"Thanks," he said without meaning it. Tickler took the printouts to an adjacent room and set to work. Spence watched the back of his head as he weaved over the printouts and then left the lab.

Spence made his way down to Central Park-the vast circular expanse of tropical plants and trees grown to help recycle the carbon dioxide of Gotham's fifteen thousand inhabitants. The park formed a living green belt around the entire station and provided a natural setting for relaxation and recreation. The place was usually crowded, though quiet, with people seeking refuge from the tyranny of duralum-and-plastic interiors. He had nothing else in mind other than to lose himself among the ferns and shrubbery and let the day go.

His first thought upon reaching the garden level was that he had discovered a fine time to come-the section was virtually empty. He saw only a few strolling couples and a handful of administrative types sitting on benches. He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was warm and moist, reeking of soil and roots, vegetation and water: artificially controlled, he knew, but he could not help thinking that this was exactly as it would be back on Earth.

He walked aimlessly along the narrow winding paths looking for a private spot to stretch out and meditate upon the state of his being, to think about the dreams and try to get a hold on himself. He was not afraid of "going mental"-a term they used to describe a person cracking under space fatigue-although that was something everyone eventually had to face; he knew that wasn't it. But he also knew he was not feeling right and that bothered him. Something on the dim edges of his consciousness was gnawing away at the fibers of his mind. If he could figure out what it was, expose it, then he would be able to deal with it.

Presently he came upon a secluded spot. He stood for a moment deciding whether to stay or look further. With a shrug he parted the ferns and stepped into the semi-darkness of the quiet glade.