the still hot ramp he had landed on. It was at least a mile to
the Rocket Club across the barren flat of the field, and he
set out on foot. Shortly, however, a truck came speeding
across to him.
The driver leaned out. 'Hey, Conrad, what's the matter?
Why didn't you pull the ship over to the hangars?'
With Conrad's make-up on. Bill felt he could probably
get by. 'Controls aren't working,' he offered noncommittally.
At the club, a place he had never been to before in his
life. Bill found an unused helicopter and started it with his
wrist band. He flew the machine into town to the landing
station nearest his home.
He was doomed, he knew. Conrad certainly would report
him for this. He had not intended to force the shift so
early or so violently. Perhaps he had not intended to force
it at all this time. But there was something in him more
powerful than himself... a need to break the shift and be
with Clara that now acted almost independently of him and
certainly without regard for his safety.
Bill flew his craft carefully through the city traffic, working
his way between the widely spaced towers with the uncertain
hand of one to whom machines are not, an extension of the
body. He put the helicopter down at the landing station
with some difficulty.
Clara would not be expecting him so early. From his apart-
ment, as soon as he had changed make-up, he visiophoned
her. It was strange bow long and how carefully they needed to
look at each other and how few words they could say.
Afterwards, he seemed calmer and went about getting
ready with more efficiency. But when he found himself ad-
dressing the package of Conrad's clothes to his home, he
chuckled bitterly.
It was when he went back to drop the package in the mail
chute that he noticed the storage-room door ajar. He disposed
of the package and went over to the door. Then he stood still,
listening. He had to stop. his own breathing to hear clearly.
Bill tightened himself and opened the door. He flipped
on the light and saw Mary. The child sat on the floor in the
comer with her knees drawn up against her chest. Between
the knees and the chest, the frail wrists were crossed, the
hands closed limply likelike those of a foetus. The fore-
head rested on the knees so that, should the closed eyes stay
open, they would be looking at the placid hands.
The sickening sight of the child squeezed down on his
heart till the colour drained from his face. He went forward
and knelt before her. His dry throat hammered with the
words,
The question of how long she might have been here, he
