He crushed out one cigarette, snapped another into light, smoked it hungrily, lines under his eyes, his hands trembling.

"Don't ask questions. I've got some radioing to do back to New York." He walked across the cabin and fussed with some equipment. There was a buzzing and a bell sound. He shouted, "Hello, New York! Hang it. Get me through to Sam Norman on Eighth Avenue, Apartment C." He waited. Finally, "Hello, Sam. My, but that was a slow connection. Look, Sam, about that equipment—What equipment? The gambling equipment, where's your brain!"

"While you have the contact through to Earth—" said Helen.

"What? Sam—What?" He turned to glare at Helen.

"While you've the contact through," said Helen, holding his elbow urgently, "let me call my beauty operator, I want an appointment for Monday. My hair's a mess."

"I'm trying to talk to Sam Norman," John objected. To Sam he said, "What did you say?" To Helen: "Go away."

"But I want to talk—"

"You can when I'm finished!" He talked with Sam for five minutes, very loud, and then hung up.

"Oh." Helen gasped.

"I'm sorry," he said, tiredly. "Call Earth back yourself and get your fool hair-dresser." He lighted another cigarette while she dialed and called into the speaker.

He looked at Alice who was emptying her fourth cocktail glass. "Alice, you know, Lisabeth's not really insane."

Helen, who was calling Earth, said, "Shh!" then turned to her brother blankly. "Not insane?" To the space phone: "Hold on a minute, there." To her brother: "What do you mean, not insane?"

"It's relative. She is insane to us. She wants to be Catherine of Russia. That's illogical, to us. To her it is logical in the extreme. We are now taking her to a planet where it will be logic itself."

He got up, walked to the door and looked in at the lovely pale recumbent Catherine the Great. He put his hand to the bars, the cigarette tremoring out nervous smoke. He spoke quietly:

"Some times, I envy her. I'll envy her even more every hour. She'll stay and be happy. And we? 

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