"I don't like the wallpaper in my hotel room."

"He's got the theory of relativity all around the bedroom in his flat in Wokingham," Gray confided, ". . . and wave mechanics in the kitchen."

She looked from one to the other curiously. "Do you know, you're crazy. Both of you—you're both crazy. I was always too polite to mention it before, but somebody has to say it."

Hunt gave her a solemn look. "You didn't come all the way over here to tell us we're crazy," he pronounced.

"Know something—you're right. I had to be in Westwood anyway. A piece of news just came in this morning that I thought might interest you. Gregg's been talking to the Soviets. Apparently one of their materials labs has been doing tests on some funny pieces of metal alloy they got hold of—all sorts of unusual properties nobody's ever seen before. And guess what—they dug them up on the Moon, somewhere near Mare Imbrium. And—when they ran some dating tests, they came up with a figure of about fifty thousand years! How about that! Interested?"

Gray whistled.

"It had to be just a matter of time before something else turned up," Hunt said, nodding. "Know any more details?"

She shook her head. "'Fraid not. But some of the guys might be able to fill you in a bit more at the Ocean tonight. Try Hans if he's there; he was talking a lot to Gregg about it earlier."

Hunt looked intrigued but decided there was little point in pursuing the matter further for the time being.

"How is Gregg?" he asked. "Has he tried smiling lately?"

"Don't be mean," she reproached him. "Gregg's okay. He's busy, that's all. D'you think he didn't have enough to worry about before all this blew up?"

Hunt didn't dispute it. During the few weeks that had passed, he had seen ample evidence of the massive resources Caldwell was marshaling from all around the globe. He couldn't help but be impressed by the director's organizational ability and his ruthless efficiency when it came to annihilating opposition. There were other things, however, about which Hunt harbored mild personal doubts.

"How's it all doing, then?" he asked. His tone was neutral. It did not escape the girl's sharply tuned senses. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Well, you've seen most of the action so far. How do you think it's going?"

He tried to sidestep to avoid her deliberate turning around of the question.

"None of my business, really, is it? We're just the machine minders in all this."

"No, really—I'm interested. What do you think?" Hunt made a great play of stubbing out his cigarette. He frowned and scratched his forehead.

"You've got rights to opinions, too," she persisted. "Our Constitution says so. So, what's your opinion?"

There was no way off the hook, or of evading those big brown eyes.