"What is it?" Lynne inquired.
"It's a Martian device—supposed to get impressions from the minds of dying men. It was used in the early days when we had more crime." There was sudden listlessness in her manner.
Lynne read her thoughts all too plainly. Lao Mei-O'Connell was stunned with grief. No one, it seemed, had ever survived treatment with this machine—survived to sanity at any rate. So Revere was dead—or as good as dead.
Lynne looked blankly at the Eurasian woman, utterly unable to think under the sudden shock of her words. And then, out of nowhere, came the fragment of a thought. Don't give up the space-ship, Lynne—tell Lao I'm not completely batty yet.
It was Revere—unquestionably. Lynne tried to get him again but the blank wall was back. Only now, for some reason, it didn't seem so terrifying. She looked at Lao, who said, "You got something just now, Lynne. Was it...?"
Lynne nodded. "It was Revere. He—he asked me to tell you he's okay—not completely batty yet was the way he put it."
For a moment doubt blanked Lao's face. Then she smiled and looked on the verge of passing out herself. She said, "I might not have believed you, Lynne. But that phrase—it's—well, it's the way he would have said it."
"It was Revere," Lynne repeated. She looked at the chronometer above the door of the room, realized it was getting late. "I've barely got time to eat dinner," she said. "I don't want to miss my shift."
"No, you don't," the other told her. "There might be a message."
"Why not share it with me?" Lynne offered. "I could use some company."