The Port Manager handed it over with relief. “All right. Will you see the reporters now? They’ve been waiting....” _Rockland--Sunday, October 9, 10_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._) He couldn’t see why he’d never thought of it before. All the times he’d sat in this room and stared at that damn impregnable glass wall, and never realized he had something so simple that could--if not damage it, then at least--make an impression on it. He got up from the couch and picked up the five darts from the floor. Two others stuck to the curved surface of the giant window, both from previous tries. He had been leaving them there, timing himself to see how long it took to get them all up. But that didn’t work, because he didn’t stick with the game. Now he got an absurd satisfaction out of wrenching the two suction cups loose. He’d keep score the other way instead--see how many _turns_ it took to get them all up. At least it wouldn’t be too quick. Not that it mattered; it was ten now; if she didn’t call soon, she wasn’t going to. Unless the landings were _really_ late this time? He dialed for the news, and sat back, not listening to all the headline part. Landing times would come at the end. The first shuttle had been scheduled for five-thirty, Central time. That was two and a half hours now he’d sat waiting for the phone chime; dialing for no-news; pacing the room up and down; opening the liquor cabinet and closing it again; getting--and forgetting--five cups of hot coffee from the bleak kitchen. Somewhere along the way, he’d thought of the darts. Given a near-impossible combination of luck and skill, you could make a suction dart stick on curved glass one time in--how many? That’s what was wrong with the first scoring system; this way he’d find out. He threw all seven, one after another, as fast as he could. One caught, clung, dropped. The others just bounced. The phone chimed. _The phone!_ He reached for the switch, and the screen lit up, and--_damn it to Hell, you fat bastard, where’s Lee?_--it was Chris! “She didn’t come,” Johnny said. Chris shook his head. “She asked me to give you a message.” “Yeah? Okay, give it.” “She _couldn’t come_.” “No?” “The doctor says....” “_Which_ doctor? Ole buddy Phil?” “No, the Medic. She’s not supposed to take the trip till--” “You always were a bum liar, Chris. So she didn’t come. So?” “All right, I’m a bum liar. If you want to know, I wouldn’t let her. And you ought to have your head examined, for wanting her to. She’s been subpoenaed.” “Me too. If they get around to serving it.” “Yeah, but her left isn’t as good as yours. Do you want to hear the message or not?” “Sure. Why not? What is it? Love and kisses?” “As a matter of fact, that’s _exactly_ it.” “Okay.” But he had seen Chris hesitate. There was more. He waited. Chris waited. “All right, spill it, will you? What’s the rest?” “You turning mindreader too?” Chris said nastily. “Leave it lay, man,” Johnny growled. “_What else did she say?_”