He had had a dream he couldn't remember clearly now. His mind shuffled palm leaves over the sand to hide the tracks of the subconscious at play.

The duty officer had told them an hour before that nobody was sick, and no biologicals had been discovered in their blood or anywhere else. Not even on the Guest, which seemed as pure as the driven snow. Odd, that.

In any ecology Edward Shaw had heard of, which meant any Earth ecology, living things were always accompanied by parasitic or symbiotic organisms. On the skin, in the gut, within the bloodstream. Perhaps ecologies differed on other worlds. Perhaps the Guest's people —wherever they came from—had advanced to the point of purity: only the primaries, the smart folks, left alive; no more little mutating beasties to cause illness.

Edward sat up and drew himself a glass of water from the lavatory sink. As he sipped, his eyes wandered to the window and the curtain beyond. Slowly but surely, he was losing the old Edward Shaw, and finding a new one: an ambiguous fellow, angry but not overtly so, afraid but not showing his fear, deeply pessimistic.

And then he remembered his dream.

He had been at his own funeral. The casket had been open and somebody had made a mistake, because within the box was the Guest. The minister, presiding in a purple robe with a huge medallion on his chest, had touched Edward on the shoulder and whispered into his ear, "This is Bad News indeed, don't you think?"

He had never had dreams like that before.

The intercom signaled and he shouted, "No! Go away. I'm fine. Just go away. I'm not sick. I'm not dying."

"That's okay, Mr. Shaw." It was Eunice, the slender black duty officer who seemed most sympathetic to Edward. "You go ahead and let it out if you want. I can't shut off the tapes, but I'll shut down my speaker for a while if you wish."

Edward sobered immediately. "I'm all right, Eunice. Really. Just need to know when we're going to get out of here."

"I don't know that myself, Mr. Shaw."

"Right. I don't blame you."

And he didn't. Not Eunice, not the other duty officers, not the doctors or the scientists who had spoken to him. Not even Harry Feinman or Arthur Gordon. The tears were turning to laughter he could barely suppress.

"Still all right, Mr. Shaw?" Eunice asked.