“What are you working on, now?” He asked, then chuckled. “Or have you got an idea-conveyor-and-processor to do your designing jobs too?” The answering grin was almost like a guy he used to know named Johnny Wendt. “Not yet. Matter of fact, I got into something today that’s been half on my mind all evening. I keep forgetting to be sociable. We don’t have much company here, you know....” He trailed off, and eyed his drink. Then abruptly: “Got nine-tenths of something on the drawing board,” he said, “if you want a look?” “Sure. I’d like to.” He turned to follow and saw Lisa, halfway through the door, stop herself fluidly in midstride, and melt back into the living room. _Smart girl_, he thought. He stepped into the study. It was a good room, well-designed, like the rest of the house, arranged for comfort and use as well as looks. And it was Johnny’s room, beyond a doubt. If he’d been brought here blindfolded, Chris thought, he’d have known this room belonged to John Wendt. But there was also something that _didn’t_ fit: something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It bothered him. He started for the drawing board, but Johnny waved him to the couch instead. “Nothing worth looking at,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow.” Chris sat down obediently. Anything he said was going to be the wrong thing. Let Wendt keep the ball. After a while, Johnny said, “Okay, let’s get it over with. _What_ didn’t you want to talk about on the phone?” “I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Chris said slowly. “I just finagled some dough for an increase in personnel. There’s a job I thought you might do for us, but....” He waved a hand to include not just the room, but the house and the river, and the life it stood for. “Why should you?” he finished. “Yeah. Why should I?” More silence. Chris looked around still trying to pin down the elusive wrongness of that room. Then he got it. There was a gilded football on a shelf from Johnny’s college days. There were old books, and a couple of photographs on the wall that couldn’t have any meaning except in one person’s memories. There were new things, too. But there was nothing, nothing at all, in this room, or anywhere in the house, to remind Johnny Wendt or anyone else that the man who lived here had spent most of five years of his life off of Earth: on the Moon, on Mars, inside the _Colombo_. Involuntarily, Chris shivered, as a child shivers in the ghost-filled dark. He stood up, feeling tired. He had to get up early tomorrow morning. He ought to be leaving. “Okay, so you changed your mind,” Johnny said. “What were you...? A-ah, never mind. Skip it.” He picked up his glass. It was empty again. He stared at it, then put it carefully down, still empty. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he said suddenly. “I’m being damn rude. I get--jumpy. Sit down for krissake, and tell me what’s on your mind. You came all the way up here to see me. I can at least listen to what you want.” “Okay,” Chris said. “But do me a favor?” “What?”