under the flood of realization that nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of "Marty!" ringing in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster, as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.

ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. "No," he said.

"But everybody fills out an application," she protested.

"No. I've got a job," he said as he had been saying for the last half hour.

The Receptionist sighed. "If you'll only read the literature I've given you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments have been cancelled."

"Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut this nonsense. I've got to get back."

"But nobody goes back."

"Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but—" He stopped at the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. The reception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD baskets on the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinary about it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out at the edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....

"Let's see your back!" he rapped out, his voice high.

She sighed in exasperation. "If you'd read the literature ..." She swiveled her chair slowly.

"No wings," he said.

"Of course not!" she snapped. She brushed her hair away from her forehead without his telling her to. "No horns, either."

"Streamlined, huh?" he said bitterly.

"It's a little different for everybody," she said with unexpected gentleness. "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe, and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Six hours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.

"Who do I see?"

She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. "See?"

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