A quarter to twenty-one. A white northern night. Everything was glass⁠—greenish. But it was a different kind of glass, not like ours, not genuine but very breakable⁠—a thin glass shell and within that shell things were flying, whirling, buzzing. I should not have been surprised if suddenly the cupola of the auditorium had risen in slow, rolling clouds of smoke; or if the ripe moon had sent an inky smile⁠—like that one at the little table this morning; or if in all the houses suddenly all the curtains had been lowered and behind the curtains.⁠ ⁠…

I felt something peculiar; my ribs were like iron bars that interfered, decidedly interfered, with my heart, giving it too little space. I stood at a glass door on which were the golden letters I-330 ; I-330 sat at the table with her back to me; she was writing something. I stepped in.

“Here.⁠ ⁠…” I held out the pink check, “… I received the notification this noon and here I am!”