she was now ready for operational work.



Major Lance Cooper, a big man with space-tanned features, stood in the

shadow of the control bunker and watched the swarm of ground crewmen

working at last-minute speed atop the loading tower. Inside him burned a

hunger, too.



Hunger, and another emotion--pride.



The pride swelled Lance's open-collared khaki shirt, as he envisioned

himself at the ship's controls within a few minutes. Finally, after long

years of study, sweat and dedication, he'd made it to the Big League. No

more jockeying those tubby old rocket-pots to Luna! From here on, he was

going to see, taste, feel what the universe was like way, way out--in

Deep Space. The Cosmos XII, like her earlier sisters, was designed to

plow through that shuddery nowhere the cookbooks identified as

"hyperspace."



Lance's glance shifted upward, scanning the velvet backdrop of frosty

white points of light against which the slender, silverish, almost

wingless form stood framed. More stars than a man could visit in a

lifetime! And some already within grasp!



His exultant feeling grew, and Lance kept his head tilted backward.

Alpha Centauri, the most popular target, was not visible at this

latitude; and Barnard's star, besides being far too faint, lay on the

other side of the sun. But there shone Sirius, just as bright as it had

glittered for the Greeks, and frosty Procyon, a little to the north.

Both orbs twinkled and beckoned, evoking strange and demanding dreams!



One day, Man would be able to make landings. Teams of scientists

outfitted to the eyebrows and trained to cope with any environment or

emergency, would explore unknown jungles, llanos, steppes; tramp up

and down fertile vales and hills under blue-hot alien suns. Perhaps,

they might even contact native species boasting human intelligence:

mammalian hunters and fishers, city-building lizards, sky-probing

arachnids--who knew what?



But now, of course, all that Headquarters permitted of flights was the

most furtive of reconnoitering. You hoisted your scout ship aloft under

high-gee, cleared the ecliptic, then swung out of normal space and

jumped. When you materialized in the new sector, you set your cameras

clicking, toggled all the other instruments into recording radiation,

gravity pressures, spectroscopy, at slam-bang speed. The very instant

your magnetic tapes got crammed to capacity, you pressed six dozen panic

buttons and scooted like a scared jackrabbit for Home, Sweet Home.



Adventure? It wasn't even mentioned on the travel posters, yet.



But, adventure would follow.



Some day.



Meanwhile, at the taxpayers' expense, you--the guardian of the

Peace--had enjoyed the billion-dollar thrill of viewing our Solar System

from light-years and light-years of distance. Or so the manual said,

right here on Insert Page 30-Dash-11-Dash-6.



Lance thought about those veteran hype-pilots who'd already poked around

in the great black Cold out there. How was it they were always

compensating for their frustration?



Now, he remembered.



Having few tall tales to spellbind audiences with when they swooped back

down on Home Base after their missions, the hype-pilots got around it by

bragging up Terra itself, and how at least you could always depend upon

good old Earth to come up with something to relax this Warp-Weary

generation!



"Something, for example, such as we now hold in our hand, brothers!"

Lance could hear them now. "Namely, one of these superbly-programmed

cocktails, as only Casey can turn out."



(Casey was the Officers Club barkeep and much-beribboned mixologist.)



"A real 'Casey Special'--look at its pristine beauty! What better

consolation can a man ask, for not having gotten to land at the apogee

point of his orbit?"



"Besides"--this usually came out after two or three more

tongue-loosening toasts had been quaffed to the beasts of

Headquarters--"what's so blasted special about landing on some

God-forsaken rock out there?



"Hell's bells! Earth is a planet too, isn't it? And when you've been

cooped up in a parsec-gobbling pot for a very, very long two weeks, any

planet looming in your viewscope cries to be set down upon. Your own

prosaic hunk of mud is good as any!"



* * * * *



Lance Cooper's rambling thoughts broke off their aimless tracking to

swing one hundred and eighty degrees in midspace and dart right back to

Earth.



Here at this very moment--and less than a hundred yards away--came

Terra's foremost attraction for him. His hammering heartbeat would have

placed him on the "grounded" list immediately, had there been a medico

with a stethoscope hanging about to detect it.



The attraction's name was Carolyn Sagen, and she was hurrying directly

across the concrete apron.



Even under the incandescent work-lamps of the crew scrambling up and

down the ladders, she looked as fetching as a video starlet making her

first personal-appearance tour of the nation. Only the fact she was

Colonel "Hard-Head" Sagen's family pride and joy kept the helmeted and

half-puckered up techs on the rungs from whistling themselves dry in

their enthusiasm.



Now, she had completely bypassed the work area. Here, the lighting did

not reach and the paler illumination of starshine took over. It seemed

to render the girl's soft blond hair and her full warm lips more

intimately something belonging to Lance Cooper alone--and he liked that.

He saw that she had turned up the collar of her tan coat against the

night wind.



While still a step or two distant from him, Carolyn halted. Her

worshiping eyes rested fully upon the big pilot. Lance thought he

detected a troubled expression.



Then, the girl managed a tight smile that conveyed her outward

resignment to all Man's absurd aspirations to own the galaxy:



"Don't worry about 'Security,' Lance. Dad wrote me out an O.K. to

skitter up this close to the Launching Area. You know"--she gestured

self-consciously--"big crucial moment ... lovers' farewell ... I pulled

all the stops, but it worked."



"Matter of fact," she added, in an obvious attempt at facetiousness,

"Dad opined he'd have walloped the daylights out of me, if I hadn't put

up a struggle to get near my man."



Then suddenly, she was not at all brave, anymore.



Suddenly, she had burrowed into his arms. "Oh Lance, had there been no

other way, I'd have clawed right through fence and revetments to get to

you! Men, men! Just because something's out there, as you say ... why

is it so important to build ships and go out and look at it?" Her

fingers dug into Lance's shoulders. "Women are saner ... but maybe

that's why men need us." The grip of her fingers shifted, tightened.

"Kiss me, you big baboon."



Lance kissed her. A tender kiss, yet gusty enough that he lifted her

from the ground and her high-heeled shoes kicked in free fall.



The pilot found his girl's breath warm, loving. Yet her cheeks seemed

colder than even the crisp air should account for. And her body was

trembling.



He planted a second kiss, then set her down.



"Hey! This is no way for a Space Service brat to carry on. Why, you're

just about to--"



"To cry, Lance? No, I wasn't. It's just that ... you'll be gone so

long."



He punched her playfully. "Two measly weeks out, two weeks to astrogate

her back home. And once I've got my feet wet at it, it'll be like

shooting ducks in an alley."



Carolyn reached out, brushed a windswept tuft of hair from above the

rock-steady eyes that looked at her.



"I know, Lance. I even realize that just ten years ago, women had to put

up with separations from their sweethearts or husbands that lasted

months. When the old pioneer ships used to limp back and forth to Mars

and Venus. But I'm different, I guess. Weak, maybe. Or just plain

scared--"



This didn't sound like the blithe-spirited girl he'd pursued for a year,

then wooed and subdued. Lance studied her, then said slowly: "You're

scared. About what? My first flight?"



Carolyn's head bobbed timidly.



Lance flashed a reassuring grin. "Everything has to be a brand-new

experience, at some time or other. Me, I prefer to look at hype-flight

from the point of view of the service. A routine thing. Just takes

training. Otherwise," and he shrugged, "it's no more a risk than hauling

groceries upstairs to some weather satellite."



"Is it, Lance? When one or two ships out of every ten never make it back

at all. Just disappear ... somewhere ... while the others--"



"One out of thirty or forty, you mean. So hyperspace is a little

tricky."



"And there's always pilot error to blame, too, I suppose?"



"Now that you mention it."



"Only my man is immune from everything?"



Lance smiled, a little wryly. "Any pilot can make boo-boos, Carolyn. I'm

determined to try awfully hard not to." He added a slight qualification

to his statement. "I've always been pretty lucky up to now, at not

getting lost."



"I thought the guidance systems and the autopilot computers took care of

all the astrogation corrections?"



"On a theoretically perfect flight, yes. It's equally true, however,

that hyperspace's geometry doesn't always resemble the sort of lines and

angles you find in our own universe--"



* * * * *



Lance abruptly stopped, realizing he was quoting text; his mind groped

for a better way to explain. But Carolyn plunged in first:



"You see, there do sometimes develop special situations."



"Sure, sometimes." An exasperation crept into Lance Cooper's voice,

despite his effort to keep it out. Hell, he was just a pilot; not a

rated mathematician. He'd fly hyperspace by the seat of his pants, if he

had to.



"Lance," said Carolyn.



"Yes?"



"You feel it too, don't you?"



"Feel what?"



"That there is danger involved. That something dreadfully, dreadfully

wrong can happen to you while you're out there. No matter what the

eggheads say about it." A paroxysm of sobs suddenly racked the girl's

slender body. "Oh, darling, don't go!"



"Honey, honey!" Lance patted her thin shoulders.



"I love you so much."



"Love you, too, Carolyn. You know that."



"We shouldn't have postponed the wedding. It was wrong to set the date

back."



Lance shook his head. "Sorry. I couldn't see it any other way."



He hugged the girl to him; she seemed more desperately frightened than

he had realized. And again, as always when it came to comforting

somebody, he felt as awkward and clumsy as some big lumbering repair-tug

out in space--say--trying to patch a small trim patrol craft.



But especially, he felt helpless in the presence of this frail,

clinging, lovely piece of femininity he wanted so dearly. Nevertheless

he could keep on trying--blundering though his words and gestures might

be.



"Carolyn, you think I wanted to chance making you a widow twenty-four

hours after you became a bride?" Lance took a deep breath. "So I did

maintain the percentage wasn't great. Still, it does exist. I'm aware of

that. I just don't let it concern me. But you, Carolyn--don't you see,

hon? Lance Cooper couldn't let anything bad happen to his best girl."



"I'm trying to understand," said Carolyn.



Lance's blunt, serious face peered into hers. "Tell you what I will

promise to do."



Hope cleared away some of the mistiness in Carolyn's eyes. She looked up

at him. "What, Lance?"



"Once I've knocked off my shell-back trip through the hype, we'll stage

the fanciest wedding this old space base ever goggled its eyes over.

I'll even see to it, the chaplain samples the spiked punch. And you

remember what a raconteur the padre proved to be when Light-Colonel

Galache got spliced?"



Carolyn Sagen managed a wan smile.



Lance revved his pep-talk up a few hundred r.p.m. "After all, think of

it this way. Suppose I hadn't beat my brains out to get into

hype-training? I'd never have wound up at this base. You and me would

never have met. I'd never have fallen for you like a ton of

space-ballast."



"Oh, I know you're right," said Carolyn, clinging more tightly than ever

to Lance's solid frame. "You're always right, just like the Space

Service is always right. But I have a woman's intuition. And I ... I

sense--"



Unable to finish, she released her grasp and once more withdrew into

herself.



* * * * *



Lance's big muscular hand reached out, tilted the girl's chin upward.

Her face was tear-stained for sure, now.



"Honey, this won't ever do."



"I can't help it."



"You're torturing yourself with useless premonitions." Lance wiped the

briny shine from the girl's cheeks as he talked, his own voice getting

hoarser. "Carolyn, I love you so much that I ... well, you know I happen

to hunger for you more than I do that Christmas tree on my control deck.

But I just couldn't give up a chance to solo out to the stars. I

couldn't, baby. I'd probably be court-martialed, anyhow," he added.



"No, Lance. They wouldn't do that. Not unless you actually got into

space, then turned back. I asked Major Carmody."



"Carolyn! You didn't?"



The girl nodded, affirming the truth of what she said. "Lance, I had to.

T-there are some things I know about that you don't." A note of sudden

urgency now tinged her voice. "Strange unfathomable things. Many of the

other pilots who've come back have not been right. I think it has

something to do with their having been outside of normal space--"



He stared at her. "I just now realize you're trying to tell me

something."



"Lance, I happened to overhear Dad telling Mother something one night.

Apparently, he'd been rolling and tossing in bed, couldn't sleep. And

Mother's looked after him so long, she just had to know what was wrong.

They went downstairs and she poured him a stiff drink. Then in return,

Dad poured out his troubled soul to her. And Lance--"



"Yes, Carolyn?"



"The most probable reason why some hype-pilots never quite make it back

to our world is that the men involved--"



"The men? You mean, the pilots?"



"No, the brass. They haven't told the pilots about the fissioning of

anything that gets into hyperspace--"



Carolyn's breath gave out in a sudden gasp. Her eyes moved away alarmed,

and Lance's own glance turned simultaneously. He saw Colonel "Hard-Head"

Sagen and two other officers coming across the area.






Time had run out on them.



"Carolyn," Lance said, hurriedly. "I've gabbed with quite a few vets of

hyperspace. At the Club and in my training, both. Sure, a man feels like

he's been crammed into a concrete mixer when he's burning up light-years

in a hyper ship. But after a while, I'm told, even your brains get used

to being bounced around." Lance took the girl's hands and squeezed them

between his. "So let's not worry, huh?"



Carolyn started to say something in rebuttal, but her father and his

aides were already upon them.



Colonel Sagen was a tall thin man of erect military carriage. His

features were crisscrossed with radiation scars and his voice boomed out

like a military drum. Yet when one got to know him, he wasn't so gruff.

On the base, he commanded two thousand military personnel and half that

many scientists and techs: a tough job, and one that he was giving his

best.



After returning Major Lance Cooper's brisk salute, the colonel unbent

and gave his prospective son-in-law a hardy handshake.



"Lance, I hope you'll be able to keep more of a rein on this little

space-filly of mine, than I've been able to. She was determined to see

you off."



"I was glad to see her, colonel."



The colonel smiled. "Can't think of a man on this base I'd rather turn

Carolyn over to."



"Thank you, sir," said Lance.



"Been counting the minutes to take-off, I suppose?"



"He's hardly had a chance to, Dad," Carolyn broke in. "What with me in

his hair!"



One of the colonel's aides glanced at his watch, then opened up a brief

case and took out a sealed envelope. The colonel relieved him of it and

handed it to Lance.



"Your flight orders, Lance. Got the preset tapes installed and checked?"



"Yes, sir."



"Well, you should know your onions now, if you're ever going to. Best of

luck, son."



"Thank you, colonel."



Lance turned. "Good-by, Carolyn. Just four weeks now, like I said."



"I'll be waiting."



"First jump's always the hardest, I hear," spoke up the second aide,

cheerily. Like a great many other execs, the officer boasted no active

space rating, though he did wear the winged moons of an observer.



But Lance and Carolyn were again quite busy, and did not hear.



* * * * *



Inside the shell of the Cosmos XII, Lance, sitting flat on his back

against gravity, looked up at the sweep hands on the control deck clocks

and hurried through his pre-jump check list. Tension mounted inside him.

He contacted the Operations people in the bunker over the radio net.

Colonel Sagen's voice came in clear: "Five minutes, Lance."



"I am receiving. Area cleared?"



Traffic broke into report: "Take-off will proceed on schedule."



The function lights on the "tree" in front of Lance shone green. Gyros

were caged; the tapes were set to roll. Lance's big hands hovered

lightly near the manual over-rides. He was ready to fly, and the

autopilot lights were already winking out in count-down. But you never

could be sure until the last moment.



What had Carolyn been trying to tell him?



Before he could pursue the thought, he felt the pressure of the rising

ship take hold; gently at first as she cleared the ground; then heavier

and heavier, until his face felt like a rubber mask under the

acceleration and his heart commenced pounding.



It didn't take long these days for any ship to build up a tremendous

velocity in space. Lance cleared the ecliptic by a hundred million

miles; then with the Solar System spread out flat below him, he opened

up his flight orders. His destination, he discovered, was Groombridge

34, a visual double star. Right ascension: zero hours, thirteen minutes.

Declination: forty-three and four-tenths degrees. Nearly twelve

light-years distant.



Since the star's apparent location was nearly halfway up the sky from

the celestial equator, Lance could begin the jump any time and not worry

on his way about skewing too near the gravitational field of any

large-massed body in his own immediate vicinity.



He permitted himself one brief glance at the blazing universe that hung

all about him: the bright fixed lights that were innumerable suns

against an eternal blackness, and the luminous dust in between that was

even farther-flung. Confusion and chaos seemed to dwell here; if a man

gazed too long, he could quietly go mad. But even more insane, he

anticipated, would be the thick, writhing nothingness of hyperspace.



Lance Cooper made one final check of all the ship's operating

components; then crossed his fingers and cut in the hype-drive.



Instantly, his teeth crashed together and clenched; his strapped-in body

was jerked back in its cushioned seat; sweat beaded his brow. A thousand

needles prickling his skin couldn't have been worse. He had been told

once that the switching-out from this known universe into an unknown one

would feel just like a ten-thousand volt jolt in an old-fashioned

electric chair; and now he could believe it. Every cell in his body had

begun tingling; his stomach pitched under a racking nausea; and an

involuntary trickle of saliva dripped from his mouth the moment he got

his jaws working again.



But Lance fought the nausea, fought the sickness, and gradually as his

flesh accommodated to the change, he felt better.



It was then that the most disturbing phenomenon of all took place. He

felt for a moment as if he had been split into two persons. No, four

persons, eight, sixteen, an infinity of other selves. They were all

beside him, in him and out of him. His eyes ached. He shut them.



When he opened them again, everything was almost back to normal. The

other selves had vanished. Only the constant throbbing vibration of the

ship remained; yet it was a discomfort that had to be endured for four

solid straight weeks now. There was no other means known, by which a

man-made vessel could travel faster than light.



Funny about that four weeks, too, thought Lance. All distances in

hyperspace were the same, no matter where you wished to go; it required

no more than fourteen days and no less, regardless of whether you jumped

one light-year or fifty. Lance had always understood there were

equations on file at HQ, which explained the paradox. But not being a

math expert, he had never missed not being allowed to see them.



He flicked a switch and opened up his viewports again. The starry

universe had vanished. The Cosmos XII was riding through a gray void.

Alone and--



No, it wasn't alone!



Again, Lance's vision suffered a wrenching sickness. Out there in the

colorless vacuum, hundreds of replicas of the Cosmos XII rode along

beside him, above him, below him, stretched out in all directions.



There had been nothing in the manuals about this.



Lance stared at the meaningless phenomenon for a long time despite the

fact it made his brain ill. At last, he decided it was harmless,

whatever was causing it. He shook his head slowly and closed the ports

down. He hoped Groombridge 34 would be less taxing.



* * * * *



The system was.



After the ship reverted to normal space in the vicinity of Groombridge

34, Lance hovered about it exactly twelve hours, following all the

instructions in his manual to the letter. He started up the cameras and

other recording instruments. All went well, there were no incidents, no

vessels disturbed him; though had the two components of the binary been

at periastron, it would have simplified the work with the position

micrometer. If anything else of interest had been detected, it would

have to be deciphered from the film and tapes later. You can get as

close as four billion miles to an Earth-sized planet in space--and it'll

still show up fainter than a fourteenth magnitude star.



Somewhere in the galaxy, Lance supposed, there must be other races

building spaceships and guiding them from sun to sun. But thus far, the

scout ships from Terra--for all their magnified caution--had never run

into signs of any.



The old veteran hype-pilots had the best philosophy after all. Earth was

the choicest hunk of mud you were going to find. Enjoy it, brethren.



Well, he would certainly live it up when he got back, Lance swore. He

would have his wedding; import Casey from the Club to spike the punch;

and, perhaps after he'd gotten in his required number of scout-missions,

he might even settle for a chair-borne exec's billet, himself.



Exactly twenty-eight days and twelve hours from the time of his

departure from Earth, Lance Cooper was back home again. The Cosmos XII

re-materialized out of hyperspace in the neighborhood of the Solar

System with its fuel tanks scarcely a third depleted, but its pilot a

drained man. Lance, truthfully, not only felt weary and torpid, but a

great deal disappointed.



He contacted Traffic, asked for and got a landing trajectory. A few

hours later, he had coasted home and the trip was over.



He scrambled down out of the ship, hungry for Carolyn.



The base hadn't changed any in a month, that he could see. A couple of

new floodlights put in, perhaps. Some brass were emerging from the

control bunker. Colonel Sagen, several others. He recognized them all.

Two were SSP's--Space Service Police.



* * * * *



When the colonel got close, Lance tossed off a salute and an insouciant

grin: "Well, the Prodigal made it back home, sir. Hope that pessimistic

daughter of yours is stashed around somewhere. Otherwise--"



"Otherwise, what?" returned the colonel, unsmiling.



"Why I'm liable to go busting right through that fence," said Lance.

"And say, if anybody's worrying about the Cosmos XII, she flew like a

dream, colonel. Matter of fact, she--"



Colonel Sagen's jaws snapped together. Wheeling, he barked at the two

SSP's: "Spacemen, arrest this officer! Immediately!"



Lance couldn't believe his ears.



"Hey, wait a minute!" he protested. "What have I done?"



Nobody answered. Not at first.



"Well?" Lance asked again, a little more uneasy this time.



"I have no daughter, major," Hard-Head Sagen growled, standing with his

legs braced apart and his ramrod shoulders looking businesslike. "I

never have had."



The space cops sprang forward. One drew a pistol, held it on the

returned pilot, while the other quickly moved behind Lance and pinioned

his arms back.



"Is this a joke, colonel?" Lance demanded, struggling. "If it is, I

don't appreciate it. You know you've got a daughter, and I'm going to

marry her!"



The colonel's jaws clamped tight; and he shook his head from side to

side, as if he were dealing with a person suddenly out of his mind. Then

he acted.



"Put this man under close confinement," he ordered Lance's guards.

"Allow no visitors of any kind." The colonel's tone was harsh and

worried. "I've got to buck this matter to HQ. We can't have it blow up

right now, God knows."



The space police nudged Lance. "All right, major. Let's go."



Lance's anger seethed to a boil. Hunching his shoulders, he rammed back

against the guard holding him, sending him tumbling. What was inside his

mind to do if he managed an escape, he couldn't have told. He only knew

he had to get away. The colonel had flipped.



And where, by the way, was Carolyn? It seemed impossible she could be in

on it, too.



He stood free for a moment, watching warily.



"Hold him!" shouted Colonel Sagen. "Don't let him run loose."



"We got gas pills, colonel," suggested the space cop Lance had bowled

over. The man was rising to his feet.



"Use them."



Lance started to run. Over his shoulder, he saw the guard reach inside a

small pocket in his webbed pistol belt. The man gestured to the others

to duck back out of harm's way. Then, his throwing arm reared back and

sent a pellet sailing in a high arc. It landed at Lance's feet and burst

instantly. Yellowish gas billowed out. Its acrid fumes penetrated

Lance's throat and nostrils. He began coughing. Then, all the fight

suddenly ebbed from him. His knees buckled. He was stumbling, falling.

The sky reeled.



And very indistinctly, from far away, came the colonel's voice, barking:

"Put him in the brig until he recovers. I repeat, let nobody see him.

And another thing--I declare everything that's happened here today

classified information. If a single word leaks out, I'll have every

man-jack among you placed in solitary and held for court-martial."



Then, Lance knew nothing more.



* * * * *



When at last he recovered consciousness and was able to sit up in a kind

of groggy stupor, Lance found himself, for the first time in fifteen

service-devoted years, on the inside of a guardhouse looking out.



With sardonic melancholy, he recalled times on his O.D. and O.G. tours

when he had inspected various prison areas, peered into the cells, and

often felt mildly sorry for some poor spaceman doing time for some minor

infraction. There had never been very many offenders. Discipline on

space bases was not a pressing problem: the corps was an elite branch

and intransigent candidates were weeded out quick.



Well, now he was a prisoner, himself. He, Lance Cooper, Major, Space

Service, stood behind bars. And no matter how hard his face pressed

against those bars, he could only see as far as the corridor extended in

either direction.



It wasn't far enough.



Nor would anybody talk to him. He couldn't even get the time of day.



Not since his probation as a plebe, had he consorted with such a bunch

of "hush-mouths." Had he no rights as a commissioned officer and a world

citizen? He still didn't know why he was incarcerated, or what

regulation he had broken.



But that wasn't his most nagging worry.



What preyed on his mind most was Carolyn.



Where was she?



Where? Where? WHERE?



He could have lowered his head and pounded it to a pulp against the

wall, in his rage and frustration at being confined. But banging his

brains out wouldn't help. Besides, he was going to stand deeply in need

of his gray matter, if he hoped to get out of this one.



At evening time, a guardhouse trusty brought him his supper on a tray.

Also, the man tossed him half a pack of cigarettes when Lance sought to

bum just one. But when the pilot started pitching questions back, the

trusty looked scared and unhappy and quickly limped away.



The night dragged on, as unending seemingly as one of Luna's two-week

darkouts. Lance smoked, paced the cell from wall to wall, occasionally

plopped down on his cot and went over everything that had happened,

trying to find some pattern to it.



But there was no pattern.



Next morning, he splashed up and shaved beard away from a tired,

red-eyed face in the mirror. Then, he waited. No one came.



Finally, at noon a new officer checked in for duty at the guardhouse.

Lance recognized him as a young ordinance captain he'd met before. He

called out to the man. The officer, striding down the hallway, wheeled

at the sound of his name and came back to the cell. His eyes bugged

slightly, when he saw Lance: "Holy smoke, major! What've they got you in

for?"



"Search me." Lance was overjoyed to find someone, at last, who didn't

dummy up. "I thought maybe you might have a notion."



"I just came on duty. But if there's a charge sheet lying around, I

might dig up something from it."



"Would you try?"



The captain held up two fingers and grinned. "No sweat."



* * * * *



Lance waited some more.



The captain did not come back, however, until several hours later. After

Lance's evening meal, in fact. His face bore a puzzled frown.



Lance stood at his cell door, gripping the bars. "Well?"



"I checked. Seems the brass are holding you for observation until some

headshrinker gets in from HQ. A specialist in hyperspace medicine."



"Then, how come I'm not in a regular hospital? Why the jailhouse?"



"Beats me, major. I can tell you this, though. You're not the first

hype-pilot who's been dragged in here screaming."



"But I wasn't screaming! I was perfectly calm and collected, when I

climbed down out of my ship. All I did was ask about Carolyn."



"About who?"



"Carolyn Sagen. Old Hard-Head's daughter." Lance felt a sinking feeling.

He stopped, cocked a wary eye at the other officer. "Don't look at me

that way, man."



The captain had been staring hard at Lance. Now, he began shaking his

head back and forth, slowly and sadly.



"What's that supposed to mean?" Lance asked.



"It means Colonel Sagen doesn't have a daughter."



Lance snorted. "Don't tell me that. I'm engaged to her."



"Sorry, major. I've been around the colonel and his wife since I was a

kid. He got me the appointment to the Academy. They've never had any

children of their own."



"Why, you--" Lance reached through the bars and grabbed the captain by

his shirt collar, jerking him against the bars. "It's a lie! A

conspiracy! Maybe you think I'm nuts. But I'm not!" He commenced

pummeling the captain with his free fist. Then he thought of something

better. He snatched the captain's gun from his holster and leveled it.






"I'm getting out of here," Lance announced. "Open up this door--or take

the consequences!"



The captain, his face ashy white, submitted and unlocked the cell door.

Lance stepped out, got behind the officer, and prodded him into the

cell. Tearing a sheet into strips, he tied the man to the cot and gagged

him. It took a very short time.



Then, he softly padded down the hallway. He caught the sergeant of the

guard napping in his chair. In a moment, the sergeant, too, was trussed

up, gagged, and whisked into a spare cell. Lance then tucked the

captain's pistol inside his shirt and ventured outside.



It was a moonlit night. A patrol jeep was parked on the drive, begging

to be commandeered. Lance hopped in. There was something he had to find

out for himself, and only one way to do it: Go to the place where they

kept the answers.



Wheeling the jeep along the military street fast as he dared, Lance

headed for the base housing area. Colonel Sagen's trim two-story brick

residence was where he hoped to pay a call. He knew the route by heart.

He'd been a guest there often enough.



The colonel's driveway was empty of cars, he was happy to notice, when

he reached the house. He parked, sprinted up to the porch, and knocked

on the door.



Presently, footsteps sounded inside and the door opened a few inches.

But it was not Carolyn whom Lance saw peeping out at him. It was another

woman, older. He recognized Mrs. Sagen.



Lance was blunt. "I've got to see Carolyn, and I haven't much time.

You'd better let me in."



An apprehensive, almost shocked expression briefly flitted across the

face of Carolyn's mother. It was as if she had never set eyes on Lance

Cooper before. Even the gold oak leaves on his shoulders seemed to

reassure her but slightly. She kept the door chain in place between

them.



"I'm sorry, major. I'm not sure that I understand you."



"Don't malarky me, please. You know who I am and who I want. Carolyn,

your daughter."



"Oh," said Mrs. Sagen. It was said in a way that revealed nothing.



"Look," said Lance, impatiently. "You do have a daughter. I've dated

her. So, all right," he waved his hands, "she's been spirited away for

some reason. I still think I've got a right to know why."



"Oh, my!" said Mrs. Sagen, and her hand flew to her face. "You must be

that scout-ship pilot who showed up yesterday. The one who--"



"Yeh, the one everybody figures for psycho. But I'm not, Mrs. Sagen. You

know I'm not." Lance took a deep breath. "Can I come in? I just want

some facts. After all, this crazy farce can't go on forever."



The colonel's wife still looked doubtful, but Lance Cooper had a way of

pressing a point hard when his interests were at stake. He began talking

rapidly and convincingly.



He got in.



* * * * *



The light indoors was better. Lance's eyes squinted, as they adjusted

from the gloom of the porch. Somehow, Mrs. Sagen didn't look quite as he

remembered. Her hair was much darker now; he was sure of that. Maybe she

had dyed it. Yet her features were certainly harder and bonier. More

like a replica of her husband's. And her breath smelled alcoholic. Could

a mere month have made that much difference?



The house had been refurnished too, Lance noticed. The living-room decor

was more severe and functional. And the pictures on the wall were

garish. Not Mrs. Sagen's type, at all.



Hey, wait a minute! he told himself; speaking of pictures--his

glance skipped to the far corner of the room. A triptych of photos of

Carolyn had always been on display on the mantelpiece. They would prove

that--



Lance's jaw dropped.



The photos had been removed.



"Can I get you anything?" Mrs. Sagen inquired. A little nervously, Lance

thought. "A cup of coffee?"



"No, thanks. I'd rather hear about Carolyn."



"Coffee won't take a minute. I was just making some fresh in the

kitchen."



Lance shrugged. "Well, O.K., if you've already got it ready."



Mrs. Sagen's mouth managed a fleeting smile; then she disappeared

through a swinging door. Lance sat down in a wrought-iron chair. Finding

it not comfortable, he sprang back to his feet and paced the floor.

There sure was something wrong about the colonel's house. Something very

oddly wrong. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.



Suddenly, his quickened hearing caught the faint murmur of a human

voice. Was it Carolyn? The talk seemed to be issuing from the

kitchen--where her mother had gone. Lance tiptoed across the room,

pushed the door slightly open.



Mrs. Sagen was on the phone. Her voice was excited; she was obviously

straining to keep it at a low level. "I'm telling you, he's here! Right

in our living room. And he insists I know somebody named Carolyn ...

Yes, that's right. But do hurry ... Please. He's acting much odder than

the others did."



Lance had eavesdropped enough. He turned away, glided rapidly out the

front door and into the night.



Where should he go next? The jeep would serve to hustle him around the

base for a while--but eventually he would be chased down and recaptured.

And as for crashing any of the exit gates and thus attaining to greater

freedom, he knew they would all be barricaded and heavily manned by now.



Lance was still burning over Mrs. Sagen's double-cross. Did he want

coffee? she had asked. Coffee! his mind repeated, disgusted. What he

needed was something stronger. A good stiff drink.



That was it! The Officers Club. Casey would be on duty at this hour.

Lance would ask him to mix him a double for old times' sake. Then, he'd

meekly surrender and quietly go crazy in his cell, until the

headshrinker came and confirmed it for real.



* * * * *



The pilot got back in the jeep and drove on. When he reached the Club,

he wheeled the vehicle around to a rear entrance where bushes made the

grounds shadier. Parking, he got out, strolled into the building as

sneakily as if he'd been an inspector-general paying a surprise call

from out of Space Service Headquarters.



Few officers lounged about. Most were at tables and engrossed in their

own imbibing. Lance strode up to the bar, perched himself on a high

stool. Casey, whose hair was red as a Martian desert, was rinsing

glasses. He stopped at his task and came over, wiping the counter with a

wet towel. "What'll it be, major?"



"One of your Specials, Casey, my friend."



"Beg pardon?"



"You know--one of your Casey Specials. Where you start off with half a

glass of Irish whisky, add a dash or two of absinthe, a drop of--"



"I don't stock no absinthe, major." Casey's freckled face was abruptly

hostile. "You know that. It's against regulations."



Lance fought down a tremor. Everybody was in on it. Everybody. He

compromised for a minute: "Give me a slug of Teacher's on the rocks,

then."



Casey measured out the drink for him.



Lance downed it. His hand gripped the edge of the bar. "Casey, do you

know me?"



He watched Casey study him. The thick reddish eyebrows knit. "It's a

pretty big base, major. Lots of faces. Sometimes, I kind of forget the

names."



Lance's blood pressure gave a spurt. "I'm Major Lance Cooper! Hell,

you've rung up my chits often enough!"



And his mind added: How could you forget?



"Major." Casey's eyes narrowed, while the uneasy suspicion in them grew.

"We don't have no chit system at this club."



Lance's head felt like it would explode. He could take no more.



"You're lying!" he shouted. His big hands reached over the mahogany

counter and shook the bartender like a squawk-box that had refused to

function properly. "Tell me you're lying in your teeth. If you don't,

I'll push them down your throat--"



Suddenly, Lance sensed people behind him. A firm hand clamped down

heavily on his shoulder.



The pilot stretched his neck around. What now? His hands did not relax

their murderous grip on his victim.



The arresting party had entered the club quietly. Now, they were ganged

up around him: Colonel Sagen, his two aides, a fourth man Lance

recognized as Major Carmody, the base legal officer--and a fifth man

too, who wore the insignia of the Space Surgeon-General's Department. A

psychiatrist.



"Better come peacefully, major," rasped Colonel Sagen. "You've been

'cleared' for an explanation--and if you're smart, you'll listen to the

spiel and play ball."



The way it was said made Lance feel he could trust the Old Man for that

long. Anyhow, what choice did he have?



"It's about time," Lance sighed. He set Casey down, to the latter's

greatly exhaled relief. "Only how come all the suspense?"



"It was very necessary," broke in Major Carmody.



"Was it? Well, you had me about to crack--if that was your object. Now

then, would any of you mind easing my worries about Carolyn. She's O.K.,

isn't she?"



His glance shifted from one to the other.



"Isn't she?"



Nobody would reply--neither Colonel Sagen, nor any of the officers

bunched-up around him.



Sweat suddenly broke out on Lance's brow. The chilly feeling went

through him that if and when an answer was provided him, he wasn't

particularly going to like it.



Not in the slightest.



* * * * *



Shortly afterwards, Lance was driven across the base by his captors and

escorted into his commanding officer's private office. The two aides

were dismissed, but the psychiatrist-officer, who also wore eagles on

his shoulders, and Major Carmody remained.



Colonel Sagen seated himself behind his desk.



"Major," he began, clearing his throat, "you imagine me to have a

daughter. You're positive of it. You even visualize her so well, that

you remember something about how you were going to marry her."



"You're not going to talk me out of anything on that score," Lance shot

back.



"Perhaps, we don't intend to. Colonel Nordsen, here," Sagen indicated

the psychiatrist, "has flown in from HQ to chat with you. He can explain

the technical aspects of the phenomenon that has thrown you better than

I can. I'd advise you to listen to him. He's just what you need."



"Just what I need? What else do you intend to do? Hypnotize me, so you

can erase all my past?"



The colonel scowled. "Look here, major. You co-operate and learn to keep

your mouth shut, we may be able to restore you to duty. But if not ...

well, what happens then will be entirely up to Nordsen. It could mean a

padded cell. The development of hyperspace exploration has to go on,

whatever happens to you."



"I'll tell you one thing to your face, colonel," Lance replied, hotly.

"I'm not off my rocker."



"No one has maintained you were," broke in Colonel Nordsen. "But Colonel

Sagen had to throw a curtain around you fast."



"Why?"



Neither officer answered.



Finally, Colonel Sagen said, "I think you'd better continue with him,

Colonel Nordsen."



Nordsen was a youthful-looking man for his rank, yet prematurely

balding. He wore thick-shelled glasses.



"Major Cooper," Nordsen began, "let's go back to when you put the

Cosmos XII through its first jump through hyperspace. How well do you

recall your experience?"



"I'll never forget it. You Earthbound kiwis should try it sometime."



"Did you experience a feeling ... perhaps, rather uncanny ... that the

whole thing had happened to you before? What psychologists call the

sense of deja vu?"



"No, I don't think so."



"Perhaps some other type of phenomenon was manifested? A feeling you'd

been split in half, maybe."



"That did happen."



"Describe it."



"It was more than just being split in half. I felt like I was suddenly

hundreds of selves. I could see other replicas of 'me' all around."



Nordsen nodded, thoughtfully. "That was what we call the 'Infinite

Fission' syndrome. All those other 'you's' were personality matrices of

yourself in alternate worlds. Did you notice anything else?"



Lance nodded, grudgingly.



* * * * *



"What?"



"Look, colonel. If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?"



"Any reasonable ones, yes. That's what we're here for."



"Well, there was the disturbing thing about the Cosmos XII, itself. I

saw images of the ship riding along beside me, out there in the hype.

Where nothing material could possibly exist. Where not even light could

reflect back, or any other wave propagation." Lance shook his head,

recalling the experience. "What could have caused a hallucination like

that?"



"It was no hallucination, Lance. It was real and has happened before. We

can rest you easy on that point."



Colonel Nordsen removed tobacco from a pouch, stuffed his pipe, lit up.

Bluish smoke formed a halo about him.



"Lance, the Space Service has been sending ships through hyperspace for

nearly two years now. Only recently did anybody notice something was

seriously wrong with the pilots who came back. Up until then ... oh, a

pilot might act a little queer for a day or two. But who wouldn't,

cooped up alone in a steel projectile for four weeks? We thought very

little of it."



"Uh huh," was Lance Cooper's only comment.



Nordsen transferred his pipe to his hand. "But eventually, even the

Space Service gets around to putting two and two together on the

slipstick. The incidents kept piling up. A pilot comes back from Epsilon

Eridani, for example, and insists on giving everybody left-handed

salutes. Another has taken a scout ship to 61 Cygni. He insists at the

Officers Club that Colonel Sagen here has a nickname of 'Old Hard-Head'.

Nobody else on the base is aware of any such thing. Then, still another

pilot--"



"Wait a minute!" Lance interrupted. "Hasn't he?"



"Hasn't what? I don't follow you."



"Colonel Sagen. Hasn't he got that nickname? I mean, it was a term of

respect and liking, of course. But--"



"No," said Nordsen.



"No?" Lance echoed, disbelieving. "Since when?"



"Not since ever, major. Not on this particular track."



"Colonel Nordsen, you're losing me."



"Patience, please. I was about to tell you that still another pilot

lands on our base, and he wears a blue tie. Claims the Space Service has

always worn blue ties."



"I take it back," said Lance. "I'm a pilot and all pilots are slowly

going nuts." Then, it occurred to him to evince more interest or they

might ship him back to the brig sooner than expected. "A blue tie, huh?"



"And blue suede chukkas, to match," Colonel Sagen's hoarse voice broke

in. "Most unmilitary-looking uniform I ever saw on a space officer."



Colonel Nordsen, the psychiatrist, set his pipe aside. "Gradually, we

began building up a file of such weird discrepancies. Another pilot

landed wearing a handle-bar mustache. He couldn't possibly have grown so

much lip-hair in a month. Yet, the man claimed he'd sported the mustache

for years; and that every officer in his squadron was decked out with

one, too."



* * * * *



"Tell me just one thing," Lance pleaded. His nerves were gradually

getting more on edge. "What has all this got to do with Carolyn Sagen?

Why is she being kept from me?"



Nordsen's eyebrows met, evincing a little displeasure. "Don't you get

the drift, major? I've been trying to accomplish two things at the same

time. Cushion a shock for you--and explain why what has happened has

happened. There is no Carolyn Sagen. The colonel and his wife have

always been childless."



Lance got belligerent. "Say that again!"



"There is no Carolyn Sagen here."



"What d'you mean, when you say 'here'?"



Nordsen took off his shell-rimmed glasses, wiped them, restored them to

his boyish face. "I would advise you to brace yourself. By 'here,' I

mean on this particular time-track."



Lance stared at him.



"Doesn't the word have any significance for you?" Nordsen asked.



"Time-track? Sure, I've heard of the concept before. It's a theory that

parallel worlds branch off when ... hey!" Lance's tone rose to a shout.

"You're not trying to imply that ... that I'm on a diff--?"



"That's right. We're trying to tell you that you have obviously landed

in another time-track. One that is parallel to--but just a slight bit

different from the one you formerly knew. To you, we seem to be the

same officers as in that world; but of course, we're not. It isn't the

same universe. Hyperspace is tricky stuff, as our men are finding out.

You've just got bounced around by one of the trickiest things connected

with it."



Lance groaned. "Now, I'm told!"



"I'm sorry. It's nothing new, only the information is classified

top-secret in our world; and evidently in yours, too. It has to be

withheld from hype-trainees, otherwise they might deliberately flunk

their course. We're running pilot classes here on our track, too. We

have to keep them filled."



Lance was stunned. He hardly knew what he should say or do next.



Finally, he put forth a faltering question: "Is there any way I can get

back to Home Base? My home base?"



All three officers in the room shook their heads in unison.



"You might as well look for a pebble in the beach," said Nordsen. He

elucidated: "As a matter of fact, this is Home Base for you. The

differences between one track and another are not usually too great; the

resemblances are many. Sometimes even, the returned pilot accommodates

himself to the new time-track without suspecting in the slightest what's

happened to him."



"And in those cases, you seldom bother to enlighten him, I suppose."



"Naturally not. Security frowns on it."



"But in my case, you couldn't cover up."



"Your case manifests a much more serious slippage. Your path,

evidently, warped to a track several million or billion worlds further

over than anybody from your world had previously experienced.

Consequently, your luck has really been unfortunate. You've materialized

out of hyperspace into a universe where someone you apparently knew

quite closely simply was never born."






"But Carolyn did exist before ... where I was? I'm not dreaming."



"No. Both our worlds are equally real."



* * * * *



Lance, though he felt the truth slowly and inexorably sink in, still

could not quite grasp all its implications. He turned his numbed face to

the other two officers in the room. Colonel Sagen and Major Carmody

inclined their heads.



For one despairing moment, Lance felt almost like hurling himself

through the window. Then, he straightened up. His mouth compressed into

a thin line. "If I must face the facts, I must. But," his tone edged off

into irony, "it sure isn't easy. You'll have to give me time."



Colonel Nordsen stood up, held out his hand. "I'm sorry, major, believe

me. This is a hard blow to take and I wouldn't care to be on the

receiving end, myself. But you'll adjust. If you like, I'll recommend

you for convalescent leave. You understand, of course," the psychiatrist

went on, "that we expect you to keep tight-lipped. Our hype-classes are

still too small. We need a lot of sharp men, and they have to be

volunteers. Right, Colonel Sagen?"



"Right."



Lance dropped the proffered hand. "I get it. Let the word get around how

hyperspace messes you up, all your bright young jets will bug out on it.

That's your main worry, isn't it? Not what happens to me."



"Frankly, yes," Nordsen acknowledged, without blinking. "But the Space

Service is also concerned about individuals. Don't worry now, major.

We'll look after you."



"Don't bother!" An uncontrolled bitterness crept into Lance's reply.

"Far as I'm concerned, the Space Service can go to hell. What reason

have I got to stay in it? You've conned me out of all that meant

anything in my life."



Nobody said a word.



Lance rose to his feet, unsteadily. His sardonic glance swept over them.

"I suppose it's back to the guardhouse for me now, huh? Well, I won't be

sorry to go. I'll find better company. And I refuse your bribe of

special leave-time."



Colonel Nordsen seemed unaffected. "You're making a mistake," he said,

calmly.



"Am I?"



"Major, we're offering you a chance to get adjusted and assimilated.

Take it or leave it. We can hold you in the brig until you see reason.

But you're a good man. We need you."



"For what? More flights through that hyperspace muck?"



"If you can pass our mental stability tests, yes."



"And if not?"



"You'll be grounded."



Lance made a sudden decision.



"I want to go up right now."



"What?"



* * * * *



"You heard me. I want to go up in the Cosmos XII right now, tests or

no tests. Ground me--and I'll never have a chance again. Don't you think

I'm hep to that?"



"We'll see that you're not grounded," broke in Colonel Sagen, from

behind his desk.



But Lance didn't believe him.



"Don't try to kid me, colonel," he snapped out. "You write me out flight

orders for the Cosmos XII, or I'll blab everything I know. You can't

hang me, you can't tear my tongue out--and I know I'll bust out of your

guardhouse one way or another! You'll see! And then, how will you fill

up your precious training classes? Then, how will you get new chumps to

pilot your ships to the stars? The stars! Ha, ha! That's the biggest

joke of all!"



Colonel Sagen began to splutter. Lance, watching him carefully, decided

there wasn't much resemblance between the old boy and the fine Colonel

Sagen he'd known in his own world. Maybe it'd been having the softening

influence of normal family life and a growing daughter that had made old

Hard-Head human.



"You'll never get away with this," Sagen warned. "We're three against

one."



"Won't I?" Lance's hand darted inside his shirt. "Maybe this'll equalize

us." He brought out the pistol he'd taken off the captain in the

guardhouse. Sagen, Nordsen, and Carmody backed off from it.



"The Cosmos XII is still two-thirds fueled," Lance said. "And

well-stocked on provisions. Besides, I'm a light eater in hyperspace--as

who isn't? I intend to take that ship out again, and you're going to

help me, gentlemen."



Lance flicked off the safety and waved the gun back and forth, to

demonstrate what he meant.



* * * * *



It worked.



Lance got his ship, using Colonel Sagen as both shield and go-between

after he had first tied up the other two officers in a closet. He kept a

close watch, of course, for the SSP's and their gas pellets; but

apparently an alarm was not raised soon enough for the base police to

hurl into action.



After having the colonel authorize a space clearance for him by

contacting Traffic directly over the ship's mike, Lance finally released

him.



The colonel scooted down the ladder. Lance gave him time to clear the

pad, but little more; then he went to work pushing buttons on the manual

desk. The Cosmos XII blasted loose from her moorings and soared aloft

into space.



At five thousand miles above Earth's surface, Lance re-checked his

tapes. Groombridge 34 was the only possible destination the autopilot

could take him to. Somehow, he didn't mind taking one more look at the

double-star system. He cut into hyperspace as quickly as he dared; then

sat back and relaxed. That is, as much as any man could in hype.



When he reached Groombridge 34, all Lance did was pop out into normal

space long enough to assure himself he had reached the proper checkpoint

for turning back. The tapes were in good order, and there had been no

hitches. Grunting, he threw in the switch-over and once more found

himself plowing through hyperspace. Only this time, he was homeward

bound.



If he were lucky, just real lucky, he told himself, there might be a

Carolyn Sagen alive and waiting for him in whatever time-track he wound

up in this time.



At last, he materialized again in the Solar System. Or some Solar

System, anyhow. As far as he could tell, all the planets looked

unchanged. It was just four weeks to the day, since his escape from

World Two. This would be World Three. He had been gone eight weeks and

two days from World One.



Lance cut the ecliptic at a different angle than before, and Terra was

farther along in her journey around Sol. He needed a new landing

trajectory. His eye swept his panel, to see if anything had been preset.

There was no green flashing on the deck, where there should have been

green.



Oh, well. There could have been cruisers waiting in space, too, to pot

him with ship-to-ship missiles. He'd taken one chance, he could take

another.



Lance opened a switch and called Base Traffic's frequency. "This is the

Cosmos XII, Major Lance Cooper piloting. Just broke out of hype. Can

you read me?"



He repeated the message for several minutes.



Finally, he got an answer. A startled voice whipped back at him through

crackling static: "Cosmos XII, this is Traffic. Who did you say you

were up there?"



* * * * *



Lance hardly knew whether he felt more like laughing or crying. He was

fairly close to home, anyhow. They did have space traffic here. And

being pretty much of an optimist, he also decided that it was a

time-track where he had been known. Only being so long overdue, he had

probably been given up for lost.



On this premise, he could visualize all the consternation and excitement

now in progress downstairs; the personnel were likely falling all over

each other in the stampede to pass the word around.



"I'm Major Lance Cooper," he announced over the mike.



There was a long pause.



"Repeat that, please."



"This is Lance Cooper, Major, Space Service. I'm up here in the Cosmos

XII."



"B-b-but you can't be."



"Who says I can't. Say, what's the matter with you monkeys? I want to

come in."



Another voice took over on the channel. "The lieutenant's right. You

actually do sound like Cooper, whoever you are!"



Lance laughed openly. "I've lived with him all my life, why shouldn't I?

You think I'm a ghost?"



"Well ... no. We know you're real. We're getting a blip from you. Only

thing is--"



"Let's talk about it when I get down," Lance interrupted. "I need a

program fast. Get those G.S. computers working and read me an orbit."



"W-will do."



"And one more thing: Is Colonel Sagen around?"



"Not today, major. He had to fly to Luna."



"How about his daughter?"



"Who?"



Oh, no! Lance felt his heart almost stop. Had the big try been for

nothing? He chanced a repeat.



"His daughter. Carolyn Sagen."



This time, he got results.



"Oh! You mean Hard-Head's daughter. The one who ... say, wasn't she all

set to marry you?"



"You bet your last commendation ribbon she was. And she's going to!

Hey!" Lance shouted. "Anything wrong with her? She's not sick or--"



The voice of the first operator at Traffic came back on. "The captain

had to take off. No sir, major. She's not sick. We just don't know how

she's gonna take this, is all."



"With bells on, Junior. Wedding bells! Get her out to meet me when I

land, will you? And snap it up on that trajectory."



Again, the traffic crackled in Lance's ear. There seemed to be a great

deal of excitement going on down there. And then the great night rim of

Earth swung under him, blocking out further radio communication.



Presently, a relayed beam from Luna came in. The Luna spaceport read him

a series of figures to punch into his autopilot. The new orbit would

edge him in close enough to Terra, that he could pick up an assist from

the G.A. system of his home base.



Lance rubbed his hands together in his joy. He was cooking on all

burners, now. At last.



* * * * *



Six hours later, the Cosmos XII settled down in her landing cradle.

Major Lance Cooper kicked open the air-lock door and began climbing down

to solid ground.



It was just barely twilight. Ordinarily, there would have been long

purplish shadows at the far ends of the field; but now the entire space

base was flooded with lights. Were the beacons sweeping back and forth

just to welcome him? It hardly seemed possible. Yet, the apron itself,

was swarming with people. Here they came now! A whole mob racing towards

him, and the noise of their swelling shouts preceded them, rolling

forward like the breakers upon a shore.



Oh, oh! What was that in the far corner of the field? A big pile of

crumpled metal, already rusted and ready for the bulldozers. Some poor

devil had crashed his hype-ship. Lance wondered vaguely which of his

buddies it had been. Then he shut it out of his mind.



A jeep swung out ahead of the advancing crowd and came speeding down

the concrete. Brakes squealed; rubber tires bit in hard, and the vehicle

plunged to a halt near him. Lance recognized Major Carmody in the

driver's seat. Or another Major Carmody. What difference did it make?

None, now that he was able to identify so very well the other figure in

the jeep--a slight blond figure in a trench coat seated next to Carmody.



Carolyn!



He saw her get out. He saw her commence walking towards him. But too

slowly, he thought. And he was too paralyzed to move.



"Lance?" she called to him. "Is it you? Is it really you, darling?"



The girl's step almost faltered. Major Carmody's hand reached out,

steadied her.



Something was wrong again. But what? He could not guess.



Lance came out of his paralysis. He began running towards her.



And in a moment, they were in each other's arms without caring why or

how: Lance Cooper and the girl he loved. Kissing, hugging, unable to

believe for a moment in each other's reality.



Then, Carolyn had to have breath and she drew apart for a moment. Then,

she kissed him again. And Lance, for the first time, listened and made

sense out of the welter of hysterical sobbing words that were pouring

forth:



"Darling, darling, darling Lance! I cried so much, and now it's all

over. I don't care if you're not real. I love you, I love you! I don't

care if you are somebody from another time-track like Major Carmody

says! You're my Lance and you belong to me. It's you I love and want

now; no matter how shameless I sound!... Yes, darling, it's you I want,

not that poor broken thing we buried two months ago. Not the--"



Lance's feeling of impending horror was great, but not so great that he

shrank from the question that now rose and beat and beat at his brain.

The overwhelming question that had to be asked.



"Carolyn!" He held her so tight he thought for a moment he'd cracked her

ribs. His half-shook gaze penetrated her retreating eyes, forcing her to

meet him.



"Carolyn! What do you mean--it's me you want now, not that poor broken

thing you buried? Tell me. TELL ME!"



"Don't you know, darling Lance? When you took off that night eight weeks

ago, that night I kissed you good-by, your ship ... oh don't you

comprehend?... Your ship, it--"



"Tell me, Carolyn!"



"Your ship, Lance, that's it over there--the wreckage of it! The Cosmos

XII crashed on take-off that night, Lance. You were killed out-right.

We buried you two days later."