told that it was a test, of an experimental
nature, and have been asked to keep the whole thing a secret. They
will be returning to Earth in a few hours' time. I ask the rest of
you to think it over once again. Your decision is still private. Only
the two people who gathered you together know which members of the
class are in this ship. The list of possible helpers was compiled by a
computer. I haven't seen it myself.

"You have a further half hour in which to make up your minds finally.
Please remember that if you have any private reservations on the
matter, or if you are secretly afraid, you may endanger us all. You
all know enough psychology to realize this.

"If you still decide in favor of the project, write your name on a
slip of paper and post it as before. If you are not absolutely certain
about it, do nothing. Please think it over for half an hour."

Me, I had enough thinking. I write my name--just L. Lee--and post it
straight away.

However I cannot stop thinking altogether. I guess I think very hard,
in fact. My Subconscious insists afterwards that it did register the
plop as something came through the slit, but my Conscious failed to
notice it at all.

Hours later--my watch says twenty-five minutes but I guess the
Mass-Time has affected it--anyway I had three times too much solitary
confinement--when will they let me out of here?--there is a knock at
the door and a second later it slides apart.

I am expecting Ram or Peter so it takes me an appreciable fraction of
a moment to realize I am seeing D. J. M'Clare.

Then I remember he is back on Earth buried in Exam papers and
conclude I am having a hallucination.

This figment of my imagination says politely, "Do you mind if I sit
down?"

He collapses on the couch as though thoroughly glad of it.

It is a strange thing, every time I see M'Clare I am startled all over
again at how good-looking he is; seems I forget it between times which
is maybe why I never fell for him as most female students do.

However what strikes me this time is that he looks tired,
three-days-sleepless tired with worries on top.

I guess he is real, at that.

He says, "Don't look so accusing, Lizzie, I only just got on this ship
myself."

This does not make sense; you cannot just arrive on a ship twenty-four
hours after it goes on Mass-Time; or can you?

M'Clare leans back and closes his eyes and inquires whether I am one
of the Morse enthusiasts?

So that is the na