"They're blue."

"Brown."

"Dave, I'm a qualified observer and I recall them as blue!"

"Wishful thinking. Probably your first love had blue eyes."

Jane lit a match and held it over him for an instant. "Blue," she said.

"Are you going to believe your eyes or what I tell you?" he demanded.

"My eyes," she said. "Just because I happen to think you're quite special, I don't necessarily believe everything you say."

"What's so special? I'm just an ordinary sort of guy. Most of the things I learned in school haven't been much use to me. I drink too much and smoke too much, go to church far too little—if at all—and have no immediate hope for mankind."

"You're an idealist."

"No cigar. Cynic, yes. But idealist—?"

"You are," she said. "You are also some sort of human dynamo. You come as a newspaperman to report on our doings and end up marching yourself into danger and almost running the research group."

"Think of the story I'll be able to write," he said.

"And if you don't—?"

He laughed. "I'm in no danger," he said.

"I hope you aren't."

"Better me than someone who might be able to solve this thing."

"I don't think so."

"I'm no loss to civilization, Jane."

"That's your fault," she told him, half-angry. "You could be a great asset if you'd only try."

"And what form of attempt does this require?"

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