The dizzying heat, the mosquitoes trying to nibble at his neck and the rum must have triggered some hidden mechanism inside John Leight, because all of a sudden he chuckled and said the most ridiculous thing.

“Last night I dreamt Agatha tore my fingers off.”

Richard, who had been babbling animatedly now grew quiet.

“There was a man who had nightmares such as yours. He dreamt of Agatha Regant and fell gravely ill. He is dead. His cousin, Madeline Locke, swears Agatha is a witch.”

The day Mary turned Daniel on, they were sitting under the apple tree. She had chosen this spot in the garden because it was the last place, perhaps the only place, that she could remember being happy with him. The trial had been over for six weeks. He had been sent to her days ago, but she had put this moment off, knowing that she needed more time to heal and to adjust to the idea of having him home again.

Dr. Henderson’s continued absence was peculiar. The man was in love with the alien in vault sixty-two and the second anniversary of its capture was approaching.

Sixty-two was the only thing I could remember arousing Henderson’s passion in the three years I'd worked here. Ever since its craft was found in the middle of the Gobi desert, Henderson had made it a special case. The fool had even petitioned to have it released into his custody for a weekend in Las Vegas during some science fiction convention.

If the powers that be had granted that petition, Henderson would have come back with a marriage certificate.