"Dying," said the Voice hollowly. "I am dying. To know that one's self will exist no more, not even in a future life. And it would be so easy for you!"
A note of cunning, like an old man hatching schemes to outwit hard youth.
"Matter, I would tell you how to repair your time-mechanism so that you could control your forward flight."
"No sale!" snapped Bill.
"You could stop at whatever point on the newly created Earth you chose. Think of it! I offer you variety, when there might well be monotony!"
"We'll get along," said Bill wearily. "You haven't even got your foot in the door."
Molly tugged imploringly at his arm. "Bill, you might really like it better in the long run. I wish—"
The Voice roared in with new energy, now that it was being backed up.
"Yes!" it roared. "Your mate—your mate—ah!"
Silence, seething with unuttered thought, as if that dying mind were skittering about the ship, exploring, discovering great wonders with its strange senses. The feeling of privacy being invaded was so strong with Bill that he broke loose.