She poured another cup of coffee and added a dash of rum to it, then decided she should do some ironing with the new iron Robert Johns had bought her at the base exchange. Her washing had been caught by the rain but with the rain stopped she went out into the warm mist to see if there weren’t a few pieces she could bring in and iron dry. Most everything was still wringing wet but she brought in her head scarves and two of Robert Johns’ bright shirts. Then she plugged in the iron, holding the plug carefully between thumb and forefinger as Robert Johns had taught her to do when pushing it into the socket.

  She didn’t really like the iron except that it was a novelty, just as the electric light had been a few years earlier and the pipe that brought water into the house. Before the pipes were installed, rain water was collected in the big village cistern, and when she was a girl one of her tasks had been to go to the cistern and bring home water, often several times a day. Ah, how the music brought back memories! People she knew were singing and dancing in the mist beneath the locust trees at three o’clock in the morning. It was all the world they had left. Before the navy came, the people of the village could wander at will about the island. Then Tamby could carry a picnic basket to the top of South Mountain from where she could see the whole surrounding ocean. Santa Felicia was always a small world but now the greater part even of that was gone.

  Resentment flooded her. The music and singing were still there, wilder now. They were beating out the day of judgment when the hurricane would come and sweep the conquerors into the sea. They were drawing the magic lines. They were calling up the spirits of the dead. They were warding off the disembodied voices that came from the singing wires on the hilltops. Tamby jerked the iron-plug from its socket, not at all in the way Robert Johns had taught her, and she wrapped a freshly-ironed orange scarf about her head. Her pulse was throbbing in tune to the music and she would go.

  But as she slid into a clean dress, another sound came between her and the music—a low, mellow warbling. She stood erect and silent to listen. Not like any bird she knew. More like human voices, although she couldn’t distinguish the words. It sounded again and she went to the rear window and tried to peer out. The window was covered with white netting, and with the light on inside the house she could see nothing. But she thought she heard someone moving around out there.

  “Who yar?” she called. There was no answer. She hesitated nervously, not wanting to go out and see and not wanting to turn off the light so she could see from within. But the latter course was safer. She turned off the light and pressed her face close to the netting to peer into the darkness. She could see little even so, because of the mist, but she could make out the pale garments on the clothesline and the big rectangle of her white tablecloth. It seemed to be moving up and down as though something was trying to tug it loose from the clothespins. And she heard the melodic voice-like sound again.

  “Who yar?” she called. “Gan away now.” But the tablecloth was still being tugged. The taut clothesline was springing up and down. Someone was trying to steal it from her, some woman of the village who was envious because Robert Johns could buy her such things. The thought angered Tamby and anger made her bold. “I’m gettin’ a knife!” she called. The words prompted her to the act and she seized the butcher knife from its hook on the wall. Clutching it firmly she ran out the front door and around toward the back of the house, fancying that because of her threat the intruders would be gone. She ran through the warm mist until the tablecloth loomed up before her. But the clothespins had come loose and the tablecloth was being dragged from the line. Tamby lunged and caught a corner of it just before it was whipped away. At the opposite corner, not ten feet away in the darkness, was the figure of the thief, warbling at her and tugging at the cloth.

  “Leggo now!” Tamby cried. She pulled hard but she felt herself being dragged forward. “Leggo! Leggo!” She stumbled forward and for an instant had a better view of the thief. Ahhh, it was no one of the village! The skin was too pale. And who on Santa Felicia had hair like that? A chill ripped down Tamby’s spine. She sobbed and threw her whole weight against the strength of the other. She even gained a few inches. And then the second figure emerged from the mist. Tamby looked once and screamed. “Ahhh!” Her knife fell to the ground. She screamed toward the distant dancers who were calling up the demons of the dead. “Ahhh!” The tablecloth slid from her helpless grasp. “Don’t take me!” she moaned. She didn’t know whether or not the devil came closer. An internal mist thicker than the one around her clouded her senses and she swooned on the ground.

  At three-twenty-five Cameron Hume was in Room 16 of the hospital with Gordon Thorpe and Roger Staghorn, who had just been aroused from sleep. Roger was sitting up against his pillows, looking about the room uncertainly. Thorpe’s face was grim. He been delayed in reaching the hospital by the report from the submarine that had noted the time of Tib’s passing. The data had come in, the calculations were made and the results were ominous. Even assuming that the submarine was a mile off in locating its exact position at the moment of Tib’s passing, when added to the South Mountain data and the check made in Flanders’ office, the calculations showed that Tib’s passing had originated on Santa Felicia Island.

  Hume had this information from Thorpe just before he went in to arouse Staghorn. He knew also that during the two hours the security office had been at work, they hadn’t located anyone who might be responsible for the footprints in Staghorn’s laboratory. And now that he looked at Staghorn’s face, Hume knew that something was wrong here too. Staghorn looked far too pleasant. He was too pleasant for Staghorn in any case, much too pleasant for Staghorn with a bump on his head, and altogether too peaceful for Staghorn confronted by Commander Thorpe, who as chief security officer personalized for Roger a type of restriction he constantly deplored. Thorpe himself seemed taken aback by the patient’s amiable smile. He cleared his throat self-consciously before he spoke.

  “Understand you had a bad bump,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”

  Staghorn considered the question a moment as though taking stock of his inner sensations before reaching a conclusion. Then he said, “I’m feeling fine. Never felt better.” He raised his long body from the pillows and leaned toward Thorpe, squinting. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Thorpe regarded him a moment, then twisted in his chair to look at Hume. Hume moved around to the side of the bed, watching Staghorn closely. The glance Roger bestowed on him didn’t seem to carry recognition. At the bedside table he opened the drawer and took out Staghorn’s glasses, adjusting them over Roger’s nose. “Maybe this is the trouble. That better?”

  Staghorn blinked in surprise and made a slow survey of the room through the thick lenses. “Much better,” he said with evident pleasure. “Much, much better! I thank you. By correcting the angle of refraction the minimal optical path is achieved and things become much clearer.” His gaze traveled on around the room and rested on Thorpe again. “I see you plainly now,” he said. “Who did you say you were?”

  Thorpe flushed and thrust his face forward. “Are you trying to say you don’t know me?” Without waiting for a reply he stood up and faced Hume. “What is this, Cameron? Is he full of dope?”

  “Not that full.” Hume stepped past Thorpe to Staghorn’s side and put a hand on his patient’s forehead. It was cool to the touch. He bent to look into Staghorn’s eyes. Pupils looked normal; no difficulty in focusing. But the puzzled gaze that Roger sent back at him carried no hint of recognition. “What’s your name?” Hume asked him.

  Staghorn started to speak, then halted in surprise. His brows contracted with thought, and then as seconds passed an embarrassed smile made his lips tremble. “This is very odd,” he said, and the original heartiness was gone from his voice. “I can’t seem to…I don’t think I know who I am.” The words trailed off to a frightened whisper and his face slowly drained of color. Hume put a hand on his shoulder and could feel his body trembling.

  “Easy. I’ll help you. You’re Roger Staghorn. Dr. Roger Staghorn. There, it comes back to you, doesn’t it?”

  Roger whispered his own name questioningly. He repeated it and slowly shook his head. “If you say so,” he added hesitantly. “What else?”

  “I’m Cameron Hume. This is Gordon Thorpe. You’re in the hospital on the Santa Felicia Island Guided Missiles Base. You banged your head in your laboratory, remember? You were unconscious when we brought you here, but now we want you to tell us what happened.”

  He watched Staghorn’s face as he spoke, looking for any quivers that might indicate that a chain of associations was being established. But there was nothing except a quickening of the pulse at the temple, an indication of increasing confusion rather than of recall of circumstances. Hume talked for a little longer, mentioning people Staghorn had told him about during their weekly sessions, reminding him of the type of work he did, recalling incidents of Staghorn’s past. Roger only became more frightened. “Relax,” Hume said finally. “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to be all right.”

  Thorpe was standing across the room watching. Hume beckoned him to the hallway where they could talk. “You relax too, Gordon. This isn’t an altogether rare occurrence.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Thorpe said softly. “Under these particular circumstances it’s as rare as they come. I thought we’d locate the two people who were in his laboratory in a matter of minutes. We haven’t. And now the only witness seems to have lost his memory. Quite a coincidence.” “But I think the loss is only partial.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because of what he said about his glasses. The minimal optical path. Wait a moment. I’ll try something.” Hume took a pen and pad from his pocket and wrote out an equation he remembered from an advanced algebra class. He took the pad back into the room and gave it to Staghorn. “Can you find the solution to this?”

  Staghorn looked at the pad. “It has four correct solutions,” he said, and then his eyes brightened. He seized the pen from Hume’s hand and quickly worked out the equation to its four logical conclusions, then looked up at Hume. “Yes, that’s right. I do know something.”

  “Of course you do. Now try answering a few questions for Gordon Thorpe.”

  “If I can,” Staghorn said.

  Thorpe sat down beside the bed again and indicated the pad that Staghorn still held in his hand. “You understand all about that, do you?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Where did you learn it?”

  “I don’t remember. I just seem to know it without having to think about it.”

  “Uh-huh. You understand about soap films too, don’t you?”

  “Soap films? Oh, you mean minimal and maximal surfaces. Soap films simply aid in their visualization. The principle of parsimony. But as a matter of fact nature isn’t parsimonious at all. Not when you understand why minimal dimensions are essential to the order of things. There’s an excellent reason, and it’s just the opposite of parsimony. Nature is most generous. It’s only the mind of man which is too miserly to recognize the infinite grandeur of the universe.””

  “Yes,” Thorpe said carefully. “So you were in your laboratory studying soap films. And you caught a bump on the head. How?”

  Staghorn seemed to have difficulty giving up the line of thought he was following and attending to the new question. His hand went to the back of his head and pressed gingerly against the bandage.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps the woman can tell you.”

  Thorpe leaned forward eagerly. “Exactly. The woman. Just tell me who she is.”

  “I don’t know her name,” Staghorn replied. Then he frowned. “But you ought to know who she is. She was in here earlier, dressed all in white. She brought me this pitcher of water.”

  “Here?”

  “Oh, hell,” Hume said. “That was Amy Lafarge.”

  “The principle of parsimony works only because the universe is so full,” Staghorn said, forgetting about the woman and returning to his previous thought. “The universe is so tightly packed that each continuum must assume its minimal dimensions or there wouldn’t be room for all the others.”

  Thorpe looked at his watch and rose to his feet. “I’m not getting anyplace.” He preceded Hume into the hall and closed the door. “Could he be faking that?”

  Hume shook his head. It wasn’t possible.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Partly the symptoms. Even more because I know Staghorn. He’s mild, amiable, cooperative and courteous. Could Staghorn fake that?”

  “No,” said Thorpe. “But he remembers his mathematics.”

  “And he remembers how to talk. Amnesia is rarely complete. He seems to have lost touch with his physical past but retained all his mental accomplishments. That’s why I think he’ll snap out of it.”

  “Yes, but when?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Isn’t there a pill you can give him? A shot in the arm? A shock of some kind?”

  “He just had some kind of shock a few hours ago. We’ll do all we can.” They progressed down the corridor to the office.

  “And keep him here. I’ll put a guard around the building just in case he gets ideas about leaving.” Angrily Thorpe picked up the telephone and called his office. “Have you found those two people yet?” From his expression at the reply the two people evidently hadn’t been located. Then his face became grimmer as he listened. “All right. If the pictures are on the way I’ll wait. And tell Flanders I’ll be with him as soon as possible.”

  He hung up and faced Hume. “I knew it. Somehow I knew it from the first moment. Tib’s passing had a purpose.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Luna One.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “No. Nothing mechanically wrong. But all the built-in timing calculators are a half second off. They’ve been ticking perfectly for weeks, but Tib’s passing has managed to set everything back a half second. Enough to miss the moon altogether if we hadn’t noticed it!”

  For some unaccountable reason Thorpe’s words almost called from Hume a burst of laughter. It was the idea of a missile being launched into space after the expenditure of several millions of dollars and then missing the mark it was aimed at. “It can be readjusted, surely,” he said.

  “Yes. About a month’s work!” Then Thorpe paused and in a milder tone said, “But actually I’m relieved. At least the thing begins to make sense now.”

  It was an odd reason for relief, Hume thought, but he could see Gordon’s point. Cause and effect. Purpose.

  “Three-forty,” Thorpe said, looking at his watch. “And they still haven’t found them.”

  “On the telephone you said something about pictures.”

  “Yes. The plates from Staghorn’s cameras. I’ve had them developed and they’re bringing them over.” He had hardly finished speaking when the messenger from his office arrived with a manila envelope. Thorpe seized it from his hand, (Opened it and spread the photographs out on the desk. Hume stepped up beside him. There were five pictures and four of them were difficult to tell apart because they were all photographs of soap films; to Hume’s unpracticed eye each one looked very like the others. But he didn’t dwell on them because the fifth picture was quite extraordinary. It was of soap films too. It showed the wide films supported above the central basin in the laboratory. The wires hadn’t been broken then, but the reason why they must have been broken soon after the picture was taken was evident. There were two figures out there in the center of the basin, figures seen behind veils of shimmering surfaces, indistinct in detail but definitely there. One was a man and one was a woman. Over her arm the woman held something draped. From the picture alone Hume wouldn’t have known what it was, but he’d handled the same object later—it was the fur garment. Thorpe picked the picture up and took it close to the light to study it. After a long interval he said, “And I’m glad to see this too. There were two people there. Do you know, Cameron, much as I like you, I’ve been forced to speculate on the possibility that you never received any telephone call from Staghorn at all.” He tapped the picture. “You had no witnesses until I saw this.”

  “Oh, you checked?”

  “I had to check! But now, look at this picture closely, Cameron. Look at that man. I know it’s a blur behind all those soap films, and maybe it’s only a reflection, but look at his head. Isn’t there something odd about that?”

  Hume took the picture and examined it closely. He held it off at arm’s length and examined it through slitted eyes. The impression was actually clearer at a distance. Just an impression. “Yes, the way the light hits him, it looks as though he has horns.”

  There was no time to discuss that either, because the telephone rang again. Thorpe grabbed it, but this time the call was for Hume. Anticlimactic, actually. A woman was having hysterics in the native village and they wanted a doctor. The message had been relayed through the base switchboard and the girl passing it on was skeptical. “She says she saw the devil.” That made it less anticlimactic.

  “Thank you. You’ve given me the message,” Hume said. He hung up and repeated it to Thorpe. “So I guess they need a doctor at the village.”

  “They’ll get a security officer too.” Thorpe shoved the sheaf of pictures into his brief case and headed for the door.

  6

  A few minutes later, Hume and Thorpe left the hospital in Hume’s jeep, and headed for the village. The tropical dawn was still two hours away but a brisk trade wind was sweeping the last of the clouds toward the horizon. The stars were visible again and in the east there was a ghostly veil of zodiacal light. The ground mist was clearing and ahead of them at the auto gate to the village the night light gleamed brightly. “What the devil is that doing on?” Thorpe muttered. Hume stopped the car and honked for the sentry to come out and open the gate. No sentry appeared. Thorpe leaned over impatiently and sounded the horn again. When there was still no response he flung open the car door and leaped out irascibly. “Just because this station isn’t critical doesn’t mean the sentry can sleep!” He strode toward the little sentry house.