happened?

Again, I reached out, groping.

I lay on some sort of narrow couch, it seemed. On either side of me it fell away to a rough, dust-filmed floor.

Warily, I sat up and swung down my feet, then waited till my head had cleared.

Rising, then, I felt my way along the couch.

One end of it joined a wall. Still silent, still feeling my way, I followed the partition.

It brought me to a door—a door securely locked.

I moved on again. Four turns later, I bumped against the bed.

That made it a room—a small, tight-sealed room, windowless and with one door, and furnished only with the couch on which I'd lain.

My own role, apparently, was to wait here, humble and patient, till someone came to call me.

The only trouble was, I didn't feel humble, nor patient either. There were too many questions in me; too much anger.

And somehow, all the questions, all the anger, centered around one lovely face.

Swiftly, I ran my hands over the couch.

Only now, it developed, it wasn't a couch; not really. What I'd taken to be a fabric cover was nothing but a wad of sacking draped over a row of fibrox shipping cases.

Fumbling, I located one of the case's opener tabs and sheared away the fibrox.

Smaller cases spilled out, each about the size of a candybox.

A tremor of excitement ran through me. Hastily, I ripped open one of these smaller cases ... ran my fingers over smooth metal and an array of dials and switches.

A thrill-mill.

For an instant I hesitated. Then, quickly, I ripped away box after box, lining up the mills in a neat row along the wall beside me.

By the time I'd finished, I had no couch to sit on, and the row of mills reached well-nigh half the way around the room.

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