a comfortable blue shirt and gay but not loud figured silk tie. He glanced quizzically at Justin, drew a silver cigarette case from a jacket pocket, offered one to Justin, took one himself, lit both with a silver lighter. He sat down on the chair in the corner, said, "I'm Ortine--I run Belvoir. I suppose you're wondering what this is all about, Mr. Justin." "That," said Justin, "is understatement, Mr. Ortine. _I_ suppose I must have lost my mind." "On the contrary," said Ortine with the trace of a smile, "you have been brought here because you are absolutely sane." "That's a relief--or is it?" Justin countered. There was, he thought, something epicene, almost effeminate, in his host's gestures, in his voice. Furthermore, there was something familiar in his handsome, rather delicate cast of feature--a familiarity that played elusive hide and seek with Justin's memory. "I shall try to make my explanation brief as possible," said Ortine. "However, Mr. Justin, you _are_ sane--and you are _not_ dreaming. You have been brought to Belvoir in thoroughly material fashion." "Just what and where is this Belvoir of yours?" Justin asked bluntly. "This is not going to be easy to explain to you, Mr. Justin. To most of the others I merely call it heaven or fairyland--and that suffices. But you and your era are a little too informed for such credulity. "Belvoir, of course, it not its real name--and actually it isn't a place at all--at least not in your terrestrial meaning of the word. I suppose you'd call it a ship." "A _ship_!" Justin exploded. Then, to humor his host, "I suppose you mean some sort of space-ship." "After a fashion it's a space-ship--but _my_ vessel doesn't actually inhabit your concept of space." Ortine still looked troubled. "Some of your science fiction authors have come closest to it with something they call sub-space." "I'm afraid I can't follow you there," said Justin.