“How the Hell do you _think_ I--?” He stopped cold. How _did_ he know? “They’re _both_ there,” he said, and knew it was true. “I don’t know who the hell else is with them, but they’re both there.” “Wait a minute,” Bourgnese went to the phone and called the Shack Guardhouse. “Charlie! Is Miss Trovi still there?” “Yeah. Her and the other babe and the Doc. Some half-track dropped him off couple hours ago. They’re all in there.” “Right. Thanks, Charlie.” He switched off and got Lock Supply. “Give me the call number on Kutler’s suit.” “Hold on. Here it is. Five-nine-cue-six-emm.” “Thanks.” He switched off and on again, dialled the helmet radio number. Nothing. “Damn!” He turned back to Johnny. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.” They strode rapidly across the Mall to Lock Supply. Bourgnese signed out suits for both of them. Johnny turned to Thad as the other man started away. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know why in Hell you’re doing it. But _thanks_.” “No,” Bourgnese said. “I guess you wouldn’t know why.” _The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Phil Kutler_ The two women sat, one at each side of the tank, gazing into it. Lisa’s voice droned as the tape wound from spool to spool: “... but I-all did not know ... idea of unit-body discrete-person too far back with memory haze ... and not-alike, even when ... but _when_? how far back? ... so long I had been one-and-all ... recalled haze-memory, but too much lost with no-need-to-know ... had to begin, to learn, fresh, new ... too slow, too slow....” “_He’s coming!_” The words cracked like a whiplash in his helmet; he jumped back, out of touch, put a hand to his face-plate in reflexive feeling for damage, that _snap_ had been so sharply physical. The plate was intact. Of course. He smiled foolishly, leaned toward her again; found he had to _force_ himself to retouch helmets. That crack had _hurt_. “Johnny?” he asked. No answer. Then out of the side of his eye he saw she was nodding her head inside the helmet. “Can you tell if anyone’s with him?” Pause. “Somebody, yes ... not Chris ... Thad?” That seemed likely. “How is he--What kind of a mood--? I mean Johnny.” She giggled. “_Fierce!_” _Great!_ But _she_ didn’t sound worried. “That’s good?” he asked sourly. “Depends....” He backed off to look at her. The half-smile on her face was--in Moonsuit and helmet, in a half-enclosed shack on the Moon’s friendless face--absurd, ludicrous ... nothing short of outrageously funny with its eternal-mysterious-female. _So laugh already!_ He didn’t. _Sure_, he thought, _funny, like ... crazy, man ... but how would it look if she smiled it for you?_ Then he realized she could probably hear _this_ as well--or more clearly than?--anything he said aloud through the helmets. And then, with relief, but with bitterness too: _If she were listening, that is_.... She wasn’t. She was listening only to one man, the man at the wheel of the half-track, now visibly nearing at full speed across the Moon dustcakes--coming for her.