Oscar's tendrils waved slowly back and forth, as if he were interested in anything in the world but radio clicks.
Meers stopped, waited a moment, then tried again.
Tick-tick, said the amplifier.
Meers nodded. "He says yes. Whether he really knows what we want, or not, I can't say."
Horitz spoke into his transceiver: "Central. Will you please page Mr. Abbot, Miss Acheson, Mr. and Mrs. Adler and Mr. Aguirez? Ask them to come to stateroom B39."
One by one, the passengers whose names began with A were let into the stateroom and presented to Oscar. Oscar said nothing. The passengers, bewildered or indignant, were ushered out and a new batch came in.
They went through the B's, the C's, the D's, the E's, the F's, the G's, the H's, the I's.... The whole list numbered about 150, some of whom had been shuttled aboard at the Jovian System, others at Mars. Finally Horitz called a halt for lunch. Dr. Meers, pleading indisposition, had gone to lie down in his stateroom. The three Security men were alone with Dr. Ilyanov—and Oscar.
Walsh, munching a corned-beef sandwich, stared at the black lump balefully. "Honestly, Dr. Ilyanov," he said, "doesn't he ever give you the creeps?"
She smiled slightly. "Honestly—yes. I dream about him sometimes."
Sommers glanced at her curiously. "What do you dream?" he asked.