"I'm not lying," the man said stiffly. "I remember distinctly, because I thought it was odd at the time. You left your room at a quarter to seven, and then I saw you come back about twenty minutes later. Both times, you had a funny sort of expression on your face—sort of dazed, you looked. When you came back, you had some papers in one hand, and you were carrying your belt in the other, sir."
The others were all staring at Horitz.
"His belt!" said Sommers. His gun swiveled to point at Horitz. "I'm sorry, Phil. Drop your gun."
Horitz dropped it, and Walsh scooped it up.
"Then he went into his stateroom and locked the door," said the steward excitedly, "and about twenty after seven he came out again, looking for all the world as if he'd just waked up. I went into the room, being a little curious, and looked around to see if I could see the papers, or anything. I didn't see the papers, but there was scraps of burnt paper and ashes all around the waste chute. It looked to me as if he burnt them up."
Horitz felt numb. The words he was hearing, incredibly, awoke echoes of memory ... a memory that had not been there an instant before.
"Burned them!" said the girl, her eyes wide. "But why!"
Sommers was speaking rapidly into his wrist transceiver, and a few moments later the ship's doctor bustled in, carrying his bag.
"Give your belt to Dr. Evans, Phil," said Sommers.