from a memory-image of a Martian wine-cellar. He set the bottle back down. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The man looked up at him sardonically. "Call me Smith," he said. "If I told you who I really am, you wouldn't believe me."

"What are you doing in my mind?"

"You should know the answer to that one. You put me here."

Blake stared "Why, I've never even seen you before!"

"Granted," Smith said. "But you used to know me. As a matter of fact, you and I used to get along together famously." He reached around and got a cup off the wall-rack. "Pull up a chair and have a drink. I've been expecting you."

Bewildered, Blake sat but shoved the cup aside. "I don't drink," he said.

"That's right," Smith said. "Stupid of me to forget." He took a swig out of the bottle, set it back down. "Let's see, it's been seven years now. Right?"

"How the devil did you know?"

Smith sighed. "Who should know better than I? Who indeed? But I guess I can't kick too much. You certainly materialized enough of the stuff in your—shall we say 'wilder'?—days." He shook his head. "No, I can't say I've suffered in that respect."

Comprehension came to Blake then. He had heard of the parasites who lived in other person's minds, but this was the first time he had ever happened to run across one. "Why, you're nothing but a mind-comber," he said. "I should have guessed!"

Smith looked hurt. "You do me a grave injustice, friend. A very grave injustice. And after my being so considerate of this cottage and using the back door and everything! The young lady who stopped by a little while ago was much more understanding than you are."

"You talked with her then?" Blake asked. He suppressed a shudder. For some reason it horrified him that his quarry should be aware that so despicable a creature inhabited his mind. "What—what does she look like?"

"You know what she looks like."

"But I don't. I took the case on such short notice that I didn't have a chance to get a picture or even a description of her."

Smith 

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