«It's one I called for Dr. Phipps.»

«Oh, dear! Jack, see how quick you can get me one, will you? This is my cousin Madge — works over in South Wing — and she has laryngitis and must get out of this wind.»

The attendant scratched his head. «Well … seeing it's you, Miss Boardman, you take this and I'll call another for Dr. Phipps.»

«Oh, Jack, you're a lamb! Madge, don't talk; I'll thank him. Her voice is gone; I'm going to bake it out with hot rum.»

«That ought to do it. Old-fashioned remedies are best, my mother used to say.» He reached into the cab and punched the combination for Jill's home from memory, then helped them in. Jill got in the way and covered up Smith's unfamiliarity with this ceremonial. «Thanks, Jack. Thanks loads.»

The cab took off and Jill took a deep breath. «You can talk now.»

«What should I say?»

«Huh? Whatever you like.»

Smith thought this over. The scope of the invitation called for a worthy answer, suitable to brothers. He thought of several, discarded them because he could not translate, settled on one which conveyed even in this strange, flat speech some of the warm growing-closer brothers should enjoy. «Let our eggs share the same nest.»

Jill looked startled. «Huh? What did you say?»

Smith felt distressed at the failure to respond in kind and interpreted it as failure on his own part. He realized miserably that, time after time, he brought agitation to these creatures when his purpose was to create oneness. He tried again, rearranging his sparse vocabulary to enfold the thought differently. «My nest is yours and your nest is mine.»

This time Jill smiled. «Why, how sweet! My dear, I am not sure I understand you, but that is the nicest offer I have had in a long time.» She added, «But right now we are up to our ears in trouble — so let's wait, shall we?»

Smith understood Jill hardly more than Jill understood him, but he caught his water brother's pleased mood and understood the suggestion to wait. Waiting he did without effort; he sat back, satisfied that all was well between himself and his brother, and enjoyed the scenery. It was the first he had seen and on every side there was richness of new things to try to grok. It occurred to him that the apportation used at home did not permit this delightful viewing of what lay between. This almost led him to a comparison of Martian and human methods not favorable to the Old Ones, but his mind shied away from heresy.

Jill kept quiet and tried to think. Suddenly she noticed that the cab was on the final leg toward her apartment house — and realized that home was the last place to go, it being the first place they would look once they figured out who had helped Smith to escape. While she knew nothing of police methods, she supposed that she must have left fingerprints in Smith's room, not to mention that people had seen them walk out. It was even possible (so she had heard) for a technician to read the tape in this cab's pilot and tell what trips it had made and where and when.

She slapped the keys, and cleared the instruction to go to her apartment house. The cab rose out of the lane and hovered. Where could she go? Where could she hide a grown man who was half idiot and could not even dress himself? — and was the most sought-after person on the globe? Oh, if Ben were only here! Ben …where are you?

She picked up the phone and rather hopelessly punched Ben's number. Her spirits jumped when a man answered — then slumped when she realized that it was not Ben but his major-domo. «Oh. Sorry, Mr. Kilgallen. This is Jill Boardman. I thought I had called Mr. Caxton's home.»

«You did. I have his calls relayed to the office when he is away more than twenty-four hours.»

«Then he is still away?»

«Yes. May I help you?»

«Uh, no. Mr. Kilgallen, isn't it strange that Ben should drop out of sight? Aren't you worried?»

«Eh? Not at all. His message said that he did not know how long he would be gone.»

«Isn't that odd?»

«Not in Mr. Caxton's work, Miss Boardman.»

«Well …I think there is something very odd about his absence! I think you ought to report it. You ought to spread it over every news service in the country — in the world!»

Even though the cab's phone had no vision circuit Jill felt Osbert Kilgallen draw himself up. «I'm afraid, Miss Boardman, that I must interpret my employer's instructions myself. Uh … if you don't mind my saying so, there is always some “good friend” phoning Mr. Caxton frantically whenever he's away.»

Some babe trying to get a hammer lock on him, Jill interpreted angrily — and this character thinks I'm the current one. It squelched any thought of asking Kilgallen for help; she switched off.

Where could she go? A solution popped into her mind. If Ben was missing — and the authorities had a hand in it — the last place they would expect to find Valentine Smith would be Ben's apartment … unless they connected her with Ben, which seemed unlikely.

They could dig a snack out of Ben's pantry and she could borrow clothes for her idiot child. She set the combination for Ben's apartment house; the cab picked the lane and dropped into it.

Outside Ben's flat Jill put her face to the hush box and said, «Karthago delenda est!»

Nothing happened. Oh damn! she said to herself; he's changed the combo. She stood there, knees weak, and kept her face away from Smith. Then she again spoke into the hush box. The same circuit actuated the door or announced callers; she announced herself on the forlorn chance that Ben might have returned. «Ben, this is Jill.»

The door slid open.

They went inside and the door closed. Jill thought that Ben had let them in, then realized that she had accidentally hit on his new door combination … intended, she guessed, as a compliment — she could have dispensed with the compliment to have avoided that awful panic.

Smith stood quietly at the edge of the thick green lawn and stared. Here was a place so new as not to be grokked at once but he felt immediately pleased. It was less exciting than the moving place they had been in, but more suited for enfolding the self. He looked with interest at the view window at one end but did not recognize it as such, mistaking it for a living picture like those at home … his suite at Bethesda had no windows, it being in a new wing; he had never acquired the idea of «window.»

He noticed with approval that simulation of depth and movement in the «picture» was perfect — some very great artist must have created it. Up to now he had seen nothing to cause him to think that these people possessed art; his grokking of them was increased by this new experience and he felt warmed.

A movement caught his eye; he turned to find his brother removing false skins and slippers from its legs.

Jill sighed and wiggled her toes in the grass. «Gosh, how my feet hurt!» She glanced up and saw Smith watching with that curiously disturbing baby-faced stare. «Do it yourself. You'll love it.»

He blinked. «How do?»

«I keep forgetting. Come here. I'll help.» She got his shoes off, untaped the stockings and peeled them off. «There, doesn't that feel good?»

Smith wiggled his toes in the grass, then said timidly, «But these live?»

«Sure, it's alive, it's real grass. Ben paid a lot to have it that way. Why, the special lighting circuits alone cost more than I make in a month. So walk around and let your feet enjoy it.»

Smith missed most of this but did understand that grass was living beings and that he was being invited to walk on them. «Walk on living things?» He asked with incredulous horror.

«Huh? Why not? It doesn't hurt this grass; it was specially developed for house rugs.»

Smith was forced to remind himself that a water brother could not lead him into wrongful action. He let himself be encouraged to walk around — and found that he did enjoy it and the living creatures did not protest. He set his sensitivity for such as high as possible; his brother was right, this was their proper being — to be walked on. He resolved to enfold and praise it, an effort like that of a human trying to appreciate the merits of cannibalism — a custom which Smith found proper.