J nodded. «You do as you damn well think best, boy. Don't let that bloody old boffin get to you. He really can't help it, you know. He doesn't mean to be insensitive or inhuman-he just is! He is a scientist, not really a person.»

Blade had to chuckle. «Oh, come now, J. He really isn't all that bad.»

J very seldom used bad language. Now he said, «The hell he isn't. But as I say-he can't help it. Well, lad, this is the last time out.»

«I hope so,» Blade said. «I sincerely hope so, sir.»

And he did. He had had quite enough. Yet he knew that if there was a reason for more ventures, if duty called him, if his country needed him, he would go. He did not foresee the possibility, and never had he more devoutly wished that a circumstance would not arise. He had had it up to his neck with Dimension X. He knew now what a bomber pilot must feel like before embarking on his last mission before going home.

J, his pipe steaming, had picked up a ruler and was tapping it on his palm. «You've been worried about your mind, eh?»

«A little, sir.»

J would never understand that, either. The nightmare of black sweat and screaming, the pitiless alcoholism, the raging drive of satyriasis, the double and triple vision and loss of memory, the old friends offended and the girls lost because he could not explain. The Official Secrets Act that bound him like a net.

And the blackouts, the terrible and frightening blackouts. He had wakened once in Liverpool with some doxy by his side and absolutely no recollection of the events of the week before. True, he had sought help and it had been given by J and Lord L and the most famous specialists in England-but it was not enough. There were times when a million famous doctors could not have helped him.

J said, «Lord L has always assured me that the machine restructures the brain cells, but it does not cause them to deteriorate.»

«I know.»