"Can you contact anyone else?" "No." "Then how can you talk with me?" "I don't know." Anders walked to his bureau mirror and adjusted his black bow tie, whistling softly under his breath. Having just discovered that he was in love, he wasn't going to let a little thing like a voice in his mind disturb him. "I really don't see how I can be of any help," Anders said, brushing a bit of lint from his jacket. "You don't know where you are, and there don't seem to be any distinguishing landmarks. How am I to find you?" He turned and looked around the room to see if he had forgotten anything. "I'll know when you're close," the voice said. "You were warm just then." "Just then?" All he had done was look around the room. He did so again, turning his head slowly. Then it happened. The room, from one angle, looked different. It was suddenly a mixture of muddled colors, instead of the carefully blended pastel shades he had selected. The lines of wall, floor and ceiling were strangely off proportion, zigzag, unrelated. Then everything went back to normal. "You were _very_ warm," the voice said. "It's a question of seeing things correctly." Anders resisted the urge to scratch his head, for fear of disarranging his carefully combed hair. What he had seen wasn't so strange. Everyone sees one or two things in his life that make him doubt his normality, doubt sanity, doubt his very existence. For a moment the orderly Universe is disarranged and the fabric of belief is ripped. But the moment passes. Anders remembered once, as a boy, awakening in his room in the middle of the night. How strange everything had looked. Chairs, table, all out of proportion, swollen in the dark. The ceiling pressing down, as in a dream. But that had also passed. "Well, old man," he said, "if I get warm again, let me know." "I will," the voice in his head whispered. "I'm sure you'll find me." "I'm glad you're so sure," Anders said gaily, switched off the lights and left. * * * * * Lovely and smiling, Judy greeted him at the door. Looking at her, Anders sensed her knowledge of the moment. Had she felt the change in him, or predicted it? Or was love making him grin like an idiot? "Would you like a before-party drink?" she asked. He nodded, and she led him across the room, to the improbable green-and-yellow couch. Sitting down, Anders decided he would tell her when she came back with the drink. No use in putting off the fatal moment. A lemming in love, he told himself. "You're getting warm again," the voice said. He had almost forgotten his invisible friend. Or fiend, as the case could well be. What would Judy say if she knew he was hearing voices? Little things like that, he reminded himself, often break up the best of romances. "Here," she said, handing him a drink.