TheGoblinReservation

WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE,ESQ.

TheGoblinReservation

CliffordD.SimakInspectorDraytonsat,solidlyplantedbehindthedesk,andwaited.Hewas

a rawbonedmanwitha face that lookedas if itmighthavebeenhacked,byadullhatchet,outofablockofgnarledwood.Hiseyeswerepointsofflintandattimestheyseemedtoglitter,andhewasangryandupset.Butsuchaman,PeterMaxwellknew,wouldnevergivewaytoanykindofanger.Therewas,behindthatanger,abulldogqualitythatwouldgoploddingon,undisturbedbyanger.

And thiswas just the situation,Maxwell told himself, that he had hopedwouldnotcomeabout.Although,asnowwasevident,ithadbeentoomuchtohope.Hehadknown,ofcourse,thathisfailuretoarriveathisproperdestination,somesixweeksbefore,wouldhavecreatedsomeconsternationbackhereontheEarth; thethoughtthathemightbeabletosliphomeunobservedhadnotbeenrealistic.Andnowherehewas,facingthismanacrossthedeskandhe’dhavetotakeiteasy.

Hesaidtothemanbehindthedesk:“Idon’tbelieveIentirelyunderstandwhy my return to Earth should be a matter for Security. My name is PeterMaxwell and I’m a member of the faculty of the College of SupernaturalPhenomenaonWisconsinCampus.Youhaveseenmypapers…”

“Iamquitesatisfied,”saidDrayton,“astowhoyouare.Puzzled,perhaps,but entirely satisfied. It’s something else that bothers me. Would you mind,ProfessorMaxwell,tellingmeexactlywhereyou’vebeen?”

“There’snotverymuchthatIcantellyou,”PeterMaxwellsaid.“Iwasonaplanet,butIdon’tknowitsnameoritscoordinates.Itmaybecloserthanalight-yearoroutbeyondtheRim?’

“In any event,” said Drayton, “you did not arrive at the destination youindicatedonyourtravelticket.”

“Ididnot,”saidMaxwell.“Canyouexplainwhathappened?”“Icanonlyguess.Ihadthoughtthatperhapsmywavepatternwasdiverted,

perhaps intercepted and diverted.At first I thought there had been transmittererror,butthatseemsimpossible.Thetransmittershavebeeninuseforhundredsofyears.Allthebugsshouldhavebeenironedoutofthembynow.”

“Youmeanthatyouwerekidnapped?”

“Ifyouwanttoputitthatway.”“Andstillwilltellmenothing?”“Ihaveexplainedthere’snotmuchtotell.”“CouldthisplanethaveanythingtodowiththeWheelers?”Maxwellshookhishead“Icouldn’tsayforsure,butIdon’tbelieveitdid.

Certainly there were none of them around. There was no indication they hadanythingtodowithit.”

“ProfessorMaxwell,haveyoueverseenaWheeler?”“Once. Several years ago.One of them spent amonth or two at Time. I

caughtsightofitoneday.”“SoyouwouldknowaWheeler,ifyousawone?”“Yes,indeed,”saidMaxwell.“IseeyoustartedoutforoneoftheplanetsintheCoonskinsystem.”“Therewastherumorofadragon,”Maxwelltoldhim.“Notsubstantiated.

In fact, the evidence was quite sketchy. But I decided it might be worthinvestigating…”

Draytoncockedaneyebrow.“Adragon?”hedemanded.“I suppose,” saidMaxwell, “that itmaybe hard for someone outsidemy

fieldtograsptheimportanceofadragon.Butthefactofthematteristhatthereis no scrap of evidence to suggest such a creature at any time existed. ThisdespitethefactthatthedragonlegendissolidlyembeddedinthefolkloreoftheEarthandsomeoftheotherplanets.Fairies,goblins,trolls,banshees-wehaveallofthese,intheactualflesh,butnotraceofadragon.ThefunnythingaboutitisthatthelegendhereonEarthisnotbasicallyahumanlegend.TheLittleFolk,aswell, have thedragon legend. I sometimes think theymayhavebeen theoneswhotransmittedittous.Butthelegendonly.Thereisnoevidence…”

Hestopped,feelingalittlesilly.Whatcouldthisstolidpolicemanwhosatacrossthedeskcareaboutthedragonlegend?

“I’msorry,Inspector,”hesaid.“Iletmyenthusiasmforafavoritesubjectrunawaywithme.”

“Ihavehearditsaidthatthedragonlegendmighthaverisenfromancestralmemoriesofthedinosaur.”

“I have heard it, too,” said Maxwell, “but it seems impossible. Thedinosaurswereextinctlongbeforemankindhadevolved.”

“ThentheLittleFolk…”“Possibly,”saidMaxwell,“butitseemsunlikely.IknowtheLittleFolkand

have talkedwith themabout it.Theyareancient, certainlymuchmoreancientthanwehumans,butthereisnoindicationtheygobackthatfar.Oriftheydo,theyhavenomemoryofit.AndIwouldthinkthattheir legendsandfolktales

wouldeasilycarryoversomemillionsofyears.Theyareextremelylong-lived,notquiteimmortal,butalmost,andinasituationsuchasthat,mouth-to-mouthtraditionwouldbemostpersistent.”

Draytongestured,brushingawaythedragonsandtheLittleFolk.“YoustartedfortheCoonskin,”hesaid,“andyoudidn’tgetthere.”“Thatisright.Therewasthisotherplanet.Aroofed-in,crystalplanet.”“Crystal?”“Somesortofstone.Quartz,perhaps.AlthoughIcan’tbesure.Itcouldbe

metal.Therewassomemetalthere.”Drayton asked smoothly. “You wouldn’t have known, when you started

out,thatyou’dwinduponthisplanet?”“Ifit’scollusionyouhaveinmind,”saidMaxwell,“you’reveryfarafield.I

wasquitesurprised.Butitseemsyouaren’t.Youwerewaitinghereforme.”“Notparticularlysurprised,”saidDrayton.“Ithashappenedtwicebefore.”“Thenyouprobablyknowabouttheplanet.”“Nothing about it,” saidDrayton. “Simply that there’s a planet out there

somewhere, operating an unregistered transmitter and receiver, andcommunicating by an unlisted signal. When the operator here at WisconsinStationpickeduptheirsignalfortransmittal,hesignaledthemtowait, thatthereceiversallwerebusy.Thengotintouchwithme.”

“Theothertwo?”“Bothofthemrighthere.BothtabbedforWisconsinStation.”“Butiftheygotback…”“That’s the thing,”saidDrayton.“Theydidn’t.Oh, Iguessyoucouldsay

they did, butwe couldn’t talkwith them.Thewave pattern turned out faulty.Theywere put back together wrong. Theywere allmessed up. Both of themwerealiens,butsotangledupwehadahardtimelearningwhotheymighthavebeen.We’restillnotpositive.”

“Dead?”“Dead?Certainly.Aratherfrightfulbusiness.You’realuckyman.”Maxwell, with some difficulty, suppressed a shudder. “Yes, I suppose I

am,”hesaid.“You’dthink,”saidDrayton,“thatanyonewhomessedaroundwithmatter

transmissionwouldmake sure they knewhow itwas done.There’s no tellinghowmany they may have picked up who came out wrong in their receivingstation.”

“But youwould know,”Maxwell pointed out. “You’d know if there hadbeenanylosses.Astationwouldreportbackimmediatelyifatravelerfailedtoarriveonschedule.”

“That’s the funny thingabout it,”Drayton toldhim.“Therehavebeennolosses.We’re pretty sure the two alienswho cameback dead to us gotwheretheyweregoing,forthere’snoonemissing.”

“ButIstartedoutforCoonskin.Surelytheyreported…”Thenhestoppedasthethoughtstruckhimstraightbetweentheeyes.Draytonnoddedslowly.“Ithoughtyouwouldcatchon.PeterMaxwellgot

totheCoonskinsystemandcamebacktoEarthalmostamonthago.”“Theremustbesomemistake,”Maxwellprotestedweakly.For itwasunthinkable that thereshouldbe twoofhim, thatanotherPeter

Maxwell,identicalinalldetails,existedontheEarth.“Nomistake,” saidDrayton. “Not thewaywehave it figured.This other

planetdoesn’tdivertthepattern.Whatitdoesiscopyit.”“Thentherecouldbetwoofme!Therecouldbe…”“Notanymore,”saidDrayton.“You’retheonlyone.Aboutaweekafterhe

returned,therewasanaccident.PeterMaxwell’sdead.”Around the corner from the tiny room where he’d met with Drayton,

Maxwell found a vacant row of seats and sat down in one of them, rathercarefully,placinghissinglepieceofluggageonthefloorbesidehim.

Itwas incredible, he told himself. Incredible that there should have beentwo PeteMaxwells and now one of thoseMaxwells dead. Incredible that thecrystalplanetcouldhavehadequipmentthatwouldreachoutandcopyawavepattern traveling faster than the speed of light-much faster than the speed oflight, foratnopoint in thegalaxyso far linkedby thematter transmitterswasthereanynoticeablelagbetweenthetimeoftransmittalandarrival.Diversion-yes, perhaps there could be diversion, a reaching out and a snatching of thepattern,butthetaskofcopyingsuchapatternwouldbesomethingelseentirely.

Two incredibles, he thought. Two things that should not have happened.Althoughifoneofthemhadhappened,theothersurelyfollowed.Ifthepatternhadbeencopied,therewould,quitenecessarily,havebeentwoofhim,theonewhowenttotheCoonskinsystemandtheotherwho’dgonetothecrystalplanet.But if thisotherPeterMaxwellhadreallygonetoCoonskin,heshouldstillbethereoronlynowreturning.Hehadplannedasixweeks’stayatleast,longerifmoretimeseemednecessarytorundownthedragonbusiness.

Hefoundthathishandswereshakingand,ashamedofthis,heclaspedthemhardtogetherandheldtheminhislap.

Hecouldn’tgotopieces,hetoldhimself.Nomatterwhatmightbefacinghim,hehadtoseeitthrough.Andtherewasnoevidence,nosolidevidence.AllthathehadwaswhatamemberofSecurityhadtoldhimandhecouldn’tcountonthat.Itcouldbenomorethanaclumsypieceofpolicetrickerydesignedto

shake him into talking. Although it could have happened. It just could havehappened!

Butevenifithadhappened,hestillhadtoseeitthrough.Forhehadajobtodoandonehemustnotbungle.

Nowthejobmightbemadetheharderbysomeonewatchinghim,althoughhecouldnotbesurethere’dbesomeonewatching.Itmightnot,hetoldhimself,make any difference. His hardest job, he realized, would be to get anappointmentwithAndrewArnold.Thepresidentofaplanetaryuniversitywouldnotbeaneasymantosee.Hewouldhavemorewithwhichtoconcernhimselfthan listening towhat an associate professor had to say. Especiallywhen thatprofessorcouldnotspelloutinadvancedetailwhathewishedtotalkabout.

Hishandshadstoppedthetrembling,buthestillkeptthemtightlyclasped.Injustalittlewhilehe’dgetoutofhereandgodowntotheroadway,wherehe’dfindhimselfaseatononeoftheinner,fasterbelts.Inanhourorsohe’dbebackontheoldhomecampusandthenhe’dsoonfindoutifwhatDraytonsaidwastrue. And he’d be back with friends again-with Alley Oop and Ghost, withHarlow Sharp and Allen Preston and all the rest of them. There’d be rowdymidnightdrinkingboutsat thePigandWhistleandlong,slowwalksalongtheshadedmallsandcanoeingonthelake.There’dbediscussionandargumentandthetellingofoldtales,andtheleisurelyacademicroutinethatgaveonetimetolive.

Hefoundhimselflookingforwardtothetrip,fortheroadwayranalongthehillsofGoblinReservation.Not that therewereonlygoblins there; thereweremanyotheroftheLittleFolkandtheyallwerefriendsofhis-oratleastmostofthemwere friends. Trolls at times could be exasperating and it was rough tobuildupanyrealandlastingfriendshipwithacreaturelikeabanshee.

Thistimeofyear,hethought,thehillswouldbebeautiful.Ithadbeenlatesummerwhenhe’dleftfortheCoonskinsystemandthehillsstillhadworntheirmantleofdarkgreen,butnow,inthemiddleofOctober,theywouldhaveburstintothefullcoloroftheirautumndress.There’dbethewinyredofoakandthebrilliantredandyellowofthemaplesandhereandtheretheflamingscarletofcreepingvineswouldrunlikeathreadthroughalltheothercolors.Andtheairwouldsmelllikecider,thatstrange,intoxicatingscentthatcameuponthewoodsonlywiththedyingoftheleaves.

Hesatthere,thinkingofthetime,justtwosummerspast,whenheandMr.O’Toole had gone on a canoe trip up the river, into the northern wilderness,hoping that somewhere along the way theymight make some sort of contactwith the spirits recorded in the oldOjibway legends. They had floated on theglass-clear waters and built their fires at night on the edges of the dark pine

forests;theyhadcaughttheirfishforsupperandhunteddownthewildflowershiddenintheforestgladesandspiedonmanyanimalsandbirdsandhadagoodvacation. But they had seen no spirits, which was not surprising. Very fewcontacts had beenmadewith theLittle Folk ofNorthAmerica, for theyweretrulycreaturesofthewilds,unlikethesemicivilized,human-accustomedspritesofEurope.

ThechairinwhichhesatfacedthewestandthroughthetoweringwallsofglasshecouldseeacrosstherivertothebluffsthatrosealongtheborderoftheancientstateofIowa-great,darkpurplemassesrimmedbyapaleblueautumnsky.AtoponeofthebluffshecouldmakeoutthelighterbulkoftheCollegeofThaumaturgy, staffed in large part by the octopoid creatures from Centaurus.Looking at those faint outlines of the buildings, he recalled that he had oftenpromisedhimselfhe’dattendoneof theirsummerseminars,buthadnevergotaroundtodoingit.

Hereachedoutandshiftedhisluggage,preparingtogetup,buthestayedonsitting there.Hestillwasa little shortofbreathandhis legsseemedweak.WhatDraytonhadtoldhim,herealized,hadhithimharder thanhe’d thought,and stillwas hitting him in a series of delayed reactions.He’dhave to take iteasy, he told himself. He couldn’t get the wind up. It might not be true; itprobablywasn’ttrue.Therewasnosenseingettingtooconcernedaboutituntilhe’dhadthechancetofindoutforhimself.

Slowly he got to his feet and reached down to pick up his luggage, buthesitatedforamomenttoplungeintothehurriedconfusionofthewaitingroom.People-alienandhuman-werehurryingpurposefullyorstoodaboutinlittleknotsandclusters.Anold,white-beardedman,dressedinstatelyblack-aprofessorbythelooksofhim,thoughtMaxwell-wassurroundedbyagroupofstudentswhohad to come to see him off. A family of reptilians sprawled in a group ofloungers set aside for people such as they, not equipped for sitting. The twoadultslayquietly,facingoneanotherandtalkingsoftly,withmuchofthehissingovertones thatmarked reptilian speech,while theyoungsters crawledover andunder the loungers and sprawled on the floor in play. In one corner of a tinyalcoveabeer-barrelcreature,lyingonitsside,rolledgentlybackandforth,fromonewalltotheother,rollingbackandforthinthesamespirit,andperhapsforthe same purpose, a man would pace the floor. Two spidery creatures, theirbodies more like grotesque matchstick creations than honest flesh and blood,squattedfacingoneanother.Theyhadmarkedoffuponthefloor,withapieceofchalk,somesortofcrudegameboardandhadplacedaboutuponitanumberofstrangely shaped pieces,which theyweremoving rapidly about, squeaking inexcitementasthegamedeveloped.

Wheelers?Draytonhadasked.Wasthereanytie-upwiththecrystalplanetandtheWheelers?

It always was the Wheelers, thought Maxwell. An obsession with theWheelers.Andperhapswith reason,althoughonecouldnotbe sure.For therewas little known of them. They loomed darkly, far in space, another greatculturalgrouppushingoutacrossthegalaxy,comingintoraggedcontactalongafar-flungfrontierlinewiththepushinghumanculture.

Standing there, he recalled that first and only time he had ever seen aWheeler-astudentwhohadcomefromtheCollegeofComparativeAnatomyinRiodeJaneiroforatwo-weekseminaratTimeCollege.WisconsinCampus,heremembered,hadbeenquietlyagogandtherehadbeenalotoftalkaboutit,butverylittleopportunity,apparently,togainaglimpseofthefabledcreaturesinceit stayedcloselywithin the seminarconfines.Hehadmet it, trundlingalongacorridor,whenhe’dgoneacrossthemalltohavelunchwithHarlowSharp,andherecalledthathe’dbeenshocked.

It had been the wheels, he told himself. No other creature in the knowngalaxy came equipped with wheels. It had been a pudgy creature, a rolypolysuspended between two wheels, the hubs of which projected from its bodysomewhere near its middle. The wheels were encased in fur and the rims ofthem,he saw,werehornycalluses.Thedownwardbulgeof the rolypolybodysaggedbeneaththeaxleofthewheelslikeabulgingsack.Buttheworstofit,hesaw when he came nearer, was that this sagging portion of the body wastransparentandfilledwithamassofwrithingthingswhichmadeonethinkofapailofgailycoloredworms.

Andthosewrithingobjectsinthatobsceneandobesebelly,Maxwellknew,were, ifnotworms,at leastsomekindof insect,ora formof lifewhichcouldequate with that form of life on Earth which men knew as insects. For theWheelers were a hive mechanism, a culture made up of many such hivemechanisms, a population of colonies of insects, or at least the equivalent ofinsects.

Andwithapopulationofthatsort,thetalesofterrorwhichcamefromthefarand rough frontierabout theWheelerswerenothard tounderstand.And ifthese horror tales were true, thenman here faced, for the first time since hisdriveoutintospace,thathypotheticalenemywhichitalwayshadbeenpresumedwouldbemetsomewhereinspace.

Throughout the galaxy man had met many other strange and, at times,fearsomecreatures,butnone,thoughtMaxwell,couldmatchfearsomenesswithacreature thatwasawheel-drivenhiveof insects.Therewassomethingaboutthewholeideathatmadeonewanttogag.

TodayoutlandishcreaturesflockedtotheEarthinthousands,toattendthemanycolleges, to staff the faculties thatmadeup thatgreatgalacticuniversitywhich had taken over Earth. And in time, perhaps, thought Maxwell, theWheelersmightbeaddedtothisgalacticpopulationwhichswarmedthecollegesofEarth-ifonly therecouldbesomekindofunderstandingcontact.But so fartherehadn’tbeen.

Whywas it,Maxwellwondered, that the very idea of theWheelerswentagainst thegrain,whenmanandall theothercreatures in thegalaxycontactedbythehumanshadlearnedtolivewithoneanother?

Here, in this waiting room, one could see a cross section of them-thehoppers,thecreepers,thecrawlers,thewrigglers,androllersthatcamefromthemany planets, from so many stars. Earth was the galactic melting pot, hethought,aplacewherebeingsfromthethousandstarsmetandmingledtosharetheirthoughtsandcultures.

“NumberFive-six-nine-two,”shrilledtheloudspeaker.“Passenger Number Five-six-nine-two, your departure time is only five

minutes from now. Cubical Thirty-seven. Passenger Five-six-nine-two, pleasereportimmediatelytoCubicalThirty-seven.”

Andwhere,Maxwellwondered,mightNo.5692bebound?TothejunglesofHeadacheNo. 2, to the grim,windswept glacial cities ofMisery IV, to thedesertplanetsof theSlaughterSuns,or toanyof theotherof the thousandsofplanets,alllessthanaheartbeatawayfromthisveryspotwherehestood,nowlinked by the transmitter system, but representing in the past long years ofexploratoryeffortasdiscoveryshipsbeatthroughthedarkofeverlastingspace.As theywere beating out there evennow, slowly andpainfully expanding theperimeterofman’sknownuniverse.

The sound of the waiting room boomed and muttered, with the franticpagingoflateormissingpassengers,withthehollowbuzzofahundreddifferenttonguesspokeninathousanddifferentthroats,withtheshufflingortheclickingortheclopoffeetacrossthefloor.

Hereacheddown,pickeduphisluggage,andturnedtowardtheentrance.After no more than three steps, he was halted to make way for a truck

carryingatankfilledwithamurkyliquid.Throughthecloudinessoftheliquid,becaughtasuggestionoftheoutrageousshapethatlurkedwithinthetank-somecreature fromoneof the liquidplanets,perhaps,andonewhere the liquidwasnotwater.Here,morethanlikely,asavisitingprofessor,perhapstooneofthecollegesofphilosophy,ormaybeoneofthescienceinstitutes.

Thetruckanditstankoutoftheway,hewentonandreachedtheentrance,steppedthroughtheopeningontothebeautifullypavedandterracedesplanade,

alongthebottomofwhichrantheroadwaybelts.Hewasgratifiedtonoticethattherewerenowaitinglines,asoftenwasthecase.

Hedrewadeepbreathofair intohis lungs-clean,pureairwith the sharptangoffrostyautumninit.Itwasawelcomethingaftertheweeksofdeadandmustyairuponthecrystalplanet.

He turned to go down the steps and as he did he saw the signboard justbeyondthegatetotheroadwaybelts.ThesignwaslargeandtheletteringwasinOldEnglish,screamingwithsoliddignity:

WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE,ESQ.OfStratford-on-Avon,England“HowItHappenedIDidNotWriteThePlays”UnderthesponsorshipofTimeCollegeOct22,8P.M.TimeMuseumAuditorium

Ticketsavailableatallagencies

“Maxwell,” someone shouted and he swung around.Amanwas runningfromtheentrance,towardhim.

Maxwell put down his luggage, half-raised his hand in greeting andacknowledgment, then slowly dropped it, for he realized that he did notrecognizetheman.

Themanslowedtoatrot,thenarapidwalk.“ProfessorMaxwell, isn’t it?”heaskedashecameup.“I’msure I’mnot

mistaken.”Maxwellnoddedstiffly,justabitembarrassed.“MontyChurchill,”saidtheman,thrustingouthishand.“Wemet,ayearor

soago.AtoneofNancyClayton’sbashes.”“Howareyou,Churchill?”Maxwellasked,alittlefrostily.For now he did recognize the man, the name at least if not the face. A

lawyer,hesupposed,buthewasn’tsure.Doingbusiness,ifherecalledcorrectly,asapublicrelationsman,afixer.Oneofthattribethathandledthingsforclients,foranyonewhocouldputupafee.

“Why, I’m fine,” said Churchill happily. “Just back from a trip. A shortone.Butit’sgoodtobebackagain.There’snothingquitelikehome.That’swhyIyelledoutatyou.FirstfamiliarfaceI’veseenforseveralweeks.”

“I’mgladyoudid,”saidMaxwell.“Yougoingbacktothecampus?”“Yes.Iwasheadingfortheroadway.”“Noneedofthat,”saidChurchill.“Ihavemyflierhere.Parkedonthestrip

outback.There’sroomforbothofus.Getthereagooddealfaster.”Maxwell hesitated. He didn’t like the man, but what Churchill said was

true;theywouldgettherefaster.Andhewasanxioustogetbackasquicklyashecould,fortherewerethingsthatneededcheckingout.

“That’sverykindofyou,”hesaid.“Ifyou’resureyouhavetheroom.”Themotorsputteredandwentdead.Thejetshummedforasecondandthen

fellsilent.Theairsighedshrillyagainstthemetalhide.Maxwellglancedswiftlyatthemanbesidehim.Churchillsatstiff-perhaps

in fear, perhaps only in astonishment. For evenMaxwell realized that a thinglikethisshouldnothavehappened-was, infact,unthinkable.Flierssuchas theoneinwhichtheyrodewereregardedasfoolproof.

Below them lay the jagged rocks of the craggy cliffs, the spearlike,upthrustingbranchesoftheforestcoveringthehills,clingingtotherocks.Tothelefttheriverran,asilverribbonthroughthewoodedbottomlands.

Time seemed to drag, to lengthen out, as if by some strangemagic each

second had become aminute.Andwith the lengthening of time came a quietawarenessofwhatwasabouttohappen,asifitmightbehappeningtosomeoneelse, Maxwell told himself, and not to him, a factual and dispassionateassessmentof thesituationbyanobserverwhowasnot involved.Andevenasheknewthis,healsoknew,inadim,farcornerofhismind,panicwouldcomelater andwhen that came timewould take up its usual pace again as the flierrusheddowntomeettheforestandtherock.

Leaningforward,hescannedtheterrainthatstretchedahead,andashedidhecaughtsightof the tinyopening in theforest,a rift in thedarkranksof thetreesandthehintofgreenbeneath.

He nudged Churchill, pointing. Churchill, looking where he pointed,noddedandmovedthewheel,slowly,carefully,tentatively,asifhewerefeelingforsomeresponseofthecraft,tryingtodetermineifitwouldrespond.

The flier tilted slightly, wheeled and swung, still falling slowly, butjockeyingforposition.Foramomentitseemedtobalkatthecontrols,thenslidsidewise,losingaltitudemorerapidly,butglidingdowntowardtheriftbetweenthetrees.

Now the trees rushed upward at them and, close above them, Maxwellcouldseetheautumncolorofthem-nolongersimplydark,butamassofredandgoldandbrown.Long,slenderspearsofredreacheduptostab them,clawlikehandsofgoldgraspedatthemwithanangryclutch.

The plane brushed the topmost branches of an oak, seemed to hesitate,almosttohangthereinmidair,thenwasglidingin,mushingtowardalandingonthesmallgreenswardthatlaywithintheforest.

Afairygreen,Maxwelltoldhimself-adancingplaceforfairies,butnowalandingfield.

Heswitchedhisheadsidewiseforasecond,sawChurchillcrouchedatthecontrols,thenswitchedbackagainandwatchedthegreencomeup.

Itshouldbesmooth,hetoldhimself.Thereshouldbenobumpsorholesorhummocks, forat the time thegreenhadbeen laiddown, theblueprintswouldhavecalledforsmoothness.

Thecrafthit andbouncedand fora terrifyingmoment teetered in theair.Thenitwasdownagainandrunningsmoothlyonthegreen.Thetreesatthefarendofthegrasswererushingatthem,cominguptoofast.

“Hangon!”Churchillshoutedandevenasheshouted,theplaneswungandpivoted,skidding.Itcametorestadozenfeetfromthewoodsthatrimmedthegreen.

Theysat indeadlysilence,asilencethatseemedtobeclosinginonthemfromthecoloredforestandtherockybluffs.

Churchillspokeoutofthesilence.“Thatwasclose,”hesaid.HereachedupandslidbackthecanopyandgotoutMaxwellfollowedhim.“I can’t understand what happened,” Churchill said. “This job has more

fail-safecircuitrybuiltintoitthanyoucanwellimagine.Hitbylightning,sure;runintoamountain,yes,youcandothat;getcaughtinturbulenceandbouncedaround,allofthiscouldhappen,butthemotorneverquits.Theonlywaytostopitistoturnitoff.”

Heliftedhisarmandmoppedhisbrowwithhisshirtsleeve.“Didyouknowaboutthisplace?”heasked.Maxwellshookhishead.“Notthisparticularplace.Iknewthereweresuch

places.When the reservationwas laid out and landscaped, the planning calledfor greens. Places where the fairies dance, you know. I wasn’t looking foranything,exactly,butwhen I saw theopening in the trees, Icouldguesswhatmightbedownhere.”

“Whenyoushowedittome,”saidChurchill,“Ijusthopedyouknewwhatyou were doing. There seemed to be no place else to go, so I did somegambling…”

Maxwellraisedhishandtosilencehim.“Whatwasthat?”heasked.“Soundslikeahorse,”saidChurchill.“Whointheworldwouldbeouthere

withahorse?Itcomesfromupthatway.”Theclatteringandthecloppingwascomingcloser.Theysteppedaroundtheflierandwhentheydid,theysawthetrailthatled

uptoasharpandnarrowridge,withthemassivebulkofaruinedcastleperchedatoptheridge.

Thehorsewascomingdownthetrailatasloppygallop.Bestridingitwasasmall anddumpy figure that bouncedmost amazinglywith eachmotionof itsmount.Itwasafarfromgracefulrider,withitselbowsthrustoutoneithersideofit,flappinglikeapairofwings.

Thehorsecametearingdowntheslopeandswungoutonthegreen.Itwasnomoregracefulthanitsrider,butashaggyplowhorse,anditsmightyhoofs,beatinglikegreathammers,toreupclodsofturfandflungthemfarbehindit.Itcamestraightat theflier,almostasif intentonrunningoverit, thenat thelastmomentwheeledclumsilyandcametoashudderinghalt,tostandwithitssidesheavinginandoutlikebellows,andsnortingthroughitsflabbynostrils.

Itsriderslidawkwardlyoffitsbackandwhenhehittheground,explodedinagustofwrath.

“Itisthemno-goodbummers!”heshouted.“Itisthemlousytrolls.I’vetoldthem and I’ve told them to leave them broomsticks be. But no, theywill notlisten.Theyalwaysmakethejoke.Theyputenchantmentonthem.”

“Mr.O’Toole,”Maxwellshouted.“Yourememberme?”Thegoblinswungaroundandsquintedathimwithred-filmed,nearsighted

eyes.“Theprofessor!”hescreamed.“Thegoodfriendofallofus.Oh,whatan

awfulshame!Itellyou,Professor,thehidesofthemtrollsIshallnailuponthedoorandpintheirearsontrees.”

“Enchantment?”Churchillasked.“Doyousayenchantment?”“Whatotherwoulditbe?”Mr.O’Toolefumed.“Whatelsewouldbringa

broomstickdownoutofthesky?”HeambledclosertoMaxwellandpeeredanxiouslyathim.“Canitbereally

you?”heasked,with somesolicitude. “In thehonest flesh?Wehadword thatyouhaddied.Wesentthewreathofmistletoeandhollytoexpressourdeepestgrief.”

“It is I, most truly,” saidMaxwell, slipping easily into the idiom of theLittleFolk.“Youheardrumoronly.”

“Then for sheer joy,” cried Mr. O’Toole, “we three shall down greattankardsofOctoberale.ThenewbatchisreadyfortherunningoffandIinviteyougentlemenmostcordiallytosharethefirstofitwithme.”

Othergoblins,ahalfdozenof them,wererunningdownthepathandMr.O’Toolewavedlustilytohurrythemalong.

“Always late,” he lamented. “Never on the ball.Always showing up, butalways somewhat slightly late. Good boys, all of them, with hearts correctlyplaced,butlackingthealertnessthatisthehallmarkoftruegoblinssuchasI.”

The goblins came loping and panting down onto the green, rangedthemselvesexpectantlyinfrontofMr.O’Toole.

“Ihavejobsforyou,”hetoldthem.“Firstyougodowntothebridgeandyou tell them trolls nomore enchantments they shallmake.They are to ceaseanddesistentirely.Tellthemthisistheironelastchance.Iftheydosuchthingsagainthatbridgeweshalltearapart,stonebymossystone,andthosestonesweshallscatterfarandwide,sothereneverisachanceofupbuildingthatbridgeyetagain.And theyare touplift theenchantment fromthis fallenbroomstickso itfliesasgoodasnew.

“AndsomeothersofyouIwanttoseekthefairiesoutandexplaintothemthedefacementof their green, being sure to lay all blame for suchupon themdirtytrollsandpromisingtheturfshallbeallfixedsmoothandlovelyfortheirnextdancingwhenthemoonbefull.

“AndyetanotherofyoumusttakecareofDobbin,makingsurehisclumsyself does no more damage to the green, but letting him crop, perchance, amouthfulortwoofthelongergrassifitcanbefound.Thepoorbeastdoesnot

oftengetthechancetoregalehimselfwithpasturagesuchasthis.”He turned back toMaxwell and Churchill, dusting his hands together in

symbolismofajobwelldone.“Andnow,gentlemen,”besaid,“youpleasetoclimbthehillwithmeand

wewillessaywhatcanbedonewithsweetOctoberale.Ibegyou,however,togoslowly inverypityofme, since thispaunchofmineseemsgrown largeoflateandIsuffermostexceedinglyfromtheshortnessofthebreath.”

“Leadon,oldfriend,”saidMaxwell.“Weshallmatchourstepswithyoursmostwillingly.IthasbeentoolongsincewehavequaffedOctoberaletogether.”

“Yes,byallmeans,”saidChurchill,somewhatweakly.Theystartedupthepath.Before them, loomingon the ridge, the ruinedcastle stoodgaunt againstthepalenessofthesky.

“Imustbeforehandapologize,”saidMr.O’Toole,“fortheconditionofthecastle.Itisaverydraftyplace,conducivetocoldsandsinusinfectionsandothervariedmiseries.Thewindsblowthroughitwickedlyanditsmellsofdampandmold. I do not understand in fullness why you humans, once you build thecastles for us, do not make them weathertight and comfortable. Because we,beforetimes,dweltinruins,doesnotnecessarilymeanthatwehaveforsookallcomfort and convenience.We dwelt in them, forsooth, because theywere thebestpoorEuropehadtooffer.”

Hepaused togulp forbreath, thenwentonagain. “I canwell recall, twothousand years ago or more, we dwelt in brand-new castles, poor enough, ofcourse, for the rude humans of that time could not build the better, being allthumbsandwithoutpropertoolsandnomachineryatallandbeing,ingeneral,aslabsidedraceofpeople.Andusforcedtohideinthenooksandcranniesofthecastlessincethebenightedhumansofthatdayfearedanddetestedusinalltheirignorance,andsought,intheirignorance,toerectgreatspellsagainstus.

“Although,” he said, with some satisfaction, “mere humans were notproficientwith the spells.We,withno raisingof the sweat, couldafford themspadesandclubsandbeattheirspells,handsdown.”

“Twothousandyears?”askedChurchill.“Youdon’tmeantosay-”Maxwellmadeaquickmotionofhisheadinanattempttosilencehim.Mr. O’Toole stopped in the middle of the path and threw Churchill a

witheringglance.“Icanrecall,”hesaid,“whenthebarbariansfirstcame,mostrudely,from

that fenny forest you now callCentralEurope to knockwith the hilts of theircrude iron swords upon the very gates of Rome.We heard of it in the forestdepths where wemade our homes and there were others then, but dead longsince, who had heard the news, some weeks after its transpirance, from

Thermopylae.”“Iamsorry,”Maxwellsaid.“Noteveryoneisaswellacquaintedwiththe

LittleFolk…”“Please,”saidMr.O’Toole,“youacquainthim,then.”“It’s the truth,”Maxwell said toChurchill, “or, at least, it could be.Not

immortal,fortheyeventuallydodie.Butlong-livedbeyondanythingweknow.Birthsarefew-veryfew,indeed,foriftheyweren’tthere’dnotberoomforthemonEarth.Buttheylivetoanextremelyripeoldage.”

“It is,”saidMr.O’Toole,“becauseweburrowdeepto theheartofnatureand do not waste precious vitality of spirit upon those petty concerns whichmakewreckageofthelivesandhopesofhumans.”

“Butthese,”hesaid,“aredoloroustopicsonwhichtowastesogloriousanautumnafternoon.Soletusfastenourthoughts,rather,withgreatsteadfastness,uponthefoamingalethatawaitsusonthehilltop.”

He lapsed into silenceand startedup thepathagainat amore rapidpacethanhehadsetbefore.

Scuttlingdownthepathtowardthemcameatinygoblin,hismulticolored,too-largeshirtwhippinginthewindofhisheadlongrunning.

“Theale!”hescreamed.“Theale!”Heskiddedtoahaltinfrontofthethreetoilingupthepath.“What of the ale?” pantedMr.O’Toole. “Doyoumean to confess tome

thatyouhavebeenthesamplingofit?”“Ithasgonesour,”wailedthelittlegoblin.“Thewholebewitchedmessofit

issour.”“But ale can’t go sour,” protested Maxwell, grasping some sense of the

tragedythathadtakenplace.Mr.O’Toolebouncedupon thepath indevastatinganger.His face turned

frombrowntoredtopurple.Hisbreathcamegushingoutinwheezinggasps.“Itcan,bedamned,”heshouted,“withaspellofwizardry!”He turned around and started rapidly down the path, trailed by the little

goblin.“Leavemeatthemfilthytrolls!”shoutedMr.O’Toole.“Leavemewrapmypaws around their guzzles. Iwill dig themoutwith

thesetwohandsandhangtheminthesuntodry.Iwillskinthemallentire.Iwillteachthemlessonstheyneverwillunlearn…”

His bellowing dwindled with distance to unintelligible rumbling as hescrambledswiftlydownthepath,headingforthebridgebeneathwhichthetrollshungout.

Thetwohumansstoodwatching,filledwithadmirationandwonderatsuch

ponderous,toweringwrath.“Well,”saidChurchill,“theregoesourchanceatsweetOctoberale.”TheclockinMusicHallbeganstrikingthehourofsixasMaxwellreached

theoutskirtsof thecampus,ridingfromtheairportononeof theslower,outerbelts of the roadway. Churchill had taken another roadway andMaxwell hadbeengladofthat.Notonlythathefeltafaintdistastefortheman,butfromthewishtobealone.Hewantedtorideslowly,withthewindshielddown,insilence,without the need of conversation, to soak up the sight and feel of those fewsquaremilesofbuildingsandofmalls-cominghomeagaintotheoneplacethatheloved.

Dusk sifted through the campus like amist of benediction, softening theoutlines of the buildings, turning the malls into areas that could have beenromanticetchingsoutofstorybooks.

Knots of students stood about the malls, talking quietly, carrying theirsatchelsorwithbooks tuckedbeneath theirarms.Awhite-hairedmansatonabench, watching a pair of squirrels playing on the lawn. Two reptilian alienshunchedalongoneofthemistywalks,movingslowlyandengrossedintalk.Ahuman student strode smartly along the sidewalk, whistling as he went, thewhistlewakingechoesinthequietanglesofthebuildings.Meetingandpassingthereptiles,beliftedanarmingravesalute.Andeverywherethetrees,greatandancient elms that had stood since time forgotten, the sturdy sentinels ofmanygenerations.

Thenthegreatclockstartedtheringingofthehour,thebronzeclangorofitbeating far across the land, and it seemed to Maxwell that in the clock thecampuswasbiddinghimhello.Theclockwasa friend,he thought-not tohimalone,buttoallwithinthehearingofit,thevoiceofthecampus.Lyinginbed,before he went to sleep, he had listened, night after night, to its chiming, itsringingoutof time.Andmore,perhaps, than the ringingoutof time.Ratherawatchmaninthenightcryingallwaswell.

AheadofhimthemightycomplexofTimeCollegeloomedoutofthedusk-looming up to dwarf the roadway and themall, great blocks of plastic and ofglass,with lights burning inmanyof itswindows.Squatted at thebaseof thecomplex crouched the museum and across its front Maxwell saw the wind-flutteredwhitenessofasignpaintedonwhitefabric.Intheduskanddistancehecouldmakeoutonlyoneword:SHAKESPEARE.

Hegrinnedtohimself,thinkingofit.EnglishLitwouldbebesideitself.OldCheneryandalltherestofthemhadneverquiteforgivenTimeforestablishing,twoor threeyearsago, that theEarlofOxford,notShakespeare,hadbeen theauthoroftheplays.AndthispersonalappearanceofthemanfromStratford-on-

Avonwouldberubbingsaltintowoundsthatwerefarfromhealed.Farahead,sittingonitsbillatthewestendofthecampus,Maxwellcould

makeoutthegreathulkoftheadministrationsection,etcheddarklyagainstthelastfaintbrushingofredinthewesternsky.

Thebeltmovedon,pastTimeCollegeand itssquattingmuseumwith thesignflutteringinthewind.Theclockendeditstellingofthetime,thelastnotesofthechimesfadingfarintothedistance.

Six o’clock. In another fewminutes hewould be getting off the belt andheadingfortheWinstonArms,whichhadbeenhishomeforthelastfour-no,thelastfiveyears.Heputhishandintotheright-handpocketofhisjacketandhisfingers traced thehardoutlinesof thesmall ringofkeys tucked into thesmallkeypocketinsidethejacketpocket.

Now,for thefirst timesincehe’d leftWisconsinStation, thestoryof thatotherPeterMaxwellforgedtotheforefrontofhisthoughts.Itcouldbetrue,ofcourse-althoughitdidn’tseemtoolikely.ItwouldbeverymuchthekindoftrickSecuritymightplaytocrackamanwideopen.Butifitwerenottrue,whyhadthere been no report from Coonskin of his failure to arrive? Although, herealized, that piece of information also had come from Inspector Drayton, aswellasthefurtherinformationthatthesamethinghadhappenedtwicebefore.IfDraytoncouldbesuspectononestory,bealsowassuspectontheothertwo.Iftherehadbeenotherbeingspickedupbythecrystalplanet,hehadcertainlynotbeen told of themwhen he had been there. But that also,Maxwell remindedhimself,wasnotrustworthyevidence.Undoubtedlythecreaturesonthecrystalplanethadtoldhimonlythosethingstheywantedhimtoknow.

The thing that bothered him themost, come to think of it,was notwhatDraytonhad said, butwhatMr.O’Toolehad toldhim:We sent thewreathofmistletoe and holly to express our deepest grief. If events had turned outdifferently, hewould have talkedwith his goblin friend about it, but thewaythingswent,therehadbeennochancetotalkofanythingatall.

Itallcouldwait,he toldhimself. In justa littlewhile,oncehehadgottenhome,he’dpickupaphoneandmakeacall-toanyoneofmanypeople-andthenhe’d know the truth. Who should he call? he wondered. There was HarlowSharp, at Time, or Dallas Gregg, chairman of his own department, or maybeXigmuMaonTyre,theoldEridaneanwiththesnow-whitefurandthebroodingviolet eyes who had spent a long lifetime in his tiny cubbyhole of an officeworking out an analysis of the structuring ofmyths.OrmaybeAllen Preston,friendandattorney.Preston,probably,hetoldhimself,forifwhatDraytonhadtold him should happen to be true, theremight be some nasty legal questionsstemmingoutofit.

Impatiently,hesnarledathimself.Hewasbelievingit,hewasbeginningtobelieve it; if he kept on like this, he could argue himself into thinking that itmightbetrue.

TheWinstonArmswas justdown the street andhegotup fromhis seat,pickeduphisbag,andsteppedtothebarelymovingouterbelt.Standingthere,hewaited,andinfrontoftheWinstonArmsgotoff.

Noonewasinsightasheclimbedthebroadstonestairsandwentintothefoyer.Fumbling inhispocket,he tookout thekeyringandfoundthekeythatunlockedtheouterdoor.Anelevatorstoodwaitingandhegotintoitandpressedthebuttonfortheseventhfloor.

Thekeyslidsmoothlyintothelockofhisapartmentandwhenhetwisteditthedoorcameopen.Hestepped into thedarkened room.Behindhim thedoorswung shut automatically,with a snicking of the lock, and he reached out hishandtowardthepaneltosnaponthelight.

But with his hand poised to press, he stopped. For there was somethingwrong.Afeeling,asenseofsomething,acertainsmell,perhaps.Thatwasit-asmell.Thefaint,delicateodorofastrangeperfume.

Hesmashedhishandagainstthepanelandthelightscameup.Theroomwasnotthesame.Thefurniturewasdifferentandthescreaming

paintingsonthewall-hehadneverhad,hewouldneverhavepaintingssuchasthat!

Behind him the lock snicked again and he spun around.The door swungopenandasaber-toothstalkedin.

At the sight ofMaxwell, the big cat dropped into a crouch and snarled,exposingsix-inchstabbingfangs.

Gingerly, Maxwell backed away. The cat crept closer by a foot, stillsnarling.Maxwell tookanotherbackwardstep, felt the suddenblowabove theankle,triedtotwistaway,butwasunableto,andknewthathewasfalling.Hehad seen the hassock, he should have remembered itwas there-but he hadn’t.He’dbackedintoitandtrippedhimselfandnowhewasgoingoverflatuponhisback. He tried to force his body to relax against striking on the floor-but hedidn’thitthefloor.Hisbacksmasheddownintoayieldingsoftnessandheknewhe’dlandedonthecouchthatstoodbehindthehassock.

Thecatwassailingthroughtheairinagracefulleap,itsearslaidback,itsmouthhalfopen,itsmassivepawsoutstretchedtoformabatteringram.Maxwellraisedhis arms in a swift defensivegesture, but theywerebrushed aside as ifthey’dnotbeen there and thepaws smasheddown intohis chest, pinninghimagainstthecouch.Thegreatcat’shead,withitsgleamingfangs,hungjustabovehisface.Slowly,almostgently,thecatlowereditsheadandalongpinktongue

cameoutandslathered,raspingly,acrossMaxwell’sface.Thecatbegantopurr.“Sylvester!”criedavoicefromthedoorway.“Sylvester,cutthatout!”ThecatrakedMaxwell’sfaceonceagainwithitsmoistandraspingtongue,

thensatbackuponitshaunches,withahalf-grinonitsfaceanditsearstippedforward,regardingMaxwellwithafriendlyandenthusiasticinterest.

Maxwell struggled to a half-sitting posture, with the small of his backrestingontheseatcushionsandhisshouldersproppedagainstthecouch’sback.

“Andwhomightyoube?”askedthegirlstandinginthedoorway.“Why,I…”“You’ve got your nerve,” she said. Sylvester purred loudly. “I’m sorry,

miss,”saidMaxwell.“ButIlivehere.Oratleast,Idid.Isn’tthisSeven-twenty-one?”

“Itis,indeed,”shesaid.“Irenteditjustaweekago.”Maxwell shook his head. “I should have known,” he said. “The furniture

waswrong.”“Ihadthelandlordthrowoutthestuff,”shesaid.“Itwassimplyatrocious.”“Letmeguess,”saidMaxwell.“Anoldgreenlounger,somewhattheworse

forwear-”“And a walnut liquor cabinet,” said the girl, “and amonstrous seascape,

and…”Maxwellliftedhisheadwearily.“That’senough,”hesaid.“Thatwasmystuffthatyouhadthrownout.”“Idon’tunderstand,”saidthegirl.“Thelandlordsaidtheformeroccupant

wasdead.Anaccident,Ithink.”Maxwellgotslowlytohisfeet.Thebigcatstoodup,movedcloser,rubbed

affectionatelyagainsthislegs.“Stopthat,Sylvester,”saidthegirl.Sylvesterwentonrubbing.“Youmustn’tmindhim,”shesaid.“He’sjustagreatbigbaby.”“Abio-mech?”She nodded. “The cutest thing alive. He goes everywhere with me. He

seldomisabother.Idon’tknowwhat’sgotintohim.Itseemsthathemustlikeyou.”

Shehadbeenlookingatthecat,butnowsheglancedupsharply.“Istheresomethingwrongwithyou?”sheasked.Maxwellshookhishead.“You’resortoffrostyaroundthegills.”“Abitofshock,”hetoldher.“Isupposethat’sit.WhatItoldyouwasthe

truth.Idid,atonetime,livehere.Upuntilafewweeksago.Therewasamix-upsomehow…”

“Sitdown,”shesaid.“Couldyouuseadrink?”“IsuspectIcould,”hesaid.“MynameisPeterMaxwellandI’mamember

ofthefaculty-”“Wait a moment. You said Maxwell? Peter Maxwell. I remember now.

That’sthename…”“Yes,Iknow,”saidMaxwell.“Ofthemanwhodied.”Hesatdowncarefullyonthecouch.“I’llgetthedrink,”thegirlsaid.Sylvester slid closer and gently laid his massive head inMaxwell’s lap.

Maxwellscratchedhimbehindanearand,purring loudly,Sylvester turnedhisheadabittoshowMaxwellwhereititched.

The girl came with the drink and sat down beside him. “I still don’tunderstand,”shetoldhim.“Ifyou’rethemanwho…”

“Thewholething,”Maxwelltoldher,“becomessomewhatcomplicated.”“Imustsayyou’re taking it ratherwell.Shakenupabit,perhaps,butnot

strickeninaheap.”“Well,thefactofthematteris,”saidMaxwell,“thatIhalfwayknewit.I’d

been told, you see, but I didn’t quite believe it. I suppose the truth is that Iwouldn’tletmyselfbelieveit.”

Heraisedtheglass.“You’renotdrinking?”“Ifyou’reallright,”shesaid.“IfyoufeelOK,I’llgetoneformyself.”“Oh,I’mallright,”saidMaxwell.“I’llmanagetosurvive.”Helookedatherandfor thefirst timereallysawher-sleekandtrim,with

bobbedblackhair,longeyelashes,highcheekbones,andeyesthatsmiledathim.“What’syourname?”heasked.“IamCarolHampton.AhistorianatTime.”“MissHampton,”hesaid,“Iapologizeforthesituation.Ihavebeenaway-

offplanet.Justreturned.AndIhadakeyanditfitthedoorandwhenI’dleftithadbeenmyplace…”

“Noneedtoexplain,”shesaid.“We’llhavethedrink,”hesaid.“ThenI’llgetupandgo.Unless…”“Unlesswhat?”“Unlessyou’dbewillingtohavedinnerwithme.Let’scallitawayforme

torepayyourunderstanding.Youcouldhaverunoutshrieking.”“Ifthiswasallapitch!”shesaid.“Ifyou-”“It couldn’t be,” he said. “I’d be too stupid to get it figured out. And,

besides,howcomeIhadthekey?”

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “It was silly of me. ButSylvesterwillhavetogowithus.Hewon’tbeleftalone.”

“Why,”saidMaxwell,“Iwouldn’tthinkofleavinghim.HeandIarepals.”“It’ll cost you a steak,” she warned. “He is always hungry and he eats

nothingbutgoodsteaks.Bigones-raw.”ThePigandWhistlewasdarkandclamorousandsmoky.Thetableswere

jammed together, with narrow lanes between them. Candles burned withflickeringflames.Themurmurousdinofmanyvoices,seemingly talkingallatonce,filledthelow-ceilingedroom.

Maxwellstoppedandpeered,tryingtolocateatablethatmightbevacant.Perhaps,hethought,theyshouldhavegonesomewhereelse,buthehadwantedtoeathere,fortheplace,ahangoutofstudentsandsomemembersofthefaculty,spelledthecampustohim.

“Perhaps,”hesaidtoCarolHampton,“weshouldgosomewhereelse.”“There’ll be someone along in just aminute,” she said, “to showus to a

table.Everyoneseemssobusy.Theremusthavebeenarush-Sylvester,cutthatout!”

Shespokeappealingly to thepeopleat the tablebesidewhich theystood.“You’ll excuse him, please. He has nomanners, none at all. Especially tablemanners.Hesnatcheseverythinginsight.”

Sylvesterlickedhischops,lookingsatisfied.“Think nothing of it,miss,” said themanwith the bushy beard. “I really

didn’twantit.Toordersteakisjustcompulsivewithme.”Someoneshoutedacrosstheroom.“Pete!PeteMaxwell!”Maxwell peered into the gloom. At a far table, inserted in a corner,

someonehadrisenandwaswavinghisarms.Maxwellfinallymadehimout.ItwasAlleyOopandbesidehimsatthewhite-shroudedfigureofGhost.

“Friendsofyours?”askedCarol.“Yes.Apparentlytheywantustojointhem.Doyoumind?”“TheNeanderthaler?”sheasked.“Youknowhim?”“No.Ijustseehimaroundattimes.ButI’dliketomeethim.Andthatisthe

Ghost?”“Thetwoareinseparable,”saidMaxwell.“Well,let’sgoover,then.”“Wecansayhelloandgosomewhereelse.”“Notonyourlife,”shesaid.“Thisplacelooksinteresting.”“You’veneverbeenherebefore?”“I’veneverdared,”shesaid.

“I’llbreakthepath,”hetoldher.Heforgedslowlyamongthetables,trailedbythegirlandcat.AlleyOoplungedoutintotheaisletomeethim,flunghisarmsaroundhim,

hugged him, then grasped him by the shoulders and thrust him out at arm’slengthtostareintohisface.

“YouareOldPete?”heasked.“Youaren’tfoolingus?”“IamPete,”saidMaxwell.“WhodoyouthinkIam?”“Well,whatIwanttoknowthen,”saidOop,“iswhoitwasweburiedthree

weeks ago last Thursday. Both me and Ghost were there. And you owe ustwentybucksrefundontheflowerswesent.Thatiswhattheycostus.”

“Letussitdown,”saidMaxwell.“Afraid of creating a scene,” said Oop. “This place is made for scenes.

Therearefistfightseveryhouronscheduleandthere’salwayssomeonejumpinguponatableandmakingaspeech.”

“Oop,”saidMaxwell,“thereisaladypresentandIwantyoutotamedownandgetcivilized.MissCarolHampton,andthisgreatoafisAlleyOop.”

“Iamdelightedtomeetyou,MissHampton,”saidAlleyOop.“Andwhatisthatyouhavetherewithyou?AsIliveandbreathe,asaber-toother!I’llhavetotellyouaboutthetime,duringablizzard,Isoughtshelterinacaveandthisbigcatwasthereandmewithnothingbutadullstoneknife.Ihadlostmyclub,yousee,whenImetthebear,and-”

“Someothertime,”saidMaxwell.“Atleast,letussitdown.Wearehungry.Wedon’twanttogetthrownout.”

“Pete,” said Alley Oop, “it is a matter of some large distinction to beheavedoutofthisjoint.Youain’tarrivedsociallyuntilyou’vebeenthrownoutofhere.”

But,mutteringunderhisbreath,heledthewaybacktothetableandheldachairforCarol.SylvesterplantedhimselfbetweenMaxwellandCarol,proppedhischinonthetableandglaredbalefullyatOop.

“Thatcatdon’tlikeme,”Oopdeclared.“ProbablyheknowshowmanyofhisancestorsIwipedoutbackintheOldStoneAge.”

“He’sonlyabio-mech,”saidCarol.“Hecouldn’tpossibly.”“Idon’tbelieveawordofit,”saidOop.“Thatcritterisnobio-mech.He’s

gotthedirtymeannessinhiseyesallsaber-toothershave.”“Please,Oop,”saidMaxwell.“Justamoment,please.MissHampton,this

gentlemanisGhost.Along-timefriendofmine.”“Iampleasedtomeetyou,Mr.Ghost,”saidCarol.“Not Mister,” said Ghost. “Just plain Ghost. That is all I am. And the

terrible thing about it is that I don’t know who I am the ghost of. I’mmost

pleased tomeet you. It is so comfortablewith four around the table. There issomethingniceandbalancedinthenumberfour.”

“Well,” said Oop, “now that we know one another, leave us proceed tobusiness. Let us do some drinking. It’s lonesome for a man to drink all byhimself.IloveGhost,ofcourse,forhismanysterlingqualities,butIhateamanwhodoesn’tdrink.”

“YouknowIcan’tdrink,”saidGhost.“Noreat,either.Orsmoke.There’snot much a ghost can do. But I wish you wouldn’t keep pointing it out toeveryonewemeet.”

OopsaidtoCarol,“YouseemtobesurprisedthatabarbaricNeanderthalercanslingthelanguagearoundwiththefacilityIcommand.”

“Notsurprised,”saidCarol.“Astounded.”“Oop,”Maxwelltoldher,“hassoakedupmoreeducationinthelasttwelve

years thanmostordinarymen.Startedoutvirtually inkindergartenandnowisworkingonhisdoctorate.Andthethingaboutitisthatheintendstokeeprighton.Heis,youmightsay,oneofourmostnotableprofessionalstudents.”

Oop raised his arm andwaved it, bellowing at awaiter. “Over here,” heshouted.“Therearepeopleherewhowish topatronizeyou.Alldyingof slowthirst.”

“The thing,” said Ghost, “I have always admired about him is his shy,retiringnature.”

“Ikeeponstudying,”saidOop,“notsomuchthatIhungerafterknowledgeas for the enjoyment I get from the incredulous astonishment on the faces ofthose stuffed-shirt professors and those goofy students. Not,” he said toMaxwell,“thatImaintainallprofessorsarestuffedshirts.”

“Thankyou,”Maxwellsaid.“There are those who seem to think,” said Oop, “that Homo sapiens

neanderthalensiscanbenothingother thanastupidbrute.Afterall,hebecameextinct,hecouldn’tholdhisown-which in itself isprimeevidence thathewasverysecond-rate.I’mafraidthatI’llcontinuetodevotemylifetoproving-”

Thewaiter appeared at Oop’s elbow. “It’s you again,” he said. “Imighthaveknownwhenyouyelledatme.Youhavenobreeding,Oop.”

“Wehaveamanhere,”Ooptoldhim,ignoringtheinsult,“whohascomeback from the dead. I think it would be fitting that we should celebrate hisresurrectionwithaflourishofgoodfellowship.”

“Youwantsomethingtodrink,Itakeit.”“Why,”saidOop,“don’tyousimplybringabottleofgoodbooze,abucket

oficeandfour-no,threeglasses.Ghostdoesn’tdrink,youknow.”“Iknow,”thewaitersaid.

“That is,” said Oop, “unless Miss Hampton wants one of these fancydrinks?”

“Who am I,” asked Carol, “to gum up the works? What is it you aredrinking?”

“Bourbon,”saidOop.“PeteandIhavealousytasteinliquor.”“Bourbonletitbe,”saidCarol.“Itakeit,”saidthewaiter,“thatwhenIlugthebottleoverhere,you’llhave

thecashtopayforit.Irememberthetime-”“WhateverImaylack,”saidOop,“willbeforthcomingfromOldPete.”“Pete?”thewaiterglancedatMaxwell.“Professor!”heexclaimed.“Ihadheardthatyou…”“That’s what I been trying to tell you,” said Oop. “That’s what we’re

celebrating.Hecamebackfromthedead.”“ButIdon’tunderstand.”“Youdon’tneedto,”saidOop.“Justrustleupthebooze.”Thewaiterscurriedoff.“Andnow,”saidGhosttoMaxwell,“pleasetelluswhatyouare.Youare

noghost,apparently,orifyouare,there’sbeenavastimprovementinproceduresincethemanIrepresentshuffledoffhismortalcoil.”

“Itseems,”Maxwell toldthem,“thatI’masplitpersonality.Oneofme,Iunderstand,gotinanaccidentanddied.”

“Butthat’simpossible,”saidCarol.“Splitpersonalityinthementalsense-sure,thatcanbeunderstood.Butphysically…”

“There’snothinginheavenorearth,”saidGhost,“thatisimpossible.”“That’sabadquotation,”saidOop,“and,besides,youmisquotedit.”Heputahandtohishairychestandscratchedvigorouslywithbluntfingers.“You needn’t look so horrified,” he said to Carol. “I itch. I’m a brute

creatureofnature,thereforeIscratch.AndI’mnotnaked,either.Ihaveapairofshortson.”

“He’shousebroken,”saidMaxwell,“butjustbarely.”“Togetback to thissplitpersonality,”said thegirl,“canyoutelluswhat

actuallydidhappen?”“Isetout foroneof theCoonskinplanets,”saidMaxwell,“andalong the

waysomehowmywavepatternduplicateditselfandIwoundupintwoplaces.”“YoumeanthereweretwoPeteMaxwells?”“That’sthewayofit.”“IfIwereyou,”saidOop,“I’dsuethem.TheseTransportationpeopleget

awaywithmurder.Youcouldshakethemdownforplenty.MeandGhostcouldtestifyforyou.Wewenttoyourfuneral.

“Asamatteroffact,”hesaid,“IthinkGhostandIshouldsueaswell.Formentalanguish.Ourbestfriendcoldandrigidinhiscasketandusprostratewithgrief.”

“Wereallywere,youknow,”saidGhost.“Ihavenodoubtofit,”saidMaxwell.“Imust say,” saidCarol, “thatall threeofyou take it rather lightly.Here

onegoodfriendofthree-”“Whatdoyouwantofus?”demandedOop.“Singhallelujahs,perhaps?Or

bugoutoureyesandbefilledwiththewonderofit?Welostapalandnowhe’sbackagainand-”

“Butoneofhimisdead!”“Well,”saidOop,“asfaraswewereconcerned,therewasnevermorethan

oneofhim.Andmaybe this isbetter. Imagine theembarrassingsituations thatcoulddevelopifthereweretwoofhim.”

CarolturnedtoMaxwell.“Andyou?”sheasked.Heshookhishead.“Inadayor two, I’ll takesomeserious thoughtof it.

Rightnow,Iguess,I’mputtingoffthinkingaboutit.Totellyouthetruth,whenI do think about it, I get a little numb. But tonight a pretty girl and two oldfriendsandagreatbigpussycatandabottleofliquortogetridofandlateronsomefood.”

Hegrinnedather.Sheshrugged.“Ineversawsuchacrazybunch,”shesaid.“IbelieveIlikeit.”“I like it, too,”saidOop.“Saywhateveryouwillof it, thiscivilizationof

yoursisavastimprovementoverthedaysofyore.Itwastheluckiestdayofmylifewhen aTime team snatchedmehence just at the pointwhen someofmyloving brother tribesmenwere about tomake ameal ofme.Not that I blamethemparticularly,youunderstand.Ithadbeenalong,hardwinterandthesnowwasdeepandthegamehadbeenveryscarce.Andtherewerecertainmembersof the tribewho felt theyhada scoreor two tosettlewithme-and I’llnotkidyou;theymayhavehadascore.Iwasabouttobeknockedupontheheadand,sotospeak,dumpedintothepot.”

“Cannibalism!”Carolsaid,horrified.“Why,naturally,”hetoldher.“Inthoseroughandreadydays,itwasquite

acceptable.But,ofcourse,youwouldn’tunderstand.You’veneverbeenreallyhungry,Itakeit.Guthungry.Soshriveledupwithhunger-”

Hehaltedhistalkandlookedaround.“Thethingthatismostcomfortingaboutthisculture,”hedeclared,“isthe

abundanceofthefood.Backintheolddayswehadourupsanddowns.We’dbag amastodon andwe’d eat untilwe vomited and thenwe’d eat somemore

and-”“I doubt,”Ghost saidwarningly, “that this is a proper subject for dinner

conversation.”OopglancedatCarol.“Youmustsaythismuchforme,”heinsisted.“I’mhonest.WhenImean

vomit,Isayvomitandnotregurgitate.”Thewaiterbroughttheliquor,thumpingthebottleandtheicebucketdown

uponthetable.“Youwanttoordernow?”heasked.“We ain’t decided yet,” saidOop, “ifwe’re going to eat in this crummy

joint.It’sallrighttogetliquoredupin,but-”“Then,sir,”thewaitersaid,andlaiddownthecheck.Oop dug into his pockets and came up with cash. Maxwell pulled the

bucketandthebottlecloseandbeganfixingdrinks.“We’regoingtoeathere,aren’twe?”askedCarol.“IfSylvesterdoesn’tget

that steak you promised him, I don’t know what will happen. He’s been sopatientandsogood,withthesmellofallthefood…”

“He’s already had one steak,”Maxwell pointed out. “Howmuch can heeat?”

“Anunlimitedamount,”saidOop.“In theolddaysoneof themmonsterswouldpolishoffanelkinasinglesitting.DidIevertellyou-”

“Iamsureyouhave,”saidGhost.“Butthatwasacookedsteak,”protestedCarol,“andhelikesthemraw.Besides,itwasasmallone.”“Oop,”saidMaxwell,“get thatwaiterbackhere.Youaregoodat it.You

havethevoiceforit.”Oopsignaledwithabrawnyarmandbellowed.Hewaited foramoment,

thenbellowedonceagain,withoutresults.“Hewon’tpayattentiontome,”Oopgrowled.“Maybeit’snotourwaiter.I

neveramabletotellthemmonkeysapart.Theyalllookaliketome.”“Idon’tlikethecrowdtonight,”saidGhost.“Ihavebeenwatchingit.There’stroubleintheair.”“Whatiswrongwithit?”askedMaxwell.“There are an awful lot of creeps from English Lit. This is not their

hangout.MostlythecrowdhereareTimeandSupernatural.”“YoumeanthisShakespearebusiness?”“Thatmightbeit,”saidGhost.MaxwellhandedCarolherdrink,pushedanotheracrossthetabletoOop.“Itseemsashame,”CarolsaidtoGhost,“nottogiveyouone.Couldn’tyou

evensniffit,justalittle?”“Don’t let itbotheryou,” saidOop.“Theguygetsdrunkonmoonbeams.

Hecandanceonrainbows.HehasalotofadvantagesyouandIdon’thave.Foronething,he’simmortal.Whatcouldkillaghost?”

“I’mnotsureofthat,”saidGhost.“There’sonethingthatbothersme,”saidCarol.“Youdon’tmind,doyou?”“Notatall,”saidGhost.“It’sthisbusinessofyournotknowingwhoyouaretheghostof.Isthattrue

orisitjustajoke?”“Itistrue,”saidGhost.“AndIdon’tmindtellingyou,it’sembarrassingand

confusing. But I’ve just plain forgotten. From England -that much, at least, Iknow.ButthenameIcan’trecall.Iwouldsuspectmostotherghosts-”

“Wehavenootherghosts,”saidMaxwell.“Contactswithotherghosts,ofcourse,andconversationsandinterviewswiththem.Butnootherghosthasevercometolivewithus.Whydidyoudoit,Ghost-cometolivewithus.”

“He’sanaturalchiseler,”saidOop.“Alwaysfiguringouttheangles.”“You’rewrongthere,”Maxwellsaid.“It’sdamnedlittlewecandoforGhost.”“Yougiveme,”saidGhost,“asenseofreality.”“Well,nomatterwhatthereason,”saidMaxwell,“Iamgladyoudidit.”“Thethreeofyou,”saidCarol,“havebeenfriendsforalong,longtime.”“Anditseemsstrangetoyou?”askedOop.“Well,yes,maybeitdoes,”shesaid.“Idon’tknowreallywhatImean.”Soundsof scufflingcame from the frontof theplace.CarolandMaxwell

turned around in their chairs to look in the direction fromwhich the scufflingcame,buttherewasn’tmuchthatonecouldsee.

Amansuddenlyloomedontopofthetableandbegantosing:HurrahforOldBillShakespeare;Heneverwrotethemplays;Hestayedathome,andchasinggirls,SangdirtyrondelaysJeers and catcalls broke out from over the room and someone threw

somethingthatwentsailingpastthesinger.Partofthecrowdtookupthesong:HurrahforOldBillShakespeare;Heneverwrotethem…Someonewithabullvoicehowled:“TohellwithOldBillShakespeare!”Theroomexplodedintoaction.Chairswentover.Therewereotherpeople

on topof tables.Shouts reverberatedand therewasshovingandpushing.Fistsbegantofly.Variousitemswentsailingthroughtheair.

Maxwellsprangtohisfeet,reachedoutanarmandsweptitback,shoving

Carol behind him. Oop came charging across the tabletop with a wild warwhoop.Hisfootcaughtthebucketandsenttheicecubesflying.

“I’llmow’emdown,”heyelledatMaxwell.“Youpile’emtooneside!”Maxwellsawafistcomingathimoutofnowhereandduckedtooneside,

bringinghisownfistupinaviciousjab,hittingoutatnothing,butaiminginthedirectionfromwhichthefisthadcome.OverhisshouldercameOop’sbrawnyarm,withamassivefistattached.Itsmackedintoafacewithasplatteringsoundandoutbeyondthetableafigurewentslumpingtothefloor.

SomethingheavyandtravelingfastcaughtMaxwellbehindtheearandhewentdown.Feetsurgedallaroundhim.Someonesteppedonhishand.Someonefellontopofhim.Abovehim,seeminglyfromalongwaysoff,heheardOop’swildwhooping.

Twisting around, he shoved off the body that had fallen across him andstaggeredtohisfeet.

Ahandgrabbedhimbytheelbowandtwistedhimaround.“Let’sgetoutofhere,”saidOop.“Someonewillgethurt.”Carolwasbackedagainstthetable,bentover,withherhandsclutchingthe

scruffofSylvester’sneck.Sylvesterwasstandingonhishind legsandpawingtheairwithhis forelegs.Snarlswererumbling inhis throatandhis longfangsgleamed.

“Ifwedon’tgethimoutofhere,”saidOop“thatcatwillgethissteak.”Heswoopeddownandwrappedanarmaround thecat, liftinghimby the

middle,hugginghimtightagainsthischest.“Take care of the girl,”Oop toldMaxwell. “There’s a back door around

heresomewhere.Anddon’tleavethatbottlebehind.We’llneeditlateron.”Maxwellreachedoutandgrabbedthebottle.TherewasnosignofGhost.“I’macoward,”Ghostconfessed.“IadmitthatIturnchickenatthesightof

violence.”“Andyou,”saidOop,“theoneguyintheworldnoonecanlayamitton.”They sat at the rude, square, rickety table thatOoponce, inamomentof

housekeeping energy, had knocked together from rough boards. Carol pushedawayherplate.“Iwasstarved,”shesaid,“butnotanymore.”

“You’renottheonlyone,”saidOop.“Lookatourputtycat.”Sylvesterwas curledup in frontof the fireplace, hisbobbed tail clamped

down tight against his rump, his furry paws covering his nose. His whiskersstirredgentlyashisbreathwentinandout.

“That’sthefirsttimeinmylife,”saidOop,“Ieversawasaber-tootherhavemorethanhecouldeat.”

He reached out for the bottle and shook it. It had an empty sound. Helumberedtohisfeetandwentacrossthefloor,kneltandraisedasmalldoorsetintothefloor,reachingdownwithhisarmandsearchinginthespaceunderneaththedoor.Hebroughtupaglassfruitjarandsetittooneside.Hebroughtupasecondfruitjarandsetitbesidethefirst.Finallyhecameuptriumphantlywithabottle.

Heputthefruitjarsbackandclosedthedoor.Backatthetable,hesnappedthesealeroffthebottleandreachedouttopourdrinks.

“You guys don’twant ice,” he said. “It just dilutes the booze.Besides, Ihaven’tany.”

Hejerkedathumbbacktowardthedoorhiddeninthefloor.“Mycache,”hesaid.“Ikeepajugortwohidout.SomedayImightbreakalegorsomethingandthedocwouldsayIcouldn’tdrink…”

“Notwithabrokenleg,”saidGhost.“Noonewouldobjecttoyourdrinkingwithabrokenleg.”

“Well,then,somethingelse,”saidOop.Theysatcontentedlywiththeirdrinks,Ghoststaringat thefire.Outsidea

risingwindworriedattheshack.“I’ve never had a bettermeal,” saidCarol. “First time I ever cookedmy

ownsteakstuckonastickaboveanopenfire.”Oopbelchedcontentedly.“That’sthewaywediditbackintheOldStone

Age. That, or eat it raw, like the saber-toother.We didn’t have no stoves orovensorfancythingslikethat.”

“Ihavethefeeling,”saidMaxwell,“thatitwouldbebetternottoask,butwheredidyougetthatrackofribs?Iimagineallthebutchershopswereclosed.”

“Well,theywere,”admittedOop,“buttherewasthisoneandonthebackdoorithadthisittybittypadlock.…”

“Someday,”saidGhost,“you’llgetintotrouble.”Oopshookhishead.“Idon’tthinkso.Notthistime.Primalnecessity-no,I

guess that’s not the phrase. When a man is hungry he has a right to foodanywherehefindsit.Thatwasthelawbackinprehistoricdays.I imagineyoustillmightmakeacaseofitinacourtoflaw.Besides,tomorrowI’llgobackandexplain what happened. By the way,” he said to Maxwell, “have you anymoney?”

“I’m loaded,” Maxwell told him. “I carried expense money for theCoonskintripandIneverspentacentofit.”

“Onthisotherplanetyouwereaguest,”saidCarol.“IsupposeIwas,”saidMaxwell.“Ineverdidfigureoutourexactrelationship.”

“Theywerenicepeople?”

“Well,yes,nice-butpeople,Idon’tknow.”HeturnedtoOop.“Howmuchwillyouneed?”“Ifigureahundredoughttosettleit.Thereisthemeatandthebusteddoor,

nottomentionthebruisedfeelingsofourfriend,thebutcher.”Maxwell took his billfold from his pocket and, counting out some bills,

handedthemtoOop.“Thanks,”saidOop.“SomedayI’llpayyouback.”“No,” saidMaxwell. “The party is onme. I started out to take Carol to

dinnerandthingsgotsomewhatupset.”On the hearth, Sylvester stretched and yawned, then went back to sleep,

lyingonhisbacknow,withhislegsstickingintheair.Ghostasked,“You’reonavisithere,MissHampton?”

“No,”saidCarol,surprised.“Iworkhere.Whatgaveyouthatidea?”“The tiger,” saidGhost. “A bio-mech, you said. I thought, naturally, you

werewithBio-mech.”“Isee,”saidCarol.“ViennaorNewYork.”“Thereisacenteralso,”saidGhost,“somewhereinAsia.UlanBator,ifmy

memoryis.correct.”“You’vebeenthere?”“No,”saidGhost.“Ionlyheardofit.”“But he could,” said Oop. “He can go anywhere. In the blinking of an

eyelash.That’swhythefolksatSupernaturalcontinuetoputupwithhim.Theyhopethatsomedaytheycancomeupwithwhateverhehasgot.ButOldGhostiscagey.He’snottellingthem.”

“Therealreasonforhissilence,”saidMaxwell,“isthathe’sonTransport’spayroll. It’s worth their while to keep him quiet. If he revealed his travelingtechniques,Transportwouldgobroke.Nomoreneedofthem.Peoplecouldjustupandgoanywheretheywished,ontheirown-amileoramillionlight-years.”

“Andhe’sthesoulof tact,”saidOop.“WhathewasgettingatbacktherewasthatunlessyouareinBio-mechandcancookupsomethingforyourself,itcostsmoneytohavesomethinglikethatsaber-toother.”

“Oh,Isee,”saidCarol.“Iguessthere’struthinthat.Theydocostalotofmoney.ButIhaven’tgotthatkindofmoney.Myfather,beforeheretired,wasinBio-mech.NewYork.Sylvesterwasa jointprojectofaseminarheheaded.Thestudentsgavehimtomydad.”

“Istilldon’tbelieve,”saidOop,“thatcat’sabio-mech.He’sgotthatdirtyglitterinhiseyeswhenhelooksatme.”

“Asamatteroffact,”Caroltoldhim,“thereisalotmorebiothanmechinall of them today. The name originated when what amounted to a highly

sophisticated electronic brain and nervous system was housed in specificprotoplasms.But todayabout theonlymechanical thingsabout themare thoseorgans that are likely to wear out if they were made of tissue-the heart, thekidneys,thelungs,thingslikethat.WhatisbeingdoneatBio-mechtodayistheactualcreationsofspecificlifeforms-butyouallknowthat,ofcourse.”

“There are some strange stories,” Maxwell said. “A group of supermen,keptunderlockandkey.Youhaveheardofthat?”

“Yes,heardofit,”shesaid.“Therearealwaysrumors.”“Thebestone that I’veheard in recentdays,” saidOop, “really is a lulu.

SomeonetoldmeSupernaturalhasmadecontactwiththeDevil.Howaboutthat,Pete?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Maxwell. “I suppose someone has tried. I’malmostsuresomeonemusthavetried.It’ssuchanobviousthingforonetohaveagoat.”

“Youmean,”askedCarol,“thattheremightreallybeaDevil?”“Twocenturiesago,”saidMaxwell,“peopleasked,inexactlythesametone

of voice you are using now, if there actually were such things as trolls andgoblins.”

“Andghosts,”saidGhost.“You’reserious!”Carolcried.“Not serious,” said Maxwell. “Just not ready to foreclose even on the

Devil.”“This is amarvelous age,” declaredOop, “as I am sureyou’veheardme

indicate before.You’ve done awaywith superstition and the oldwives’ tales.Yousearchinthemfortruth.Butmypeopleknewthereweretrollsandgoblinsandalltherestofthem.Thestoriesofthem,youunderstand,werealwaysbasedonfact.Exceptthatlateron,whenheoutgrewhissavagesimplicity,ifyoucancallitthat,mandeniedthefact;couldnotallowhimselftobelievethesethingsthatheknewweretrue.Sohevarnishedthemoverandhidthemsafeawayinthelegendandthemythandwhenthehumanpopulationkepton increasing, thesecreatureswentintodeephiding.Aswell theymighthave,for therewasatimewhentheywerenottheengagingcreaturesyouseemtothinktheyaretoday.”

Ghostasked:“AndtheDevil?”“I’mnotsure,”saidOop.“Maybe.ButIcan’tbesure.Therewereallthese

thingsyouhaveluredoutandrediscoveredandsenttoliveontheirreservations.Butthereweremanymore.Someofthemfearful,allofthemanuisance.”

“Youdon’tseemtohavelikedthemverywell,”Carolobserved.“Miss,”saidQop,“Ididn’t.”“Itwould seem tome,” saidGhost, “that thiswould be a fertile field for

someTimeinvestigation.Apparentlythereweremanydifferentkindsof these-wouldyoucallthemprimates?”

“Ithinkyoumight,”saidMaxwell.“Primatesofadifferentstripethantheapesandman.”“Ofaverydifferentstripe,”saidOop.“Viciouslittlestinkers.”“Someday,I’msure,”saidCarol,“Timewillgetaroundtoit.Theyknowit,

ofcourse?”“They should,” saidOop. “I’ve told themoften enough,with appropriate

description.”“Timehastoomuchtodo,”Maxwellremindedthem.“Toomanyareasof

interest.Andtheentirepasttocover.”“Andnomoneytodoitwith,”saidCarol.“There,”declaredMaxwell,“speaksaloyalTimestaffmember.”“But it’s true,” she cried. “The other disciplines could learn somuch by

Timeinvestigation.Youcan’trelyonwrittenhistory.Itturnsout,inmanycases,tobedifferentthanitactuallywas.Amatterofemphasisorbiasorofjustpoorinterpretation, embalmed forever in the written form. But do these otherdepartments provide any funds for Time investigation? I’ll answer that. Theydon’t.Afewofthem,ofcourse.TheCollegeofLawhascooperatedsplendidly,but notmanyof theothers.They’re afraid.Theydon’twant their comfortablelittleworldsupset.Take thismatter ofShakespeare, for example.You’d thinkEnglishLitwouldbegrateful to find thatOxfordwrote theplays.After all, ithadbeenaquestionthathadbeentalkedaboutformanyyears-whoreallywrotetheplays?But,afterallofthat,theyresenteditwhenTimefoundoutwhoreallywrotetheplays.”

“And now,” said Maxwell, “Time is bringing Shakespeare forward tolectureabouthowhedidn’twritetheplays.Don’tyouthinkthat’srubbingitinjustabittoomuch?”

“That’s not the point of it, at all,” saidCarol. “The point is that Time isforcedtomakeasideshowoutofhistorytoearnalittlemoney.That’sthewayitisallthetime.Allsortsofschemesforraisingmoney.Earningalousyreputationasabunchofclowns.Youcan’tbelieveDeanSharpenjoys-”

“I know Harlow Sharp,” said Maxwell. “Believe me, he enjoys everyminuteofit.”

“Thatisblasphemy,”Oopsaidinmockhorror.“Don’tyouknowthatyoucanbecrucifiedforblabbingofflikethat?”

“You’remaking fun ofme,” said Carol. “Youmake fun of everyone, ofeverything.You,too,PeterMaxwell.”

“I apologize for them,” said Ghost, “since neither one of them could

summonupthegracetoapologize,themselves.Youhavetolivewiththemfortenorfifteenyearstounderstandtheyreallymeannoharm.”

“Butthedaywillcome,”saidCarol,“whenTimewillhavethefundstodowhatever it may want. All their pet projects and to heck with all the othercolleges.Whenthedealgoes-”

Shestoppedabruptly.Shesatfrozen,notmoving.Onecouldsensethatshewantedtoputherhanduptohermouthandwasrefrainingfromitonlybyironwill.

“Whatdeal?”askedMaxwell.“IthinkIknow,”saidOop.“Iheardarumor,justatinylittlerumor,andI

paidnoattentiontoit.Although,cometothinkofit,thesedirtylittlerumorsaretheonesthatturnouttobetrue.Thegreatbig,ugly,noisyones-”

“Oop,notaspeech,”saidGhost.“Justtelluswhatyouheard.”“It’s incredible,” saidOop. “You neverwould believe it.Not in all your

borndays.”“Oh,stopit!”Carolexclaimed.Theyalllookedatherandwaited.“Imadeaslip,”shesaid.“Igotallworkedupandmadeaslip.CanIask

thethreeofyoujustpleasetoforgetit.I’mnotevensureit’strue.”“Certainly,” said Maxwell. “You’ve been exposed this evening to rough

companyandillmannersand…”Sheshookherhead.“No,”shesaid.“No,it’snotanygoodtoask.Ihaveno

right to ask. I’ll simply have to tell you and trust to your discretion.And I’mprettysureit’strue.TimehasbeenmadeanofferfortheArtifact.”

Silencereverberatedintheroomastheotherthreesatmotionless,scarcelybreathing.Shelookedfromonetotheotherofthem,notquiteunderstanding.

FinallyGhoststirredslightlyandtherewasarustlinginthesilenceof theroom,asifhiswhitesheethadbeenanactualsheetthatrustledwhenhemoved.

“Youdonotcomprehend,”he said, “theattachment thatwe threehold totheArtifact.”

“Youstruckusinaheap,”saidOop.“TheArtifact,”saidMaxwellsoftly.“TheArtifact, theonegreatmystery,

theonethingintheworldthathasbaffledeveryone…”“Afunnystone,”saidOop.“Notastone,”saidGhost.“Then,perhaps,”saidCarol,“you’lltellmewhatitis.”And thatwas theone thing,Maxwell toldhimself, thatneitherGhostnor

anyoneelsecoulddo.DiscoveredtenyearsorsoagobyTimeinvestigatorsonahilltop in the JurassicAge, it had been brought back to the present at a great

expenditureoffundsandingenuity.Itsweighthaddemandedenergyfarbeyondanythingsofarencounteredtokickitforwardintotime,anenergyrequirementwhich had made necessary the projection backward into time of a portablenuclear generator, transported inmany pieces and assembled on the site.Andthenthefurthertaskofbringingbackthegenerator,sincenothingofthatsort,asamatterofsimpleethics,couldbeabandonedinthepast-eveninthepastofthefarJurassic.

“Icannottellyou,”saidGhost.“Thereisnoonewhocantellyou.”Ghostwas right.No one had been able tomake any sense of it at all.A

massiveblockofsomesortofmaterialthatnowappearedtobeneitherstonenormetal, although at one time it had been thought to be a stone, and later on, ametal,ithaddefiedallinvestigation.Sixfeetlong,fourfeetoneachside,itwasamassofblacknessthatabsorbednoenergyandemittednone,thatbouncedalllight and other radiation from its surface, that could not be cut or dented,stopping a laser beam as neatly as if the beam had not existed. There wasnothing that could scratch it, nothing that could probe it-it gave up noinformationofanysortatall.ItrestedonitsraisedbaseintheforecourtofTimeMuseum,theonethingintheworldaboutwhichnoonecouldevenmakeavalidguess.

“Then,”askedCarol,“whytheconsternation?”“Because,” saidOop, “Pete here has the hunch itmay, at one time, have

been the god of the Little Folk. That is, if the lousy little stinkers had thecapacitytorecognizeagod.”

“I’msorry,”Carolsaid.“Iamtrulysorry. Ididn’tknow.Perhaps ifTimeknew…”

“There’snotenoughdata,”Maxwellsaid,“tomakeanytalkaboutit.Justahunchisall.JustafeelingfromcertainthingsI’veheardamongtheLittleFolk.Buteventheydon’tknow.Itwassolongago.”

Solongago,hethought.FortheloveofGod,almosttwohundredmillionyearsago!

“ThisOop,”saidCarol.“Ican’tgetoverhim.Thatfunnyhousehehasoutattheendofnowhere.”

“He’dbeoffended,”saidMaxwell,“ifheheardyoucallingitahouse.It’sashackandhe’sproudofit-asashack.Thejumpfromcavetohousewouldhavebeentoogreatforhim.He’dhavefeltuncomfortable.”

“Acave?Hereallylivedinacave?”“LetmetellyousomethingaboutoldfriendOop,”saidMaxwell.“Heisan

awful liar.You can’t believe all the stories that he tells. The cannibalism, forinstance…”

“Thatmakesmefeelalittlebetter.Peopleeatingoneanother!”“Oh,therewascannibalism,allright.Thereisnodoubtofthat.Butwhether

Oop himself was headed for the pot is another matter. On items of generalinformation,he is reliableenough. It’sonlywhenhegets toyarningabouthispersonalexperiencesthatyoushouldbegintodoubthim.”

“It’s funny,” saidCarol. “I’ve seen him around and havewondered a bitabout him, but I never thought I’dmeet him.Never reallywanted to, in fact.CertainpeopleIcandrawalineat,andhewasoneofthem.Iimaginedhewouldbeuncouth…”

“Oh,he’suncouth,”saidMaxwell.“Butcharming,too,”saidCarol.Clearautumnstarsshonefrostilydeep in thedarkenedsky.Theroadway,

almostunoccupied,wounditswayalongtheridge.Farbelowgleamedthefar-spreadingcampuslights.Thewind,blowinguptheridge,carriedthefaintsmellofburningleaves.

“Thefirewasnice,”saidCarol.“Whyisit,Peter,thatwedon’thavefires?Itwouldbesosimple.Afireplacewouldn’tbesohardtobuild.”

“Therewasatime,severalhundredyearsago,”saidMaxwell,“wheneveryhouse,oralmosteveryhouse,hadatleastonefireplace.Sometimesseveral.Thewhole thing, the whole business of having fires, was a throwback, of course.Back to the days when fire was a protection and a warmth. But, finally, weoutgrewit.”

“Idon’tthinkwedid,”shesaid.“Wejustwalkedaway,isall.Turnedourback upon this one segment of our past. We still have need of fire. Apsychologicalneed,perhaps.Ifoundthatouttonight.Itwassoexcitingandsocomfortable.Primal,maybe,buttherestillmustbesomeoftheprimalinus.”

“Oop,”hetoldher,“couldn’tlivewithoutafire.Thelackofafirewasthething that bugged himmostwhenTime brought himback.He had to be heldcaptive for a time, of course,when he firstwas brought here-closelywatchedover,ifnotactuallyconfined.Butwhenbebecamehisownmaster,sotospeak,hegotholdofapieceoflandoutattheedgeofthecampusandbuilthimselftheshack.Rough,thewayhewantedit.And,ofcourse,afireplace.Andagarden.Youshouldseehisgarden.Theideaofgrowingfoodwassomethingnewtohim.Somethingthatnoonebackinhisdayhadever thoughtabout.Nailsandsawsandhammers,andevenlumber,alsowerenewtohim,aswaseverything.Buthewashighlyadaptable.Hetooktothenewtoolsandideaswithoutasinglehitch.Nothingastonishedhim.Heusedhammerandsawandlumberandalltherestofit to build the shack. But I think it was the garden that seemed the mostwonderfultohim-togrowone’sfoodandnothuntforit.Isupposeyounoticed-

evennowheisimpressedwiththesheerbulkandtheeasyavailabilityoffood.”“Andofliquor,”saidCarol.Maxwelllaughed.“Anothernewideathathetookto.Ahobbyofhis,you

might almost say. He makes his own. He’s got a still out in the back of hiswoodshedandberunsoffsomeoftheworstmoonshinethatevertrickleddownyourthroat.Prettyvilestuff.”

“Butnottoguests,”saidCarol.“Thatwaswhiskeytonight.”“Youhavetobeafriendofhis,”saidMaxwell,“beforehe’llallowyouto

drinkhismoon.Thosefruitjarshesetout…”“Iwonderedaboutthose.Theyseemedtohavenothinginthem.”“Clear,rotgutmoonshine,thatwaswhatwasinthem.”“Yousaidhewasacaptiveonce.Andnow?Justhowcloselyishetiedto

Time?”“Awardof thecollege.Not really tiedatall.Butyoucouldn’tdrivehim

off.He’samoreloyalpartisanofTimethanyouare.”“AndGhost?HeliveshereatSupernatural?He’sawardofSupernatural?”“Hardly.Ghostisastraycat.Hegoesanywherehewishes.He’sgotfriends

allover theplanet.He’sbigstuff, Iunderstand,at theCollegeofComparativeReligionsontheHimalayanCampus.Buthemanagestodropinhereonafairlyregularbasis.HeandOophititofffromthemomentSupernaturalmadeitsfirstcontactwithGhost.”

“Pete,youcallhimGhost.Whatishe,really?”“Why,heisaghost.”“Butwhat’saghost?”“Idon’tknow.Idon’tthinkanybodydoes.”“Butyou’rewithSupernatural.”“Oh,sure,butallmyworkhasbeenwiththeLittleFolk,withemphasison

goblins, although I have an interest in every one of them.Even banshees andthere’snothingthatcomesmeanerormoreunreasonablethanabanshee.”

“Theremustbespecialistsinghosts,then.Whatdotheyhavetosayaboutit?”

“I’d guess they might have a few ideas. There are tons of literature onspookery,butI’veneverhadthetimetogointoit.Iknowthatbackintheearlyagesitwasbelievedthateveryone,whentheydied,turnedintoaghost,butnow,Iunderstand,thatnolongerisbelieved.Therearecertainspecialcircumstancesthatgiverisetoghosts,butIdon’tknowwhattheyare.”

“That face of his,” said Carol. “A little spooky, maybe, but somehowfascinating.Ihadahardtimetokeepfromstaringathim.Justadarkblanknessfolded insidehis sheetwhich, I suppose, isnota sheet.Andat timesahintof

eyes.Littlelightsthatcouldbeeyes.OrwasIimagining?”“No.I’veimaginedthemmyself.”“Willyou,”askedCarol,“grabholdofthatfoolcatandpullhiminafootor

so.He’sslippingoutontothefasterbelt.Hehasnosensewhatever.He’llgotosleepanytime,atanyplace.Eatandsleepisallhethinksabout.”

MaxwellreacheddownandtuggedSylvesterbackintohisoriginalposition.Sylvestergrowledandmumbledinhissleep.

Maxwell straightened and leaned back into his chair, looking up into thesky.

“Lookat thestars,”hesaid.“ThereisnothingliketheskiesofEarth.I’mgladtobebackagain.”

“Andnowthatyou’reback?”“After I seeyousafelyhomeandpickupmy luggage, I’mgoingback to

Oop’s. He’ll have one of those fruit jars all unscrewed and we’ll do somedrinkingandsitand talk tilldawn, then I’llget into thebedhehas forguests,andhe’llcurluponhispileof leaves…“Isawthoseleavesoverinthecornerandwasconsumedwithcuriosity.ButIdidn’task.”

“Hesleepsthereallthetime.Notcomfortableinabed.Afterall,whenformanyyearsapileofleaveshasbeentheheightofluxury…”

“You’retryingtomakeafoolofmeagain.”“No,I’mnot,”saidMaxwell.“I’mtellingyouthetruth.”“Ididn’tmeanwhatwillyoudotonight.Imeanwhatwillyoudo?Youare

dead,remember?”“I’ll explain,” said Maxwell. “I’ll continually explain. Everywhere I go

there’llbepeoplewho’llwanttoknowwhathappened.Theremightevenbeaninvestigationofsomesort.Isincerelyhopetherewon’t,butIsupposetheremayhavetobe.”

“I’msorry,”Carolsaid,“but,then,I’malsoglad.Howfortunateitwasthatthereweretwoofyou.”

“If Transport could work it out,” said Maxwell, “they might havesomethingtheycouldsell.Allofuscouldkeepasecondoneofusstashedawaysomewhereagainstemergency.”

“But it wouldn’t work,” Carol pointed out. “Not personally. This otherPeterMaxwellwasasecondpersonand-oh,Idon’tknowwhatImean.It’stoolateatnighttogetitfiguredout,butI’msureitwouldn’twork.”

“No,”saidMaxwell.“No,Iguessitwouldn’t.Itwasabadidea.”“Itwasaniceevening,”saidCarol.“Ithankyousomuchforit.Ihadalot

offun.”“AndSylvesterhadalotofsteak.”

“Yes,hedid.He’llnotforgetyou.Helovesfolkswhogivehimsteak.He’snothingbutaglutton.”

“Thereisjustonething,”saidMaxwell.“Onethingyoudidn’ttellus.WhowasitthatmadetheofferfortheArtifact?”

“Idon’tknow.Justthattherewasanoffer.Goodenough,Igather,forTimetoconsiderit.IsimplyoverheardasnatchofconversationIwasnotsupposedtohear.Doesitmakeadifference?”

“Itcould,”saidMaxwell.“I remembernow,” she said. “Therewas anothername.Not theonewho

meanttobuyit,orIdon’tthinkitwas.Justsomeonewhowasinvolved.Ithadslippedmymind tillnow.Someoneby thenameofChurchill.Does thatmeananythingtoyou?”

Oopwas sitting in front of the fireplace, paring his toenailswith a largejackknife,whenMaxwellreturned,carryinghisbag.

Oopgesturedwithhisknife toward thebed.“Sling itover thereand thencomeandsitdownwithme.I’vejustputacoupleofnewlogsonthefireandIhaveajughalffinishedandacouplemorehidout.”

“Where’sGhost?”askedMaxwell.“Oh,hedisappeared. Idon’tknowwherehewent;henever tellsme.But

he’llbebackagain.Heneverisgonelong.”Maxwellput thebagon thebed,wentover to thefireplaceandsatdown,

leaningagainstitsroughstoneface.“Youplayedtheclowntonight,”hesaid,“somewhatbetterthanyouusually

manage.Whatwasthebigidea?”“Those big eyes of hers,” said Oop, grinning. “And just begging to be

shocked.Iamsorry,Pete.Isimplycouldn’thelpit.”“All that talk about cannibalismandvomiting,” saidMaxwell. “Thatwas

prettylow.”“Well,” saidOop, “I guess I just got carried away. That’s theway folks

expectacrummyNeanderthaltoact.”“The girl’s no fool,” said Maxwell. “She planted that story about the

ArtifactasneatlyasIhaveeverseenitdone.”“Plantedit?”“Sure,planted it.Youdon’t think it just slippedout,doyou, thewayshe

pretendedthatitdid?”“Ihadn’tthoughtofthat,”saidOop.“Maybeshedid.Butifshedid,whydo

youthinkshedidit?”“I would guess she doesn’t want it sold. Figured that if she told it to a

blabbermouthlikeyouitwouldbealloverthecampusbeforenoontomorrow.A

lotoftalkaboutit,shemightfigure,wouldhelptokillthedeal.”“Butyouknow,Pete,thatI’mnoblabbermouth.”“Iknowit.Butyouactedlikeonetonight.”Oopclosedthejackknifeandsliditinhispocket,pickedupthehalf-empty

fruitjarandhandedittoMaxwell.Maxwellputittohismouthanddrank.Thefiery liquidslashed likeaknifealonghis throatandhechoked.Hewished,hethought,thatforoncehecoulddrinkthestuffwithoutchokingonit.Hetookitdownandsatthere,gaspingforbreath,shiveringjustalittle.

“Potentstuff,”saidOop.“BestbatchI’verunoffforquiteawhile.Didyouseethebeadonit?”

Maxwell,unabletospeak,nodded.Oopreachedoutandtookthejar,tilteditup,lowereditslevelbyaninchor

more.Hetookitdownandhelditlovinglyagainsthishairychest.Heletouthisbreath in awhoosh thatmade the flames in the fireplacedance.Hepatted thebottlewithhisfreehand.

“First-ratestuff,”hesaid.Hewipedhismouthwiththebackofhishandandsat,staringatthefire.“She couldn’t, certainly, have taken you for a blabbermouth,” he finally

said.“Inoticethatyoudidsomefancyskatingofyourowntonight.Allaroundthetruth.”

“MaybebecauseIdon’tentirelyknowthetruthmyself,”saidMaxwell.“Orwhattodoaboutit.Yousettodosomelistening?”

“Anytime,”saidOop.“Ifthatiswhatyouwant.Althoughyoudon’tneedtotellme.Notoutoffriendship.Youknowwe’llstillbefriendsifyoutellmenothing.Wedon’tevenneedtotalkaboutit.Therearealotofotherthingswecouldtalkabout.”

Maxwell shookhishead.“Ihave to tellyou,Oop. Ihave to tell someoneandyou’retheonlyoneIwoulddaretotell.There’stoomuchofitformetogooncarryingitalone.”

Oophandedhimthefruitjar.“Takeanotherslugofthat,thenstartanytimeyouwant.What I can’t figure out is the goof byTransport. I don’t believe ithappened.Iwouldmakeaguessthatitwassomethingelse.”

“And you’d be right,” said Maxwell. “There’s a planet out theresomewhere.Fairlyclose,I’dguess.Afreewheelingplanet,not tiedtoanysun,althoughIgatherthatitcouldinsertitselfintoasolarsystemanytimeitwishes.”

“Thatwouldtakesomedoing.Itwouldmessuptheorbitsofall theotherplanets.”

“Notnecessarily,”saidMaxwell.“Itwouldn’thave to takeanorbit in thesameplane as the other planets.Thatwouldhold down the effect of its being

there.”Heliftedthefruitjar,shuthiseyes,andtookahealthygulp.Thetopofhis

head came off and his stomach bounced.He lowered the jar and leaned backagainst the roughness of themasonry. Awindwasmewing in the chimney-alonelysound,butasoundshutoutsidebytheroughboardwalls.Alogfellinthefireplaceandsentupashowerofsparks.Theflamesdancedhighandifickeringshadowschasedoneanotherallabouttheroom.

OopreachedoutandtookthejaroutofMaxwell’shands,butdidnotdrinkimmediately.Heheldit,cuddled,inhislap.

“So thisotherplanet reachedoutandcopiedyourwavepattern,”he said,“andthereweretwoofyou.”

“Howdidyouknowthat?”“Deduction.Itwasthemostlogicalwayforittohappen.Iknowtherewere

twoofyou.Therewas thisotheronewhocamebackbeforeyoudid. I talkedwithhimandhewasyou-hewasasmuchPeteMaxwellasyouare,sittingthere.Hesaidtherewasnodragon,thattheCoonskinbusinesshadbeenawild-goosechase,andsohecamehomeaheadofhisschedule.”

“Sothatwasit,”saidMaxwell.“Ihadwonderedwhyhecamebackearly.”“I’m hard put to it,” said Oop, “to decide if I should rejoice or mourn.

Perhaps a bit of both, leaving some room for wonderment at the strangeworkingsofhumandestiny.Thisothermanwasyouandnowhe’sdeadand Ihavelostafriend-forhewasahumanbeingandapersonalityandthathumanityandpersonalitycametoanendwithdeath.Butnowthere’syouandif,before,I’dlostafriend,nowIhaveregainedthatlostfriend,foryouareastrulyPeterMaxwellasthatotherone.”

“Iwastoldanaccident.”“I’mnot sure,” saidOop. “I’vebeendoing some thinking about it. Since

you came back, I’m not so sure at all. Hewas getting off a roadway and hetrippedandfell,hithishead…”

“Youdon’ttripwhenyou’regettingoffaroadway.Unlessyou’redrunkorcrippleduporawkward.Thatoutsidebeltisbarelycrawling.”

“Iknow,”saidOop.“That’swhatthepolicethought,too.Buttherewasnoother explanation and the police, as you well know, require some sort ofexplanation,sotheycanclosethefile.Itwasina lonelyplace.AbouthalfwaybetweenhereandGoblinReservation.Noonesawit.Musthavehappenedwhenthere was almost no one traveling. Maybe at night. He was found about teno’clock in the morning. There would have been people traveling from sixo’clock on, but probably they’d have been on the inner, faster belts. Theywouldn’thave seen toomuchon theoutsideof thebelt.Thebodycouldhave

beenlyingthereforalongtimebeforeitwasfound.”“Youthinkitwasn’tanaccident?Thatitmayhavebeenamurder?”“Idon’tknow.Thethoughthasoccurredtome.Therewasonefunnything

aboutit-somethingthatneverwasexplained.Therewasafunnysmellaboutthebodyandthearea.Astrangesortofodor,likenothinganyonehadeversmelledbefore.Maybesomeonefoundoutthatthereweretwoofyou.Forsomereason,someonemaynothavewantedtwoofyou.”

“Butwhocouldhaveknownthereweretwoofme?”“Thepeopleonthatotherplanet.Iftherewerepeople…”“Therewerepeople,”Maxwellsaid.“Itwasamostamazingplace.…”Itallcamebackashesattheretalking,almostasifhewerethereagain.A

crystalplace-orthathadbeenwhatithadlookedtobewhenhefirsthadseenit.An extensive crystal plain that ran on and on and a crystal sky with crystalpillarsreachingfromtheplainandupward,apparently to thesky,althoughthetopsofthemwerelostinthemilkinessofsky-pillarssoaringupwardtoholdthesky in place. An empty place, to make one think of a deserted ballroom ofextensivesize,allcleanedandpolishedforaball,waitingforthemusicandthedancerswhohadnevercomeandnowwouldnevercome,leavingtheballroomempty through all eternity, shining in all its polished glitter and its wastedgraciousness.

Aballroom,butaballroomwithoutanywalls,runningonandon,nottoahorizon, for there seemed to be no horizon, but to a pointwhere the sky-thatstrange,milk-glasssky-camedowntomeetthecrystalfloor.

Hestoodastoundedin thevast immensity,animmensitynotofboundlesssky, for the sky was far from boundless, nor from great distances, for thedistanceswerenotgreat,butimmensitythatwasmeasuredasaroomwouldbe,as if one were in a giant’s house and lost and were looking for a door, andwithout a clue as to where a door might be. A place with no distinguishingfeatures,witheachpillarlikethenext,withnocloudinthesky(ifitwereasky),witheachfoot,eachmilelikeeveryotherfootandmile,levelandpavedwithacrystalpavingthatstretchedoutinalldirections.

Hewantedtocryout,toaskifanyonewerethere,butwasafraidtocryout-perhapsinthefear,althoughhedidnotrealizeitthenandonlythoughtitlater,that a single soundwould send all this cold and shining splendor shimmeringintoacloudoffrostydust.Fortheplacewassilent,withnoslightestwhisperofasound.Silentandcoldandlonely,allitssplendoranditswhitenesslostintheloneliness.

Slowly,carefully,fearingthatthescuffofhismovingfeetmightbringthiswholeworld intodust,hepivotedandoutof thecornerofhiseyehecaughta

glimpse-notofmotion,but the flickeringsenseofmotion,as if somethinghadbeenthere,buthadmovedsofastthathiseyehadfailedtocatchit.Hehalted,theshorthairspricklingonthebackofhisneck,engulfedbythesenseofutterstrangeness rather than of actual danger, apprehensive of a strangeness sodistortedandsotwistedoutofthenormalhumancontextthatamangazingatitmightgomadbeforehehadachancetojerkhiseyesaway.

Nothinghappenedandhemovedagain,pivotinginchbycautiousinch,andnowhesawthathehadbeenstandingwithhisbackturnedonwhatappearedtobeanassemblageofsomesort-anengine?aninstrument?amachine?

Andallatonceheknew.Herewasthestrangecontraptionthathadbroughthim here, this crazy crystal world’s equivalent of a matter transmitter andreceiver.

Butthis,heknewatonce,wasnottheCoonskinsystem.Itwasnoplacehehadeverheardof.Nowhere in theknownuniversewas thereaplace like this.Somethinghadgonewrongandhehadbeenhurled,nottotheCoonskinplanetwhichhadbeenhisdestination,buttosomefar,forgottencorneroftheuniverse,tosomearea,perhaps,wheremanwouldnotpenetrateforanothermillionyears,sofarawayfromEarththatthedistancesinvolvedbecameunimaginable.

Now again there were flickering motions, as if living shadows movedagainst the crystal background. As he watched, the flickering flowed intoshiftingshapeandformandhecouldseethatthereweremanymovingshapes,allofthem,strangely,separateentitiesthatseemedtohold,withintheflickerofthem,individualpersonalities.Asif,hethoughtinhorror,theywerethingsthathadoncebeenpeople-asiftheymightbealienghosts.

“AndIacceptedthem,”hesaidtoOop.“Iacceptedthem-onfaith,perhaps.Itwaseither thator reject themandbe left there, standingall aloneupon thatcrystalplain.Amanofacenturyago,perhaps,wouldnothaveacceptedthem.Hewouldhavebeeninclinedtosweepthemoutofhismindaspureimagination.ButIhadspenttoomanyhourswithGhosttogagatthethoughtofghosts.Ihadworkedtoolongwithsupernaturalphenomenatoquibbleattheideaofcreaturesandofcircumstancesbeyondthehumanpale.

“Andthestrange thingabout it, thecomforting thingabout it, is that theysensedthatIacceptedthem.”

“And that is it?” askedOop. “Aplanet full of ghosts?”Maxwell nodded,“Perhaps that’s oneway of looking at it. But letme ask you-what really is aghost?”

“Aspook,”saidOop.“Aspirit.”“Butwhatdoyoumeanbyspook?Defineaspiritforme.”“Iknow,”saidOopregretfully.“Iwasbeingabitfacetiousandtherewas

no excuse for it.We don’t know what a ghost is. Even Ghost doesn’t knowexactlywhatheis.Hesimplyknowsthatheexists-andifanyoneshouldknow,he should. He hasmulled over it a lot. He’s thought about it deeply. He hascommunedwithfellowghostsandthere isnoevidence.Soyoufallbackuponthesupernatural…”

“Whichisnotunderstood,”saidMaxwell.“Amutationofsomesort,”suggestedOop.“Collins thought so,” saidMaxwell. “Buthe stoodalone. I know Ididn’t

agreewithhim,butthatwasbeforeIwasonthecrystalplanet.NowI’mnotsosure.Whathappenswhenaracereachesanend,when,asarace, ithaspassedthroughchildhoodandmiddleageandnowhasreachedoldage?Aracedyingasaman does, dying of old age.What does it do, then? It could die, of course.That’s what one would expect of it. But suppose there was a reason that itcouldn’t die, suppose it had to hangon, had to stay alive for someoverridingreason,thatitcouldnotallowitselftodie?”

“If ghostliness really is a mutation,” said Oop, “if they knew it was amutation,iftheyweresofaradvancedtheycouldcontrolmutation-”

He stopped and looked at Maxwell. “You think that’s what might havehappened?”

“I think itmight,” saidMaxwell. “I am beginning to think verymuch itmight.”

Oophandedacross the fruit jar. “Youneedadrink,”he said. “Andwhenyou’rethroughwithit,I’llhaveone,myself.”

Maxwelltookthejar,holdingit,notdrinkingrightaway.Oopreachedouttothestackofwood,liftedachunkinonemassivefistandthrewitonthefire.Asprayof sparksgushedup the chimney.Outside thenightwindmoanedalongtheeaves.

Maxwell liftedthejaranddrank.Thesplashof liquidrandownhisgulletlikeatorrentoflava.Hechoked,wishingthathecoulddrinkthestuff,justonce,withoutchokingonit.HehandedthejarbacktoOop.Oopliftedit,thentookitdownagainwithoutdrinking.HesquintedacrossitsrimatMaxwell.

“You said something to live for. Some reason that they couldn’t die-thattheyhadtokeeponexisting,anywaytheycould.”

“That’sright,”saidMaxwell.“Information.Knowledge.Aplanetcrammedwithknowledge.Astorehouseofknowledge-andIwoulddoubtthatatenthofitduplicatesourown.Therestofitisnew,unknown.Someofitmaterialwehaveneverdreamedof.Knowledgethatwemaynotferretoutshortofamillionyears,ifweeverferretit.Itisstored,electronicallyIsuppose-arrangingatomsinsuchamannerthateachatomcarriesabitofinformation.Storedinmetalsheets,like

thepagesofabook,stacked ingreatheapsandpilesandeach layerofatoms-yes, theyarearrangedin layers-carriesseparate information.Youread thefirstlayerand thengodown to thesecond layer.Again, likepages inabook,eachlayerofatomsapage,onestackedatoptheother.Eachsheetofmetal-don’taskme,Ican’tevenguess,howmanylayersofatomsineachmetalsheet.Hundredsofthousands,Iwouldsuspect.”

Oop lifted the jar hastily, took a tremendous gulp, part of the liquorsprayingoutacrosshiswoollychest.Heletouthisbreathinalustybelch.

“Theycan’tabandonthisknowledge,”saidMaxwell.“Theyhavetopassitontosomeonewhocanuseit.Theyhavetostayalive,somehow,untiltheypassiton.Andthat,fortheloveofGod,iswhereIcomein.Theycommissionedmetosellitforthem.”

“Sell it for them! A bunch of ghosts, hanging on by their very toenails!Whatwouldtheywant?What’sthepricetheyask?”

Maxwell put up his hand and wiped his forehead, which had sprouted asuddenmistofsweat.“Idon’tknow,”hesaid.

“Don’tknow?Howcanyousellathingifyoudon’tknowwhatit’sworth,ifyoudon’thaveanaskingprice?”

“They said theywould tellme later.They said to get someone interestedandthey’dgetwordtomeonwhatthepricewouldbe.”

“That,”saidOop,disgusted,“isahellofawaytomakeabusinessdeal.”“Yes,Iknow,”saidMaxwell.“Youhavenohintofprice?”“Not the faintest. I tried toexplain to themand theycouldn’tunderstand,

maybetheyrefusedtounderstand.AndsincethenIhavegoneoveritandoveritandthere’snowayIcanknow.Itallboilsdown,ofcourse,towhataganglikethatmightwant.Andforthelifeofme,Ican’tthinkofathingthey’dwant.”

“Well,” saidOop, “they picked the right place tomake their sales pitch.Howdoyouplantogoaboutit?”

“I’llgoupandtalktoArnold.”“Youpickthemtough,”saidOop.“Look, I have to talk with Arnold and to no one else. This can’t go up

through channels.There can’t aword of it leak out.On the surface, it soundsharebrained.Ifthecommunicationsmediaorthegossip-mongersgotholdofit,theuniversitywouldn’tdaretotouchit.Ifitwereknownandtheydidconsideritandthedealfellthrough-and,believeme,workinginthedark,asIhavetowork,thedealcouldwellfallthrough-there’dbejustoneloudguffawallthewayfromhereclearouttotheRim.ItwouldbeArnold’sneckandmyneckand…”

“Pete,Arnoldisnothingbutabigstuffedshirt.YouknowthataswellasI

do. He’s an administrator. He’s running the business end of this university. Idon’tcareifhehasthetitleofpresidentornot,he’sjustthemanager.Hedoesn’tgiveadamnabouttheacademicendofit.Hewon’tstickouthisneckforthreeplanetsfullofknowledge.”

“Thepresidentoftheuniversityhastobeanadministrator…”“Ifitcouldhavecomeatanyothertime,”mournedOop,“youmighthave

hadachance.Butasitstandsrightnow,Arnoldiswalkingonacrateofeggs.MovingtheadministrationfromNewYorktothisjerkwatercampus…”

“Acampus,”putinMaxwell,“withagreatliberaltraditionand-”“Universitypolitics,”declaredOop,“doesn’tcareaboutliberaltraditionsor

anyotherkindoftraditions.”“Isupposenot,”saidMaxwell,“butArnold’sthemanIhavetosee.Icould

wishitweresomeoneelse.Ihavenoadmirationfortheman,buthe’stheoneIhavetoworkwith.”

“Youcouldhaveturneditdown.”“The jobofnegotiator?No, I couldn’t,Oop.Nomancouldhave.They’d

havehadtofindsomeoneelseandtheymightgetsomeonewho’dbungleit.NotthatI’msureIwon’tbungleit,butatleastI’lltry.Andit’snotonlyforus,it’sforthemaswell.”

“Yougottolikethesepeople?”“I’mnotsurejusthowmuchIlikedthem.Admiredthem,maybe.Feltsorry

forthem,maybe.They’redoingwhattheycan.Theyhuntedforsolongtofindsomeonetheycouldpasstheknowledgeonto.”

“Passiton?Yousaiditwasforsale.”“Only because there is something that theywant or need. Iwish I could

figureoutwhatitis.Itwouldmakeeverythingeasierforeveryoneconcerned.”“Minorquestion-youtalkedwiththem.Howdidyougoaboutit?”“The tablets,” saidMaxwell. “I told you about the tablets. The sheets of

metal that carried information. They talkedwithmewith tablets and I talkedwiththemthesameway.”

“Buthowcouldyouread…”“Theygavemeacontraption,likeapairofglasses,apairofgoggles,really,

butbiggerthanapairofgoggles.Itwasasortofbulkything.Isupposeithadalotofmechanismsinit.I’dputitonandthenIcouldreadthetablets.Noscript,justlittlejigglesinthemetal.It’shardtoexplain.Butyoulookedatthejigglesthroughthecontraptionthatyouworeandyouknewwhatthejigglessaid.Itwasadjustable,Ifoundoutlater,soyoucouldreadthedifferentatomiclayers.Buttostartwith, theyonlywrotememessages, ifwroteisthewordtouse.Likekidswritingbackandforthtooneanotheronslates.Iwrotebacktothembythinking

intoanothercontraptionthatwastiedintothepairofgogglesthatIwore.”“Atranslator,”saidGop.“Isupposethat’swhatitwas.Atwo-waytranslator.”“We’ve tried to work one out,” saidOop. “Bywe Imean the combined

ingenuity not only of the Earth, but of what we laughingly call the knowngalaxy.”

“Yes,Iknow,”saidMaxwell.“Andthesefolkshadone.Theseghostsofyours.”“They have a whole lot more,” said Maxwell. “I don’t know what they

have. I sampled some ofwhat they had.At random. Just enough to convincemyselftheyhadwhattheysaid.”

“One thing still bugsme,” saidOop. “You said a planet.What about thestar.”

“Theplanetisroofedover.Therewasastar,Igather,butyoucouldn’tseeit,notfromthesurface.Thepointis,ofcourse,thatthereneedn’tbeastar.Youareacquainted,Ithink,withtheconceptoftheoscillatinguniverse.”

“Theyo-youniverse,”saidOop.“Theone thatgoesbang,and thenbang,bangagain.”

“That’sright,”saidMaxwell.“Andnowwecanquitwonderingaboutit.Ithappens to be true. The crystal planet comes from the universe that existedbeforethepresentuniversewasformed.Theyhaditfiguredout,yousee.Theyknewthetimewouldcomewhenalltheenergywouldbegoneandallthedeadmatterwouldstartmovingslowlybacktoformanothercosmicegg,sothattheeggcouldexplodeagainandgivebirthtoyetanotheruniverse.Theyknewtheywereapproachingthedeathoftheuniverseandthatunlesssomethingweredone,it would be death for them as well. So they launched a project. A planetaryproject.Theysuckedinenergyandstoredit-don’taskmehowtheyextracteditfromwherever they extracted it or how they stored it. Stored somehow in theverymaterialoftheplanet,sothatwhentherestoftheuniversewentblackanddead, theystillhadenergy.Theyroofedtheplanet in, theymadeahouseofit.Theyworked out propulsionmechanisms so they couldmove their planet, sothat theywouldbe an independentbodymoving independently through space.Andbeforetheinwarddriftingofthedeadmatteroftheuniversebegan,theylefttheir star, adeadandblackenedcinderby this time, and set outon their own.That’s the way they have been since then, a holdover population riding on aplanetaryspaceship.Theysawtheolduniversedie,theonebeforethisone.Theywere left alone in space, in space thathadnohintof life,noglintof light,noquiver of energy. It may be-I don’t know-that they saw the formation of thebrand-newcosmicegg.Theycouldhavebeenveryfarfromitandseenit.Andif

theysaw it, theysaw theexplosion thatmarked thebeginningof thisuniversewelive in, theblindingflash,faroff, thatsent theenergystreakingintospace.Theysawthefirststarsglowred, theysawthegalaxies takeshape.Andwhenthe galaxies had formed, they joined this newuniverse.They could go to anygalaxytheychose,setupanorbitaboutanystartheywished.Theycouldmoveanytime they wanted to. They were universal gypsies. But the end is nearingnow. The planet, I suppose, could keep on and on, for the energymachinerymuststillbeoperative.I imaginetheremightevenbea limit to theplanet,butthey’renotevenclosetothat.Buttheraceisdyingoutandtheyhavestoredintheirrecordstheknowledgeoftwouniverses.”

“Fiftybillionyears,”saidOop.“Fiftybillionyearsoflearning.”“Atleastthatmuch,”saidMaxwell.“Itcouldbeagreatdealmore.”Theysat, silent, thinkingof thosefiftybillionyears.Thefiremumbled in

thechimney’sthroat.FromfaroffcamethechimingoftheclockinMusicHall,countingoffthetime.

Maxwell awoke. Oop was shaking him. “Someone here to see you.”Maxwellthrewbackthecovers,hoistedhisfeetoutonthefloor,gropedblindlyforhistrousers.Oophandedthemtohim.

“Whoisit?”“Said his name was Longfellow. Nasty, high-nosed gent. He’s waiting

outsideforyou.Youcouldseehewouldn’triskcontaminationbysteppingintheshack.”

“Thentohellwithhim,”saidMaxwell,startingtocrawlbackintobed.“No, no,” protestedOop. “I don’tmind at all. I’m above insult. There is

nothingthatcanfazeme.”Maxwellstruggledintohistrousers,slidhisfeetintohisshoesandkickedthemon.

“Anyideawhothisfellowis?”“Noneatall,”saidOop.Maxwellstumbledacrosstheroomtothebenchsetagainstthewall,spilled

waterfromthebucketstandingthereintoawashbasin,bentandsloshedwateronhisface.

“Whattimeisit?”heasked.“Alittleafterseven.”“Mr.Longfellowmusthavebeeninahurrytoseeme.”“He’souttherenow,pacingupanddown.Impatient.”Longfellowwasimpatient.AsMaxwellcameoutofthedoor,hehurrieduptohimandheldoutahand.“ProfessorMaxwell,”hesaid,“I’msogladIfoundyou.Itwasquiteajob.

Someonetoldmeyoumightbehere,”heglancedattheshackandhislongnose

crinkledjustatrifle,“soItookthechance.”“Oop,”saidMaxwell,quietly,“isanoldandvaluedfriend.”“Could we, perhaps, take a stroll,” suggested Longfellow. “It is an

unusually fine morning. Have you breakfasted yet? No, I don’t suppose youhave.”

“Itmighthelp,”saidMaxwell,“ifyoutoldmewhoyouare.”“I’m in Administration. Stephen Longfellow is the name. Appointments

secretarytothepresident.”“Then you’re just the man I want to see,” said Maxwell. “I need an

appointmentwiththepresidentassoonaspossible.”Longfellowshookhisbead.“Iwouldsayoffhandthatisquiteimpossible.”They fell into step and walked along the path that led down toward the

roadway.Leavesofwondrous,shiningyellowfellslowlythroughtheairfromathick-branchedwalnut tree that stoodbeside thepath.Downby the roadwayamapletreewasablazeofscarletagainst thebluenessofthemorningsky.AndfarinthatskystreamedaV-shapedflockofducksheadingsouthward.

“Impossible,”saidMaxwell.“Youmakeitsoundfinal.Asifyou’dthoughtaboutitandcometoyourdecision.”

“If you wish to communicate with Dr. Arnold,” Longfellow told himcoldly,“thereareproperchannels.Youmustunderstandthepresidentisabusymanand…”

“Iunderstandall that,”saidMaxwell,“andIunderstandaswellabout thechannels. Innumerable delays, a request passed on fromhand to hand and theknowledgeofone’scommunicationspreadamongsomanypeople-”

“ProfessorMaxwell,”Longfellow said, “there is nouse, it seems, to beatabout the bush.You’re a persistentman and, I suspect, a rather stubbornone,andwithamanof thatbent it isoftenbest to lay iton the line.Thepresidentwon’tseeyou.Hecan’taffordtoseeyou.”

“Because there seems to have been two of me? Because one of me isdead?”

“Thepresswillbefullofitthismorning.Alltheheadlinesshoutingaboutamancomebackfromthedead.Haveyouheard theradio,perhaps,orwatchedtelevision?”

“No,”Maxwellsaid,“Ihaven’t.”“Well,whenyougotaroundtoityou’llfindthatyou’vebeenmadeathree-

ringcircus.Idon’tmindtellingyouthatitisembarrassing.”“Youmeanascandal?”“I suppose you could call it that. And administration has trouble enough

without identifyingitselfwithasituationsuchasyours.Thereis thismatterof

Shakespeare,forexample.Wecan’tduckthatone,butwecanduckyou.”“But surely,” saidMaxwell, “administration can’t be too concerned with

Shakespeare and myself as compared to all the other problems that it faces.ThereistheuproarovertherevivalofduelingatHeidelbergandthedisputeovertheethicsofemployingcertainalienstudentsonthefootballsquadsand-”

“But can’t you see,” walled Longfellow, “that what happens on thisparticularcampusarethethingsthatmatter.”

“Becauseadministrationwastransferredhere?WhenOxfordandCaliforniaandHarvardandhalfadozenothers-”

“If you ask me,” Longfellow declared stiffly, “it was a piece of poorjudgmentonthepartoftheboardofregents.Ithasmadethingsverydifficultforadministration.”

“Whatwouldhappen,”askedMaxwell,“ifIjustwalkedupthehillandintoadministrationandstartedpoundingdesks?”

“Youknowwellenough.You’dbethrownout.”“But if Ibroughtalongacorpsof thenewspaperand televisionboysand

theywereoutsidewatching?”“Isupposethenyouwouldn’tbethrownout.Youmightevengettoseethe

president.ButIcanassureyouthatundercircumstancessuchasthoseyou’dnotgetwhateveritmaybeyouwant.”

“So,”saidMaxwell,“I’dlose,nomatterhowIwentaboutit.”“Asamatterof fact,”Longfellow toldhim,“Ihadcome thismorningon

quiteadifferentmission.Iwasbringinghappynews.”“I can imagine thatyouwere,” saidMaxwell. “Whatkindof sopareyou

preparedtothrowmetomakemedisappear?”“Notasop,”saidLongfellow,muchaggrieved.“Iwastoldtoofferyouthe

post of dean at the experimental college the university is establishing out onGothicIV.”

“Youmeanthatplanetwithallthewitchesandthewarlocks?”“Itwouldbea splendidopportunity for aman inyour field,”Longfellow

insisted.“Aplanetwherewizardrydevelopedwithout the interventionofotherintelligences,asisthecaseonEarth.”

“Ahundredandfiftylight-yearsdistant,”saidMaxwell.“SomewhatremoteandIwouldthinkitmightbedreary.ButIsupposethesalarywouldbegood.”

“Verygoodindeed.”“No,thanks,”saidMaxwell.“I’msatisfiedwithmyjob,righthere.”“Job?”askedLongfellow.“Why,yes.Incaseyouhaveforgotten,I’monthefaculty.”Longfellowshookhishead.“Notanylonger,”hesaid.“Haveyou,byany

chance,forgotten?Youdied,morethanthreeweeksago.Wecan’tletvacanciesgounfilled.”

“YoumeanI’vebeenreplaced?”“Why, most certainly,” Longfellow told him nastily. “As it stands right

now,youareunemployed.”Thewaiterbroughtthescrambledeggsandbacon,pouredthecoffee,then

wentawayandleftMaxwellatthetable.Throughthewideexpanseofwindow,LakeMendotastretchedaway,asheetofglassyblue,withthefaintsuggestionofpurplehillson theother shore.Asquirrel randown theboleof thegnarledoaktreethatstoodjustoutsidethewindowandhalted,headdownward,tostarewithbeadyeyesatthemansittingatthetable.Abrownandredoakleafplaneddowndeliberately,frombranchtoground,wobblinginthetinythermalcurrentsofair.Ontherockyshoreaboyandgirlwalkedslowly,handinhand,throughthelakeshore’smorninghush.

Itwouldhavebeencivilized andgracious,Maxwell toldhimself, tohaveacceptedLongfellow’s invitationtoeatbreakfastwithhim,butbythat timehehad had all that he could take of the appointments secretary and all that hewanted, at the moment, was to be alone, to gain a little time to sort out thesituationandtodosomethinking-althoughprobablyhecouldnotaffordthetimeforthinking.

Oophadbeenright;itwasapparentnowthattoseetheuniversitypresidentwouldbenoeasytask,notonlybecauseofthatofficial’sbusyscheduleandhisstaff’sobsessionofdoingthingsthroughchannels,butbecauseforsomereason,not entirely understood, this matter of twin Peter Maxwells had assumed theproportions of a scandal from which Arnold had the fervent wish to bedisassociated.Maxwellwondered,sittingthereandgazingoutthewindowatthepopeyed, staring squirrel, whether this attitude of the administrationmight gobacktotheinterviewwithDrayton.HadSecurityzeroedinonArnold?Itdidn’tseem too likely, but it was,Maxwell admitted, a possibility. But be that as itmay,thedepthofArnold’sjitteryattitudewasemphasizedbythehurriedofferof thepostonGothicIV.Notonlydidadministrationwantnothing todowiththis second Peter Maxwell, it wanted him off the Earth as well, buried on aplanetwhereinthespaceofalittletimehewouldbeforgotten.

ItwasunderstandablethathispostatSupernaturalhadbeenfilledafterthedeathoftheotherPeterMaxwell.Afterall,classesmustgoon.Gapscouldnotbe left in the faculty. But even so, therewere other positions that could havebeen found for him. The fact that this had not been done, that theGothic IVposition had been so quickly offered, was evidence enough that he was notwantedontheEarth.

Yet, it all was strange. Administration could not have known untilsometimeyesterdaythattwoPeterMaxwellshadexisted.Therecouldnothavebeenaproblem, there’dhavebeennobasis foraproblem,until thatwordhadbeenreceived.Whichmeant,Maxwelltoldhimself,thatsomeonehadgottentoadministration fast-someonewhowanted to get rid of him, someonewhowasafraid that he would interfere. But interfere in what? And the answer to thatseemed so glib and easy that he felt, instinctively, that itmust bewrong.Butsearch ashemight, therewasone answeronly-that someone elseknewof thehoardofknowledgeonthecrystalplanetandwasworkingtogetholdofit.

There was one name to go on. Carol had said Churchill-that ChurchillsomehowwasinvolvedintheofferthathadbeenmadetoTimefortheArtifact.WasitpossiblethattheArtifactwasthepriceofthecrystalplanet’sknowledge?Onecouldn’tcountonthat,ofcourse,althoughitmightbeso,fornooneknewwhattheArtifactmightbe.

That Churchill was working on the deal was no surprise at all. Not forhimself,ofcourse,butforsomeoneelse.Forsomeonewhocouldnotaffordtohavehisidentityrevealed.ItwasindealssuchasthisthatChurchillmightproveuseful. The man was a professional fixer and knew his way around. He hadcontacts and through longyearsofoperationundoubtedlyhad laidoutvariouspipelinesofinformationintomanystrangeandpowerfulplaces.

Andifsuchwerethecase,Maxwellrealized,hisjobbecamemuchharder.Not only must he guard against the rumormongering that was implicit inadministration channels, he must now be doubly sure that none of hisinformationfellintootherhandswhereitmightbeusedagainsthim.

The squirrel had gone on down the tree trunk and now was busilyscroungingontheslopeoflawnthatrandowntothelake,rustlingthroughthefallenleavesinsearchofanacornhemightsomehowhavemissedbefore.Theboy and girl had walked out of sight and now a hesitant breeze was softlyrumplingthesurfaceofthelake.

Therewereonlyafewothersatbreakfastintheroom;mostofthosewhohadbeentherewhenMaxwellenteredhadfinishednowandleft.Fromthefloorabove came thedistantmurmuringofvoices, the scufflingof feet as thedailyflow of students began to fill the Union, the off-hours gathering place ofundergraduates.

It was one of the oldest structures on the campus and one of the finest,Maxwelltoldhimself.Foroverfivehundredyearsithadbeenthemeetingplace,the refuge, the study hall of many generations and in the course of all thesegenerationsithadsettledeasilyandcomfortablyintothefunctionaltraditionthatmade it a second home for many thousand students. Here could be found a

quietnessforreflectionorforstudy,herethecozycornersneededforgoodtalk,here thegameroomsforbilliardsor forchess,here theeatingplaces,here themeeting halls, and tucked off in odd corners little reading rooms with theirshelvesofbooks.

Maxwellpushedbackhischair,butstayedsitting,findinghimselfsomehowreluctant togetupand leave-foroncehe left thisplace,heknew,he’dplungeinto theproblemshemust face.Outside thewindowlayagoldenautumnday,warmingasthesunroseinthesky-adayforshowersofgoldenleaves,forbluehazeonthedistanthills,forthesolemngloryofchrysanthemumsbeddedinthegarden,forthequietglowofgoldenrodandasterinthefieldsandvacantlots.

Frombehindhimheheardthescurryingofmanyhard-shodfeetandwhenhe swung around in his chair, he saw theowner of the feet advancing rapidlyacrossthesquaredredtilestowardhim.

It looked like an outsize, land-going shrimp, with its jointed legs, itsstrangely canted body with long, weird rods-apparently sensory organs-extendingoutward fromits tinyhead. Itscolorwasanunhealthywhiteand itsthreeglobularblackeyesbobbedontheendsoflongantennae.

ItcametoahaltbesidethetableandthethreeantennaeswiveledtoaimthethreeeyesstraightatMaxwell.

It said in a high, piping voice, the skin of its throat fluttering rapidlybeneath the seemingly inadequate head, “Informed I am that youbeProfessorPeterMaxwell.”

“The information happens to be right,” said Maxwell. “I am PeterMaxwell.”

“IbeacreatureoutoftheworldyouwouldnameSpearheadTwenty-seven.Name I have is of no interest to you. I appear before you in carrying outcommission by my employer. Perhaps you know it by designation of MissNancyClayton.”

“Indeed I do,” saidMaxwell, thinking that it was verymuch likeNancyClaytontoemployanoutlandishcreaturesuchasthisforanerrandboy.

“Iworkmyselfthrougheducation,”explainedtheShrimp,“doinganythingIfind.”

“That’scommendable,”saidMaxwell.“I train in mathematics of time,” declared the Shrimp. “I concentrate on

world-lineconfigurations.Iamintizzyoverit.”The Shrimp didn’t look as if it were in any sort of tizzy. “Why all the

interest?”Maxwell asked “Something inyourbackground?Something inyourculturalheritage?”

“Oh,verymuchindeed.Iscompletelynewidea.Onmyworld,nothought

oftime,noappreciationsuchathingas time.Ammuchshockedtolearnof it.And excited, too. But I digress too greatly. I come here on an errand. MissClayton desires to know can you attend a party the evening of this day. Herplace,eightbytheclock.”

“IbelieveIcan,”saidMaxwell.“TellherIalwaysmakeapointofbeingatherparties.”

“Overjoyed,” said the Shrimp. “She so much wants you there. You aretalkedconcerning.”

“Isee,”saidMaxwell.“You hard to find. I run hard and fast. I ask in many places. Finally

victorious.”“Iamsorry,”Maxwellsaid,“Iputyoutosuchtrouble.”Hereachedintohispocketandtookoutabill.Thecreatureextendedoneof

itsforwardlegsandgraspedthebillinapairofpincers,foldeditandrefoldeditandtuckeditintoasmallpouchthatextrudedfromitschest.

“Youkindbeyondexpectation,”itpiped.“Thereisonefurtherinformation.Occasionforpartyisunveilingofpainting,recentlyacquired.Paintinglostandgone for very long. By Albert Lambert, Esquire. Great triumph for MissClayton.”

“Ijustbetitis,”saidMaxwell.“MissClaytonisaspecialistintriumphs.”“She,asemployer,isgracious,”saidtheShrimpreprovingly.“Iamsureofthat,”saidMaxwell.Thecreatureshiftedswiftlyandgallopedfromtheroom.Listeningtoitsdeparture,Maxwellhearditclatterupthestairstothestreet

levelofthebuilding.Maxwell got up and headed for the stairs himself. If he were going to

witnesstheunveilingofapainting,hetoldhimself,he’dbetterboneupontheartist.Whichwasexactly,hethoughtwithagrin,whatalmosteveryotherpersoninvitedtoNancy’spartywouldbedoingbeforethedaywasout.

Lambert? The name held a slight ring of recognition. He had readsomewhereabouthim,probablylongago.Anarticleinamagazine,perhaps,tohelppassanidlehour.

Maxwellopenedthebook.“Albert Lambert,” said the opening page of text, “was born in Chicago,

Illinois, January 11, 1973. Famed as a portrayer of grotesque symbolism, hisearly years gave no promise of his great accomplishments. His initial work,while itwascompetentandshowedaskillfulcraftsmanshipandadeepinsightinto his subjectmatter,was not particularly outstanding.His grotesque periodcame after his fiftieth year and, rather than developing, burst into full flower

almostovernight,asiftheartisthaddevelopeditsecretlyanddidnotshowhiscanvassesofthisperioduntilhewassatisfiedwiththisnewphaseofhiswork.Butthereisnoevidencethatthisactuallywasthecase;rather,thereseemstobesomeevidencethatitwasnot…”

Maxwell flipped over the text pages to reach the color plates and leafedquickly throughexamplesof theartist’searlywork.Andthere, in thespaceofonepagetothenext,thepaintingschanged-theartisticconcept,thecolor,even,itseemedtoMaxwell,theverycraftsmanship.

As if the work had been that of two different artists, the first tiedintellectually to some inner need of orderly expression, the second engulfed,obsessed, riddenbysomesoul-shakingexperienceofwhichhe tried tocleansehimselfbyspreadingitoncanvas.

Stark,dark,terriblebeautybeatoutofthepageandintheduskysilenceofthe library reading room it seemed toMaxwell thathe couldhear the leatherywhisper of black wings. Outrageous creatures capered across the outrageouslandscape, and yet the landscape and the creatures, Maxwell sensed at once,werenotmerefantasy,werenowhimsicalproductofawillfulunhingingofthemind,butseemedtobesolidlybaseduponsomeoutregeometrypredicateduponalogicandanoutlookalientoanythinghehadeverseen.Theform,thecolor,theapproachandtheattitudewerenotmerelytwistedhumanvalues;onehadtheinstant feeling that they might be, instead, the prosaic representation of asituationinanareaentirelyoutsideanyhumanvalue.Grotesquesymbolism,thetexthadsaid,anditmightbethere,ofcourse,butifso,Maxwelltoldhimself,asymbolismthatcouldonlybearrivedatmosttortuouslyafterpainfulstudy.

He turned thepageand there itwasagain, thatcompletedivergencefromhumanity-adifferentscenewithdifferentcreaturesagainstadifferentlandscape,butcarrying,ashadthatfirstplate,theshatteringimpactofactuality,nofigmentof the artist’smind,but the representationof a sceneheoncehadgazeduponandsoughtnowtoexpurgatefrommindandmemory.Asamanmightwashhishands,Maxwellthought,latheringthemfiercelywithabarofstrong,harshsoap,scrubbingthemagainandyetagain,endlessly,inadesperateattempttoremoveby physical means a psychic stain that he had incurred. A scene that he hadgazedupon,perhaps,notthroughhumaneyes,butthroughthealienopticsofalostandunguessedrace.

Maxwellsatfascinated,staringatthepage,wantingtopullhiseyesaway,butunable to, trappedbytheweirdandawfulbeauty,bysometerrible,hiddenpurposethathecouldnotunderstand.Time,theShrimphadsaid,wassomethingthathisracehadneverthoughtof,auniversalfactorthathadnotimpingeduponhisculture,andhere,capturedinthesecolorplates,wassomethingthatmanhad

neverthoughtof,hadneverevendreamed.Hereachedouthishandtograspthebookandcloseit,buthehesitatedasif

thereweresomereasonheshouldnotclosethebook,somecompellingreasontocontinuestaringattheplate.

Andinthathesitancy,hebecameawareofacertainstrangenessthatmightkeep him staring at the page-a puzzling factor that he had not recognizedconsciously,butthathadbeennaggingathim.

Hetookhishandsawayandsatstaringattheplate,thenslowlyturnedthepage and asheglanced at that thirdplate, the strangeness leapedout at him-abrushed-inflickering,anartistictechniquethatmadeanapparentshimmer,asifsomethingof substancewere there and twinkling, seenonemoment, not quiteseenthenext.

He sat, slack-jawed, and watched the flickering-a trick of the eye, mostlikely,atrickoftheeyeencouragedbythemasteryoftheartistoverpaintandbrush.Buttrickoftheeyeornot,easyofrecognitionbyanyonewhohadseentheghostlyraceofthecrystalplanet.

Andthroughthehushedsilenceoftheduskyroomonequestionhammeredathim:HowcouldAlbertLamberthaveknownaboutthepeopleof thecrystalplanet?

“Ihadheardaboutyou,”AllenPrestonsaid,“anditseemedincredible,ofcourse.ButthesourceofmyinformationseemedunimpeachableandImadeanefforttogetintouchwithyou.I’mabitworriedoverthissituation,Pete.Asanattorney,I’dsayyouwereintrouble.”

MaxwellsatdowninthechairinfrontofPreston’sdesk.“IsupposeIam,”hesaid.“Foronething,itappearsI’velostmyjob.Istheresuchathingastenureinacaselikemine?”

“Acaselikeyours?”theattorneyasked.“Justwhatisthesituation?Nooneseems to know. Everyone is talking about it, but no one seems to know. I,myself…”

Maxwell grinnedwryly. “Sure. You’d like to know. You’re puzzled andconfusedandnotquitesureyou’resane.Yousit therewondering if I’mreallyPeterMaxwell.”

“Well,areyou?”Prestonasked.“IamsureIam.Iwouldn’tblameyou,oranyone,ifyoudoubtedit.There

weretwoofus.Somethinghappenedtothewavepattern.OneofuswenttotheCoonskin system, the other somewhere else. The one who went to CoonskincamebacktoEarthanddied.Icamebackyesterday.”

“Andfoundthatyouweredead.”Maxwellnodded. “Myapartmenthadbeen rented,mypossessions all are

gone.TheuniversitytellsmemypositionhasbeenfilledandI’mwithoutajob.That’swhyIaskedaboutthetenuresituation.”

Preston leaned back in his chair and squinted thoughtfully at Maxwell.“Legally,”hesaid,“Ithinkwe’dfindthattheuniversitystandsonsolidground.You are dead, you see.Youhave no tenure now.Not, at least, until it can bereestablished.”

“Throughalongprocessatlaw?”“Yes, Iwould suspect so. I can’tgiveyouanhonest answer.There isno

precedent. Oh, sure there are precedents in the case of mistaken identity-someonewhoisdeadbeingmistakenlyidentifiedassomeonewhoisstillalive.Butwithyou,there’snomistake.AmanwhoundeniablywasPeterMaxwellisundeniably dead, and there is no precedent for reestablishing identity in asituationsuchasthat.We’dhavetosetourownprecedentaswewentalong,avery laborious beating through the thickets of legal argument. It might takeyears.Totellyouthetruth,I’mnotsurewhereorhowtostart.Oh,itcouldbedeveloped, it could be carried forward, but it would take a lot of work andthought.First,ofcourse,we’dhavetoestablish,legally,whoyouare.”

“WhoIreallyam?ForGod’ssake,Al,weknowwhoIam.”“But the law doesn’t. The lawwouldn’t recognize you as you are today.

You have no legal being. Absolutely none. All your identification cards havebeenturnedintoRecordsandhavebeenfiledbynow-”

“ButIhavethosecards,”saidMaxwellquietly.“Righthereinmypocket.”Preston stared at him. “Yes, come to thinkof it, I suppose youhave.Oh

Lord,whatamess!”Hegotupandwalkedacross the room, shakinghishead.At thewall,he

turnedaroundandcameback.Hesatdownagain.“Let me think about it,” he said. “Give me a little time. I can dig up

something.Wehave todigup something.And there’s a lot todo.There’s thematterofyourwill…”

“Mywill?I’dforgotaboutthewill.Neverthoughtofit.”“It’sinprobate.ButIcangetastayofsomesort.”“Iwilledeverything tomybrother,who’swith theExploratoryService. I

couldgetintouchwithhim,althoughitmightbequiteachore.He’susuallyoutwith the fleet.But thepoint is that there’ll beno trouble there.As soonasheknowswhathappened…”

“Notwithhim,”saidPreston,“butthecourt’sadifferent,matter.Itcanbedone,ofcourse,butitmaytaketime.Untilit’scleared,you’llhavenoclaimtoyourestate.Youownnothingexcepttheclothesyoustandinandwhatisinyourpockets.”

“TheuniversityofferedmeapostonGothic IV.Deanof a researchunit.Butatthemoment,I’mnotabouttotakeit.”

“Howareyoufixedforcash?”“I’mallright.Forthepresent.OoptookmeinandIhavesomemoney.IfI

hadto,Icouldpickupsomesortof job.HarlowSharpwouldhelpmeout ifIneededsomething.Goononeofhis field trips, ifnothingelse. I thinkImightlikethat.”

“Butdon’tyouhavetohavesomesortofTimedegree?”“Not if you go as a working member of the expedition. To hold a

supervisorypostofsomesort,itwouldtakeone,Isuppose.”“Before I start moving,” Preston said, “I’ll have to know the details.

Everythingthathappened.”“I’llwriteoutastatementforyou.Haveitnotarized.Anythingyouwant.”“Seemstome,”saidPreston,“wemightfileactionagainstTransportation.

Theyputyouinthismess.”Maxwellhedged.“Notrightnow,”hesaid.“Wecanthinkofitlateron.”“You get that statement put together,” Preston told him. “And in the

meantime, I’ll do some thinking and look up some law.Thenwe canmake astart.Haveyouseenthepapersorlookedattelevision?”

Maxwellshookhishead.“Ihaven’thadthetime.”“They’re goingwild,” said Preston. “It’s awonder they haven’t cornered

you.Theymustbelookingforyou.Alltheyhaveasyetisconjecture.Youwereseen last night at thePig andWhistle.A lot of people apparently spotted youtherelastnight,orthoughttheydid.Thelinerightnowisthatyou’vecomebackfromthedead.IfIwereyou,I’dkeepoutoftheirway.Iftheyshouldcatchupwithyou,tellthemabsolutelynothing.”

“Ihavenointentionto,”saidMaxwell.Theysatinthequietoffice,lookingsilentlyatoneanother.”“Whatamess!”saidPreston,finally.“Whatalovelymess!Ibelieve,Pete,I

mightjustenjoythis.”“Bytheway,”saidMaxwell,“NancyClaytoninvitedmetoapartytonight.

I’vebeenwondering if theremightbesomeconnection-although thereneedn’tbe.Nancyusedtoinvitemeonoccasion.”

Preston grinned. “Why, you’re a celebrity. You’d be quite a catch forNancy.”

“I’mnottoosureofthat,”saidMaxwell.“ShemusthaveheardIhadshownup.She’dbecurious,ofcourse.”

“Yes,”saidPrestondryly,“shewouldbecurious.”Maxwell expected that he might find newsmen lying in wait for him at

Oop’sshack,buttherewasnoonethere.Apparentlythewordhadn’tspreadthathewasstayingthere.

The shack stood in the drowsiness of late afternoon, with the autumnsunlight pouring like molten gold over the weatherbeaten lumber scraps ofwhich ithadbeenbuilt.A fewbeesbuzzed lazily inabedofasters thatgrewoutside the door, and down the stretch of hillside above the roadway a fewyellowbutterfliesdriftedinthehazyafternoon.

Maxwellopened thedoor and stuck inhishead.Therewasnoone there.OopwasoffprowlingsomewhereandtherewasnosignofGhost.Abankedfireglowedredlyinthefireplace.Maxwellshutthedoorandsatdownonthebenchthatstoodbeforetheshack.

Fartothewestoneofthecampusfourlakesshoneasathinbluelens.Thecountrysidewas painted brown and yellowby dead sedges and dying grasses.Hereandtherelittleislandsofcolorflaredinscatteredgroupsoftrees.

Warmandsoft, thoughtMaxwell.Alandthatonecoulddreamin.Unlikethoseviolent,gloomylandscapesthatLamberthadpaintedsomanyyearsago.

Hesatwonderingwhy those landscapesshouldstickso tightly, likeaburagainst his mind.Wondering, too, how the artist could have known how theghostly inhabitants of the crystal planet flickered. It could not be merelyhappenstance;itwasnotthesortofthingamanmightreadilyimagine.Reasonsaid thatLambertmusthaveknownabout thoseghostlypeople, reason just asplainlysaiditwasimpossible.

And what about all those other creatures, all those other grotesquemonstrosities Lambert had spread with an insane, vicious brush across thecanvasses?Wheredidtheyfitin?Wheremighttheyhavecomefrom?Orwerethey simply mad figments of imagination, torn raw and bleeding from astrangelytorturedmind?WerethepeopleofthecrystalplanettheonlyauthenticcreaturesLamberthaddepicted?Itdidnotseemtoolikely.Somewhereorother,somehoworother,Lambertmusthaveseentheseothercreatures,too.Andwasthelandscapepureimagination,brushedintomaintainthemoodestablishedbythecreatures,ormight ithavebeenthelandscapeof thecrystalplanetatsomeother time,before ithadbeenfixedforever in thefloorandroof thatshut it inagainsttheuniverse?Butthat,hetoldhimself,wasimpossible,fortheplanethadbeenenclosedbefore thepresentuniversewasborn.Tenbillionyearsat least,perhapsasmuchasfiftybillion.

Maxwellstirreduneasily.Itmadenosenseatall.Noneofitmadeanysortof sense. He had trouble enough, he told himself, without worrying aboutLambert’s paintings.He had lost his job, his estatewas locked in probate, bedidn’thavealegalstandingasahumanbeing.

Butnoneofthatmatteredtoomuch,notrightnow,anyhow.Firstcamethematterofthehoardofknowledgeonthecrystalplanet.Itwasaknowledgetheuniversitymusthave-abodyofknowledgethatmostcertainlywasgreaterthanthetotalofallknowledgeintheknowngalaxy.Someofitwouldduplicatewhatwas alreadyknown, of course, but therewould be, hewas certain, other hugeareasofunderstandingwhichwereyetunthoughtof.The little thathehadhadthetimetoseebolsteredthatbelief.

Onceagain,itseemed,hewashunkereddownbeforethetable,almostlikea coffee table, on which he’d piled the metal sheets he had taken from theshelves, andwith the contraption thatwasa reader, an interpreter, call itwhatonemight,fastenedtohishead.

There had been the sheet of metal that talked about the mind, not inmetaphysical or philosophic terms, but as amechanism, employing terms andconcepts that he could not grasp. He had struggled with the terminology, heremembered,forheknewthatherewasatreatiseonanareaofunderstandingnooneyethad touched,butaftera timehadput it tooneside, for itwasbeyondhim.Andtherewasthatotherpieceofmetal,thatotherbook,whichappearedtobeabasictextontheapplicationofcertainmathematicalprinciplestothesocialsciences, although some of the social sciences that were mentioned he couldonlyguessat,gropingaftertheconceptsasablindmanmightgropeafterflittingbutterflies.Therehadbeenhistories,he recalled,notofoneuniverse,but two,and natural history which had told of life forms so fantastic in their basicprinciples and their functions that they seemed unbelievable, and a very thinsheetofmetal,sothinitbentandtwisted,likeasheetofpaper,whenhehandledit,thathadbeensofarbeyondhisunderstandingthathecouldnotquitebesurewhatitwasabout.Andathickerpieceofmetal,amuchthickerpiece,whereinhe read the thoughts and philosophies of creatures and of cultures long sincegonetodustthathadsenthimreelingback,frightened,disgusted,outragedanddismayed,butstillfullofafearfulwonder,attheutterinhumanityexpressedmthosephilosophies.

Allthatandmore,muchmore,atrilliontimesmore,waswaitingoutthereonthecrystalplanet.

Itwasimportant,heremindedhimself,thathecarryouttheassignmentthathehadbeengiven.Itwasvital that the libraryof thecrystalplanetbeattainedand,probably,althoughnotimelimithadbeenplaced, that itbedonequickly.Forifhefailedtherewas,hefeltsure,agoodpossibilitythattheplanetwouldgoelsewheretoseekanothermarket,toofferwhatithad,outintoanothersectorofthegalaxy,perhapsoutofthegalaxyentirely.

TheArtifact,hetoldhimself,couldbetheprice,althoughhecouldnotbe

sure of that. The fact that an offer had been made for it, and that Churchillsomehowwasinvolvedinit,madethatseemreasonable.Butatthemomenthecould not be sure. The Artifact might be wanted by someone for some otherpurpose,perhapsbysomeonewhomightfinallyhavefiguredoutexactlywhatitwas.Hetriedtoimagineexactlywhattheymighthavefound,buthehadnofactstogoon,andhefailed.

A flight of blackbirds came swirling downout of the sky, skimming justabove the roofof the shack, sailingover the roadway.Maxwellwatched themsettle into the dying vegetation of a stretch of marsh, balancing their bodiesdelicatelyonthebendingstemsofrank-growingweeds,cometheretofeedforan hour or so before flying off to roost in some secludedwoodland they hadpickedasabivouacontheirmigrationsouthward.

Maxwell got up and stretched. The peace and the quiet of the tawnyafternoonhad soaked into his body.He’d like a nap, he thought.After a timeOopwould comebackhome andwakehimand they’dhave something to eatandtalkforawhilebeforehewentofftoNancy’s.

Heopenedthedoorandwentintotheshack,crossingthefloortosituponthebed.Maybe,he thought,heought tosee ifhestillhadacleanshirtandanextrapairofsockstodonbeforetheparty.Hereachedoutandhauledhisbagofftheflooranddumpeditonthebed.

Openingthecatches,hethrewbackthelidandtookoutapairoftrouserstogetattheshirtsthatwerepackedbeneaththem.Theshirtswerethereandsowassomething else, a contraption with a headband and two eyepieces folded upagainstit.

Hestaredatitinwonder,recognizingit.Itwasthetranslatorwhichhehadused on the crystal planet to read themetal tablets. He lifted it out and let itdangleinhishand.Herewasthebandtoclamparoundthehead,withthepowerpackintheback,andthetwoeyepiecesoneflippeddownintopositiononcethedevicewasfastenedonthehead.

Hemusthavepackeditbymistake,hethought,althoughbecouldnot,forthelifeofhim,rememberpackingit.Butthereitwasandperhapsnoharmwasdone.Itmightevenbeusedatsomefuturetimetohelpsubstantiatehisclaimhehadbeenontheplanet.Although,herealized,itwasnotgoodevidence.Itwasjust a gadget that had an ordinary look about it, although it might not, heremindedhimself,seemsoordinaryifsomeonepokedaroundinthemechanismofit.

AlighttappingcamefromsomewhereandMaxwell,surprisedbysosmallanoise,stiffenedandheldhimselfrigid,listening.Perhapsawindblownbranch,hethought,tappingontheroof,althoughithadaslightlydifferentsoundthana

branchagainsttheroof.Thetappingstoppedandthenbeganagain, this timenotasteadyrapping,

butratherlikeacode.Threequicktapsandthenapause,followedbytworapidtapsandthenanotherpause,withthepatternofthetappingrepeatedonceagain.

Itwassomeoneatthedoor.Maxwellgotup from thebedand stoodundecided. Itmightbenewsmen

whohadfinallytrackedhimdown,orthoughtthey’dtrackedhimdown,andifthatshouldbethecase, itmightbebest to leavethedoorunanswered.But thetappingatthedoor,itseemedtohim,wasnotboisterousenough,notdemandingenough,foranewsman,orseveralnewsmen,whohadfinallyrunhimtohislair.Thetapsweresoft,almost tentative, thekindoftappingthatmightbedonebysomeonewhodidnotwanttoadvertisetheirpresence,orwho,foronereasonoranother, was not quite sure of purpose. And if it were newsmen, Maxwellrealized,itwoulddonogoodnottoletthemin,forinalittlewhilethey’dtrythedoorandfinditopenandthencomeburstingin.

The tapping, which had stopped for a moment, took up again. Maxwelltrudged to the door and threw it open. Outside stood the Shrimp, a ghostly,gleamingwhite in thewashof sunlight.Beneathoneof his limbs,whichnowserved as an arm rather than a leg, he clutched a paper-wrapped bundle tightagainsthisbody.

“For the love ofGod, come in,” saidMaxwell sharply, “before someoneseesyouhere.”

TheShrimpcameinandMaxwellclosedthedoor,wonderingwhatitwasthathadcausedhimtourgeitin.

“You need no apprehension,” said the Shrimp, “about news harvesters. Iwas careful and I noticed. No one followed me. I’m such a foolish-lookingcreature no one ever follows me. No one ever accords to me any purposewhatsoever.”

“Thatisafortunatethingtohave,”saidMaxwell.“I thinkthat it iscalledprotectivecoloration.”

“I appear again,” said Shrimp, “on behalf of Miss Nancy Clayton. Sheknowsyoucarriedlittleonyourtrip,havehadnochancetoshoporhavelaundrydone.Nowish toembarrass-chargingme tosay thiswithgoodlyemphasis-butwishtosendyouclothestowear.”

HetookthebundlefromunderneathhisarmandhandedittoMaxwell.“ThatisniceofNancy.”“Sheisthoughtfulperson.Shecommissionedmetosayfurther.”“Goahead,”saidMaxwell.“Therewillbewheeledvehicletotakeyoutothehouse.”

“Thereisnoneedofthat,”saidMaxwell.“Theroadwayrunsrightpastherplace.”

“Once again apology,” said the Shrimp,with firmness, “but she thinks itbest.Thereismuchhitheringandthithering,bymanytypesofcreatures,tolearnyourwhereabouts.”

“Can you tell me,” asked Maxwell, “how Miss Clayton knows mywhereabouts?”

SaidtheShrimp,“Itrulydonotknow.”“Allright,then.You’llthankMissClaytonforme?”“Withgladness,”saidtheShrimp.“I’ll take you around to the back,” the driver said. “There is a swarm of

newsmenhanging around out front.They’ll be gone later on, but now they’rethereindroves.MissClaytonsuggestedyoumightnotwanttomeetthem.”

“Thank you,” Maxwell said. “It is thoughtful of you.” Nancy, he toldhimself,hadtakenover,aswasherusualpractice,viewingitasherprerogativetoorderpeople’slives.

Herhousestoodon the lowbluff thathemmedin thewesternedgeof thelake.Offtotheleftthewatergleamedsoftlyintheearlymoonlight.Thefrontofthehousewasablazewithlight,butthebackwasdark.

The car turned off the highway and climbed slowly along a narrowdriveway lined by massive oaks. A startled bird flew, squawking, across theroadway, a flurry of desperately beating wings caught for a moment in theheadlights.Apairofdogscameragingdownthehollowtunnelofthedrive,splitandswungoneithersideofthecar.

Thedriverchuckled.“Ifyouwerewalking,they’deatyoualive.”“Butwhy?”askedMaxwell.“Why,allatonce,mustNancybeguardedbya

dogpack?”“NotMissClayton,”thedriversaid.“Itissomeoneelse.”ThequestioncametoMaxwell’stongue,buthechokeditback.Thedriverswungthecarintoacurveddrivewaythatranbeneathanopen

portico,andpulleduptoahalt.“Inthebackdoor,”thedriversaid.“Youdon’tneedtoknock.Thenstraight

downthehallpastthecurvedstaircase.Theparty’supinfront.”Maxwellstartedtoopenthecardoor,thenhesitated.“Youneednotmindthedogs,”thedrivertoldhim.“Theyrecognizethecar.

AnyonewhostepsoutofitisOKwiththem.”Therewas, in fact,nosignof thedogs,andMaxwellwent swiftlyup the

threestepsofthestoop,openedthebackdoor,andsteppedintothehall.The hall was dark, A little light filtered down the winding staircase-

someone apparently had left on a light on the second story. But that was all;therewerenootherlights.Fromsomewhereinthefrontofthehousecamethemuffledsoundofrevelry.

Hestoodforamomentwithoutmovingandashiseyesbecameaccustomedtothedarkness,hecouldseethatthehallranforsomedistancetowardthecenterof thehouse,past thefootof thewindingstairsandbeyond.Therewasadoorbackthere,orperhapsanabruptturninthehall,thatwouldtakehimparty-ward.

Itwasstrange,hetoldhimself.IfNancyhadinstructedthedrivertobringhimtotheback,shewouldhavehadsomeonetheretogreethim,oratleastshewouldhaveseenthattherewasalightsohecouldfindhisway.

Strange,andveryawkward,toarrivethisway,togropehiswayalongthehallinsearchoftheotherswhowerethere.Foramomentheconsideredturningaboutand leaving,makinghiswayback toOop’splace.Thenhe rememberedthe dogs. They would be out there and waiting and they looked like viciousbrutes.

This whole business, he told himself, was not at all like Nancy. Nancywouldn’tdoa thing like this.Therewassomethingverywrongandhedidnotlikeit.

Hemovedcautiouslydown thehall, alert for chair or table thatmightbethere to trip him up.He could see a little better now, but the hall was still atunnelwithoutanydetails.

He passed the stairs, skirting around their base, and now, with the lightfromthestairwaypartiallycutoff,thehallbecamedarkerthanitwasbefore.

Avoiceasked,“ProfessorMaxwell?Isthatyou,Professor?”Maxwellstoppedinmid-stride,balancingononeleg,thencarefullyputhis

lifted foot down against the floor and stood, not stirring, while goose bumpsprickledonhisskin.

“ProfessorMaxwell,”saidthevoice,“Iknowthatyouareoutthere.”Itwasnotavoice,actually,oritdidn’tseemtobe.Therehadbeennosound,Maxwellcouldhavesworn,yethehadheardthewords,notsomuch,perhaps,inhisear,assomewhereinhisbrain.

Hefelttheterrormountinginhimandhetriedtofightitoff,butitdidn’tgoaway.Itstayed,crouchedsomewhereoutthereinthedark,readytorushin.

Hetriedtospeakandgulpedinstead.Thevoicesaid,“I’vewaitedhereforyou,Professor.Iwanttocommunicatewithyou.Itistoyourinterestasmuchasitistomine.”

“Whereareyou?”Maxwellasked.“Throughthedoorjusttoyourleft.”“Idonotseeadoor.”

Good common sense hammered hard atMaxwell.Break and run, it said.Getoutofhereasfastasyoucango.

Buthecouldn’tbreakandrun.Hecouldn’tbringhimselftodoit.Andifheran,whichwayshouldherun?Notbacktothedoor,forthedogswerewaitingoutthere.Notclatteringdownthedarkenedhall,morethanlikelytobumpintosomethingandraiseaterribleclatter,toalerttheguestsupthereinfrontandtobefound,whentheyinvestigated,disheveledandbruisedandsweatingwithhisfear.Forifheran,heknew,fearwouldpounceuponhimandhe’dgivewaytoit.

Itwasbadenoughsneakinginfromthebackdooronapartywithoutbeingfoundinaconditionsuchasthat.

If it had been just a voice, any kind of voice, itwould not have been sofrightening,butitwasastrangekindofvoice-therewasnointonationtoitandtherewasaboutitacertainraw,mechanical,almostraspingquality.Itwasnota.humanvoice,Maxwelltoldhimself.Therewasanalieninthatroom.

“There isadoor,” theflat,hardvoicesaid.“Stepslightly toyour leftandpushagainstit.”

Thewholethingwasbecomingridiculous,Maxwelltoldhimself.Eitherhewentthroughthedoororhebrokeandran.Hemighttrytosimplywalkaway,butheknewthattheminuteheturnedhisbackuponthathiddendoor,hewouldrun-notbecausehewanted to,butbecausehehad to, runningfromthefearhehadturnedhisbackupon.

Hesteppedtotheleft,foundthedoor,andpushed.Theroomwasdark,butfrom a lamp somewhere in the yard outside, some light filtered through thewindows,fallingonarolypolycreaturethatstoodinthecenteroftheroom,itspudgy belly gleaming with a writhing phosphorescence, as if a group ofluminescentsea-dwellershadbeenimprisonedinabowl.

“Yes,”thecreaturesaid,“youarequiteright.IamoneofthosebeingsthatyoucallaWheeler.FormyvisithereIhavegivenmyselfadesignationthatfallseasyonyourmind.YoumaycallbeMr.Marmaduke.Forconvenienceonly,Isuspectyouunderstand, for it’snotmyname. In fact,noneofushavenames.Theyareunnecessary.Ourpersonalidentityisachievedinanotherway.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Marmaduke,” said Maxwell, speakingslowly, theonlywayhecould,sincehis lipshadbecome, like therestofhim,slightlystiffandfrozen.

“AndIyou,Professor.”“HowdidyouknowwhoIwas?”askedMaxwell.“Youseemedtohaveno

doubtatall.Youknew,ofcourse,I’dbecomingdownthehall.”“Ofcourse,”theWheelersaid.

NowMaxwell could see thecreatureabitmoreclearly, thebloatedbodysupportedontwowheels,thelowerpartofthebodygleamingandtwistinglikeapailofworms.

“YouareNancy’sguest?”heasked.“Yes,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“certainlyIam.Theguestofhonor,Ibelieve,

atthisgatheringshehas.”“Then,perhaps,youshouldbeoutwiththeotherguests.”“Ipleadedtiredness,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Aslightprevarication,Imust

admit,sinceIamnevertired.SoIwenttorestawhile-”“Andtowaitforme?”“Precisely,”saidMr.Marmaduke.Nancy,Maxwellthought.No,Nancy,hewassure,wasn’tinonit.Shehad

afrothybrainandallshecaredaboutwerehereverlastingpartiesandshe’dbeincapableofanykindofintrigue.

“There isa subjectwecan talkabout,” saidMr.Marmaduke,“with someprofit,Ipresume,tothebothofus.Youarelookingforabuyer,Ibelieve,foralargecommodity.Imighthavesomepassinginterestinthatcommodity.”

Maxwellmovedbackastepandtriedtofindananswer.Buttherewasnoreadyanswer.Althoughheshouldhaveknown,hetoldhimself,oratleasthavesuspected.

“Yousaynothing,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Icannotbemistaken.Youare,withoutfail,theagentforthesale?”

“Yes,”saidMaxwell.“Yes,Iamtheagent.”Therewasnousedenyingit,heknew.Somehoworother,thiscreaturein

theroomknewabouttheotherplanetandthehoardofknowledge.Andhemightknowthepriceaswell.CouldithavebeentheWheeler,hewondered,whohadmadetheofferfortheArtifact?

“Well,then,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“letusproceedimmediatelytobusinessandadiscussionoftheterms.Notforgetting,inthecourseofit,tomentionthecommissionthatwillbecomingtoyou.”

“I am afraid,” saidMaxwell, “that is impossible at themoment. I do notknowtheterms.Yousee,Iwasfirsttofindapotentialbuyerandthen-”

“Notroublewhatsoever,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“forIhavetheknowledgethatyoulack.Iamacquaintedwiththeterms.”

“Andyouwillpaytheprice?”“Oh,withoutanyquestion,”saidtheWheeler.“Itwilltakejustalittletime.

Therearecertainnegotiationswhichmustbe terminated.Once thosearedone,youandIcancompleteallbusinessandthematterwillbedone,withoutanyfussor trouble. The only thing, it would appear to me, is a determination of the

commissionwhichyouwillhaveearnedsorichly.”“I would imagine,” said Maxwell bleakly, “that it might be a good

commission.”“We had in mind,” said Mr. Marmaduke, “of naming you-shall we say

librarian?ofthecommoditywepurchase.Therewillbemuchtodoworkingoutthevariouscommoditiesandcodifyingthem.Forworkofthissortwewillneeda creature such as you, and I imagine that you might find the work highlyinteresting.Andthesalary-ProfessorMaxwell,weprayyounamethesalaryandtheconditionsofemployment.”

“Iwouldhavetothinkaboutit.”“Byallmeans,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Inaproceduresuchasthis,alittle

thoughtisgood.Youwillfindusmostdisposedtogenerosity.”“That’snotwhatImeant,”saidMaxwell.“I’llhavetothinkaboutthedeal.

WhetherI’dbewillingtoarrangeasaleforyou.”“Youdoubt,perhaps,ourworthinesstopurchasethecommodity?”“Thatmightbeit,”saidMaxwell.“ProfessorMaxwell,” said theWheeler,“itwouldbeadvisable foryou to

layasideyourdoubts.It isforthebest thatyouentertainnodoubtofusatall.Forwearemostdeterminedthatweshallobtainwhatyouhavetooffer.So,inthebestofgrace,youshoulddealwithus.”

“WhetherIwanttoornot?”askedMaxwell.“I,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“wouldhavenotputitquitesobluntly.Butyou

stateitmostcorrectly.”“Youarenotinthebestposition,”Maxwelltoldhim,“tospeakinthattone

ofvoice.”“Youarenotawareofthepositionthatwehold,”theWheelersaid.“Your

knowledgegoesouttoonlyacertainpointinspace.Youcannotknowwhatliesbeyondthatpoint.”

Therewas something in thewords, something in theway that theyweresaid,thatsentachillthroughMaxwell,asiffromsomeunknownquarteroftheuniverseasharp,frigidblastofwindhadblownthroughtheroom.

Yourknowledgegoesonlytoacertainpointinspace,Mr.Marmadukehadsaid,andwhatlaybeyondthatpoint?Noonecouldknow,ofcourse,exceptthatincertainareasbeyondtheshadowyfrontierofman’sprobingitwasknowntheWheelershadstakedoutanempire.Andseepingacrossthatfrontiercamehorrorstories, such tales as any frontiermight inspire, stemming fromman’swonderconcerningthatunknownwhichlayjustalittlewayahead.

There had been little contact with the Wheelers and there was almostnothingknownofthem-andthatinitselfwasbad.Therewasnothrustingoutof

hands, no gestures of goodwill, either from theWheelers or from the humansandtheirfriendsandallies.Thefrontierlaythere,inthatonegreatsectoroutinspace,asilent,sullenlinethatneithersidehadcrossed.

“Iwouldbebetter able tocome to somedecision,”Maxwell said, “ifmyknowledgedidextend,ifwecouldknowmoreaboutyou.”

“Youknowthatwearebugs,”saidMr.Marmaduke,and thewords fairlydrippedwithscorn.“Youareintolerant-”

“Not intolerant,” said Maxwell angrily, “and we do not think of you asbugs.Weknowyouarewhatwewouldcallhivemechanisms.WeknoweachofyouisacolonyofcreaturessimilartothelifeformsthathereonEarthwethinkofasinsects,andthatsetsusapartfromyou,ofcourse,butnomoredistantfromus than many other creatures from many other stars. I do not like the word’intolerant,’ Mr. Marmaduke, because it implies that there is ground fortoleranceandthereisnosuchthing-notforyou,norme,noranyothercreatureintheuniverse.”

He found that he was shaking with his anger and he wondered why heshouldsuddenlybecomesoangryatasingleword.Hecouldremaincalmatthethought of theWheeler buying the knowledge of the crystal planet, then flarewithsuddenangeratonespecificword.Perhapsbecause,hetoldhimself,withsomanydifferent raceswhomust live together,both toleranceand intolerancehadbecomedirtywords.

“Youarguewellandamiably,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“andyoumaynotbeintolerant-”

“Even were there such a thing as intolerance,” said Maxwell, “I cannotunderstandwhyyou’dresentitso.Itwouldbeareflectionupontheonewhohadexhibited it rather thanupon theone towardwhomitwasdirected.Notonlyareflection upon goodmanners, but upon one’s basic knowledge.There can benothingquitesostupidasintolerance.”

“Thenifnotintolerance,”askedtheWheeler,“whatmakesyouhesitate?”“Iwouldhavetoknowhowyoumeanttousethecommodity.Iwouldwant

toknowyourpurpose.Iwouldneedtoknowagreatdealmoreaboutyou.”“Sothatyoucouldjudge?”“Idon’tknow,”saidMaxwellbitterly.“Howcanonejudgeasituationsuch

asthis?”“Wetalktoomuch,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Andthetalkismeaningless.I

perceiveyouhavenointentiontomakeadealwithus.”“Atthemoment,”Maxwelltoldhim,“Iwouldsaythatyouwereright.”“Then,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“wemustfindanotherway.Youwillcause

us,byyourrefusal,agreatdealoftimeandtroubleandwe’llbemostungrateful

toyou.”“I have a feeling,” Maxwell said, “that I can bear up under your

ingratitude.”“There isacertainadvantage, sir,”warnedMr.Marmaduke,“inbeingon

thewinningside.”Something big andmoving swiftly brushed pastMaxwell and out of the

cornerofhiseyehecaughtthesuddenflashofgleamingteethandthestreakoftawnybody.

“No,Sylvester!”Maxwellshouted.“Leavehimalone,Sylvester!”Mr.Marmadukemovedswiftly.Hiswheelsblurredashespunandsweptin

aquickhalf-circle,skirtingSylvester’srushingchargeandheadingforthedoor.Sylvester’sclawsscreechedasheturned,swappingendforend.Maxwell,seeingtheWheelerbearingdownuponhim,duckedoutoftheway,butawheelgrazedhisshoulderandbrushedhimroughlytooneside.Withaswish,Mr.Marmadukewentstreakingoutthedoor.BehindhimcameSylvester,longandlithe,atawnyshapethatseemedtoflowsmoothlythroughtheair.

“NoSylvester!”Maxwellscreamed,flinginghimselfthroughthedoorandmakingaquick turn in thehall,his legspumpingrapidlyasheskiddedon theturn.

Ahead of him the Wheeler was rolling smoothly down the hall, withSylvesterclosebehindhim.Maxwellwastednomorebreathinyellingatthecat,butdrovehisbodyforwardinpursuit.

Atthefarendofthehall,Mr.MarmadukeswungsmoothlytotheleftandSylvester,almostontopofhim,lostprecioussecondsashefought,andfailed,tomakeassmoothaturn.Warnedoftheturninginthehall,Maxwelltookitinhisstride and ahead of him he saw a lighted corridor that led to a short marblestaircase and beyond the staircase a crowd of people standing about in littleknots,withglassesintheirhands.

Mr.Marmadukewas heading for the staircase, going very fast. SylvesterwasoneleapaheadofMaxwell,perhapsthreeleapsbehindtheWheeler.

Maxwell triedtoyellawarning,buthedidn’thavethebreathand, inanycase,eventsweremovingmuchtoofast.

TheWheeler hit the top step of the staircase andMaxwell launched hisbodythroughtheair,armsoutstretched.Hecamedownontopofthesaber-toothandwrappedhisarmsarounditsneck.Thetwoofthemsprawledtothefloorandoutofthecornerofhiseye,asheandSylvestercartwheeleddownthecorridor,MaxwellsawtheWheelerbouncinghighonthesecondstepandbeginningtotipover.

Andthen,suddenly,therewasthescreamingoffrightenedwomenandthe

yells of startled men and the crash of breaking glasses. For once, thoughtMaxwellgrimly,Nancywasgettingabiggerbootoutofherpartythanshehadbargainedfor.

Hepiledupagainstawall,atthefaredgeofthestaircase,andsomehoworother,Sylvesterwasperchedontopofhimandreachingdowntolapfondlyathisface.

“Sylvester,”hesaid,“thiswasthetimeyoudidit.Yougotusinamess.”Sylvesterwentonlappingandaraspingpurrrumbledinhischest.Maxwellpushedthecatawayandmanagedtoslideupthewalltoasitting

position.Outontheflooroftheroombeyondthestaircase,Mr.Marmadukelayupon

hisside,bothwheelsspinningcrazily,thefrictionofthewheelthatwasbottom-mostmakinghimrotatelopsidedly.

Carolcamerunningupthestepsandstopped,withfistsfirmlyonherhips,tostaredownatMaxwellandthecat.

“Thetwoofyou!”shecried,thenchokedwithanger.“We’resorry,”Maxwellsaid.“Theguestofhonor,”shescreamedatthem,almostweeping.“Theguestof

honorandyoutwohuntinghimdownthehallsasifhewereamoose.”“Apparentlywedidn’thurthimmuch,”saidMaxwell.“Iseeheisintact.I

wouldn’thavebeensurprised ifhisbellybrokeandall thosebugsofhiswerescatteredonthefloor.

“WhatwillNancythink?”Carolaskedaccusingly.“Iimagine,”Maxwelltoldher,“thatshe’llbedelighted.Therehasn’tbeen

this much ruckus at one of her parties since the time the fire-breathingamphibianoutoftheNettlesystemsettheChristmastreeonfire.”

“Youmakethosethingsup,”saidCarol,“Idon’tbelieveithappened.”“Crossmyheart,”saidMaxwell.“Iwashereandsawit.Helpedputoutthe

fire.”Outon thefloorsomeof theguestshad laidholdofMr.Marmadukeand

were pulling him over to stand upright on his wheels. Little serving roboticswere scurrying about, picking up the broken glass and mopping up the floorwherethedrinkshadspilled.

MaxwellgottohisfeetandSylvestermovedoverclosebesidehim,rubbingagainsthislegsandpurring.

NancyhadarrivedfromsomewhereandwastalkingwithMr.Marmaduke.Alargecircleofguestsstoodaroundandlistenedtothetalk.

“IfIwereyou,”suggestedCarol,“I’dskinoutofherethebestwaythatIcould.Ican’timaginethatyou’llbewelcomehere.”

“Onthecontrary,”Maxwelltoldher,“I’malwayswelcomehere.”Hestartedwalkingdownthestaircase,withSylvesterpacingregallybeside

him.Nancy turnedandsawhim,broke through thecircleandcameacross thefloortomeethim.“Pete!”shecried.“Thenit’sreallytrue.Youarebackagain.”

“Why,ofcourse,”saidMaxwell.“Isawitinthepapers,butIdidn’tquitebelieveit.Ithoughtitwasahoax

oragagofsomesort.”“Butyouinvitedme,”saidMaxwell.“Invitedyou?”Shewasn’tkiddinghim.Hecouldseeshewasn’tkidding.“Youmeanyoudidn’tsendtheShrimp…”“TheShrimp?”“Well,athingthatlookedlikeanovergrownshrimp.”Sheshookherheadand,watchingherface,Maxwellsaw,withsomething

ofashock,thatshewasgrowingold.Thereweremanytinywrinklesaroundthecornersofhereyesthatcosmeticsfailedtohide.

“Athingthat lookedlikeashrimp,”hesaid.“Said itwasrunningerrandsforyou.ItsaidIwasinvitedtotheparty.Itsaidacarwouldbesenttofetchme.Itevenbroughtmeclothes,becauseitsaid-”

“Pete,”saidNancy,“pleasebelieveme.Ididnoneofthis.Ididnotinviteyou,butI’mgladyou’rehere.”

She moved closer and lay a hand upon his arm. Her face crinkled in agiggle.“AndI’llbeinterestedinhearingaboutwhathappenedbetweenyouandMr.Marmaduke.”

“ThatI’msorryabout,”saidMaxwell.“Noneedtobe.He’smyguest,ofcourse,andonemustbeconsiderateof

guests,buthe’sa really terribleperson.Pete,he’sbasicallyaboreanda snoband-”

“Notnow,”Maxwellwarnedhersoftly.Mr.Marmadukehaddisengagedhimselffromthecircleofguestsandwas

wheelingacrossthefloortowardthem.Nancyturnedtofacehim.“You’reallright?”sheasked.“Youreallyareallright?”“Veryright,”saidMr.Marmaduke.He wheeled close to Maxwell and an arm extruded from the top of his

rolypolybody-aropelike,flexiblearmmorelikeatentaclethanarm,withthreeclawlike fingers on the endof it.He reachedoutwith it anddraped it aroundMaxwell’s shoulders.At the pressure of it,Maxwell had the instinct to shrinkaway,butwithanexerciseofconsciouswill,forcedhimselfnottostir.

“I thankyou,sir,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Iammostgrateful toyou.You

savedmylifeperhaps.JustasIfellIsawyouleapuponthebeast.Itwasmostheroic.”

PressedtightagainstMaxwell’sside,Sylvesterliftedhishead,droppedhislowerjaw,exhibitinghisfangsinasilentsnarl.

“Hewouldnothavehurtyou,sir,”saidCarol.“He’sasgentleasakitten.Ifyouhadnotrun,he’dnothavechasedyou.Hehadthefoolideathatyouwereplayingwithhim.Sylvesterlikestoplay.”

Sylvesteryawned,withafinedisplayofteeth.“Thisplay,”saidMr.Marmaduke,“Idonotcareabout.”“WhenIsawyoufall,”saidMaxwell,“Iwasfearfulforyou.Ithoughtfora

momentyouwouldburstwideopen.”“Oh,noneedoffear,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“Iamextremelyresilient.The

bodyismadeofexcellentmaterial.Itisstrongandhasabouncingquality.”HeremovedhisarmfromMaxwell’sshoulderanditranlikeanoilyrope,

writhingintheair,toplopbackintohisbody.Therewasnomarkonthebodysurface,Maxwellnoticed,toindicatewhereitmighthavedisappeared.

“You’llexcuseme,please,”saidMr.Marmaduke.“There’ssomeoneImustsee.”Hewheeledaboutandrolledrapidlyaway.

Nancy shuddered. “He givesme the creeps,” she said. “Although Imustadmithe isagreatattraction. It isn’teveryhostesswhocansnagaWheeler. Idon’tmindtellingyou,Pete, thatIpulledalotofwirestogethimforahouseguestandnowIwishIhadn’t.There’saslimyfeelabouthim.”

“Doyouknowwhyhe’dbehere-hereonEarth,Imean?”“No, I don’t. I get the impression that he’s a simple tourist. Although I

don’timaginesuchacreaturecouldbeasimpletourist.”

“Ithinkyou’reright,”saidMaxwell.“Pete,”shesaid,“tellmeaboutyourself.Thepaperssay-”Hegrinned.“Iknow.ThatIcamebackfromthedead.”“But you didn’t, really. I know that’s not possible. Who was that we

buried?Everyone,youmustunderstand,simplyeveryone,wasatthefuneralandweallthoughtitwasyou.Butitcouldn’thavebeenyou.Whatevercouldhave-”

“Nancy,” saidMaxwell, “Icamebackonlyyesterday. I found that IwasdeadandthatmyapartmenthadbeenrentedandthatIhadlostmyjoband-”

“Itseemsimpossible,”saidNancy.“Suchthingsjustdon’thappen.Idon’tseehowthishappened.”

“I’m not entirely clear about it all myself,” Maxwell told her. “Later, Isuppose,I’llfindoutmoreaboutit.”

“Anyway,”saidNancy,“youarehereandeverything’sallrightandifyou

don’twanttotalkaboutit,I’llcirculatethewordthatyouwouldrathernot.”“That’skindofyou,”saidMaxwell,“butitwouldn’twork.”“Youdon’tneedtoworryaboutnewspapermen,”saidNancy.“Thereareno

newspaper people here. I used to let them come. A handpicked few, ones Ithought thatIcouldtrust.Butyoucan’t trustanyof them.Ifoundthatout thehardway.Soyouwon’tbebotheredwiththem.”

“Iunderstandyouhaveapainting…”“You know about the painting, then. Let’s go and look at it. It’s the

proudestthingIhave.Imagineit,aLambert!Andonethathaddroppedentirelyoutofsight.I’lltellyoulaterhowithappenedtobefound,butIwon’ttellyouwhatitcostme.Iwon’ttellanyone.I’mashamedofwhatitcostme.”

“Muchorlittle?”“Much,” said Nancy, “and you have to be so careful. It’s so easy to be

swindled.Iwouldn’teventalkofbuyingituntilIhaditexaminedbyanexpert.Infact,twoexperts.Onetocheckagainsttheother,althoughIsupposethatwasunnecessary.”

“Butthere’snodoubtitisaLambert?”“Nodoubtatall.Iwasalmostsure,myself.Nooneelseeverpaintedquite

likeLambert.Buthecouldbecopied,ofcourse,andIhadtobesure.”“What do you know about Lambert?”Maxwell asked. “Somethingmore

thantherestofus?Somethingthat’snotfounditswayintobooks?”“No.Reallynotagreatdeal.Notaboutthemanhimself.Whydoyouask?”“Becauseyouaresoexcited.”“Well, really! Just finding an unknown Lambert is enough, of course. I

havetwootherpaintingsofhis,butthisoneissomethingspecialbecauseithadbeenlost.Well,actuallyIdon’tknowif lost is thewordornot.Neverknown,perhaps, would be better. No record of his ever painting it. No record thatsurvived,at least.And it isoneofhis so-calledgrotesques.Youwouldhardlythinkoneofthemcouldbelostormislaidorwhateverhappenedtoit.Oneofhisearlierones,thatmightbeunderstandable.”

Theyworkedtheirwayacrossthefloor,skirtingthelittleclusteredgroupsofguests.

“Hereitis,”saidNancy.Theyhadpushedtheirwaythroughacrowdthathadbeengroupedinfront

ofthewallonwhichthepaintinghung.Maxwelltiltedhisheadtostareupatit.Itwas somehowdifferent than the color plates he had seen in the library

that morning. This was because, he told himself, of the larger size of thepainting,thebrillianceandtheclarityofcolor,someofwhichhadbeenlostinthe color plates. But this, he realized, was not all of it. The landscape was

differentandthecreaturesinit.AmoreEarth-likelandscape-thesweetofgrayhillsandthebrownoftheshrubbyvegetationthatlayupontheland,thesquattyfernlike trees. A troop of creatures that could be gnomes wended their wayacrossadistanthill;agoblinlikecreaturesittingatthebaseofatreeleanedbackagainstthebole,apparentlyasleep,withsomesortofhatpulleddownacrosshiseyes.Andothers-fearsome,leeringcreatures,withobscenebodiesandfacesthatmadethebloodruncold.

Onthecrestofadistant,flat-toppedhill,aboutthebaseofwhichclustereda large crowd of many kinds of creatures, a small black blob stood outlinedagainstthegraynessofthesky.

Maxwelldrewinhisbreathinastartledgasp,tookaquickstepcloser,thenhaltedandstoodstiffandstraight,afraidtogivehimselfaway.

Itseemedimpossiblethatnooneelsecouldhavenoticedit,hetoldhimself.Although,perhaps, someonehadandhadnot thought itworth themention,orhadbeenunsureandthusreluctanttosayanythingaboutit.

ButforMaxwelltherecouldbenodoubt.Hewassureofwhathesaw.ThatsmallblackblobonthedistanthilltopwastheArtifact!

Maxwell found a secluded corner, a couple of chairs screened by a hugefloweringplantof some sort, planted in amarble tubofgenerousproportions.Therewasnoonethereandhesatdown.

Out beyond the corner where he sat, the party was drawing to its close,beginningtodwindledown.Somepeoplehadleftandthosewhostillwerethereseemedtobelessnoisy.Andifonemorepersonaskedhimwhathadhappenedtohim,Maxwelltoldhimself,he’dbelttheminthejaw.

I’ll explain, he had told Carol when she had asked the night before-I’llexplain over and over again. And that was what he’d done, not entirelytruthfully,andnoonehadbelievedhim.They’dlookedathimwithglassyeyesandtheyhadfiguredthateitherhewasdrunkorwasmakingfoolsofthem.

Andhe,herealized,hadreallybeentheonewhohadbeenmadeafool.Hehadbeeninvitedtotheparty,butnotbyNancyClayton.Nancyhadnotsenthimclothestowearandhadnotsentthecarthathadlethimoutatthebackdoortowalkdownthehall,pastthedoorwheretheWheelerwaited.Andtentoone,thedogshadnotbeenNancy’seither,althoughhehadnotthoughttoaskher.

Someone,herealized,hadgonetoalotof troubleinaveryawkwardandinvolvedmannertomakesuretheWheelerhadachancetotalkwithhim.Itwasall so melodramatic, stinking so of cloak and dagger, that it was ridiculous.Except that, somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to think of it asridiculous.

Hecoddledhisdrinkwithbothhishandsandlistenedtotheclatterof the

dyingparty.Hepeeredoutaround thegreeneryof theplant roosting in the tubandhe

could not see theWheeler, although theWheeler had been around for a goodpartoftheevening.

Hepassed thedrink, absentmindedly, fromonehand to theother, andheknewhedidn’twant it, thathe’dhada touch toomuch todrink-not somuch,perhaps, too much to drink, as the wrong place to be drinking it, not with awarm,tightgroupoffriendsinafriendlyroom,butwithtoomanypeoplewhowereeither strangersoronlyslightlyknown,and ina room thatwas too largeandtooimpersonal.Hewastired,morewearythanhe’dknown.Injusta littlewhile,he’dgetuponhisfeetandsaygoodnighttoNancy,ifshewerearound,andstumblebacktoOop’sshack,thebestwaythathecould.

And tomorrow? he asked himself. Tomorrow there were things that heshoulddo.Buthe’dnotthinkofthemtonight;he’dwaituntiltomorrow.

Heliftedthedrinkovertherimofthemarbletubandpoureditonthesoil.“Cheers,”hetoldtheplant.Carefully, bending slowly so as not to loose his balance, he set the glass

uponthefloor.“Sylvester,”askedavoice,“doyouseewhatwehavehere?”Hetwistedaroundandthere,onthereversesideoftheplant,stoodCarol,

Sylvesterclosebesideher.“Comeonin,”heinvitedthem.“It’sahideawayIfound.Ifthetwoofyou

stayveryquiet…”“I’vebeentryingtogetyoubyyourselfallevening,”Caroltoldhim,“but

there never was a chance. I want to know what was this routine of you andSylvesterhuntingdowntheWheeler?”

Shecamefartherbackintothecornerandstoodwaitingforhisanswer.“YouwerenomoresurprisedthanIwas,”hesaid.“Sylvester’sshowingup

fairlyleftmegasping.Ihadnoidea-”“Iget invitedaroundalot,”saidCarolcoldly.“Notformyself,ofcourse,

since I supposeyou’rewondering,butbecauseofSylvester.Hemakesagoodconversationpiece.”

“Well, good for you,” said Maxwell. “You’re one up on me. I was notinvited.”

“Butyougotherejustthesame.”“Butdon’taskmehow.Iwouldbesomewhatpressedforanexplanation.”“Sylvesterhasalwaysbeenadecentcat,” shesaidaccusingly.“Perhapsa

littlegreedysometimes,butagentleman.”“Oh,Iknow,”saidMaxwell.“I’mabadinfluenceonalmosteveryone.”

Shecameallthewayaroundtheplantandsatdownintheotherchair.“AreyougoingtotellmewhatIasked?”

Heshookhishead.“Idon’tknowifIcan.Itwassomewhatconfusing.”“Idon’tknow,”shesaid,“that I’vemetamoreexasperatingman.Idon’t

thinkyou’rebeingfair.”“Bytheway,”hesaid,“yousawthepainting,didn’tyou?”“Why,ofcourseIdid.Thatwaswhatthepartywasallabout.Thepainting

andthatfunnyWheeler.”“Didyounoticeanythingunusual?”“Unusual?”“Yes,aboutthepainting.”“Idon’tthinkIdid.”“Upon thehill therewasa tinycube.Black, sittingon thehill. It looked

liketheArtifact.”“Imissedit.Ididn’tlookthatcloselyatit.”“Yousawthegnomes,Ipresume.”“Yes,Inoticedthem.Or,atleast,theylookedlikegnomes.”“And those other creatures,” Maxwell said. “They looked different,

somehow.”“Differentfromwhat?”“DifferentfromtheothercreaturesLambertusuallypainted.”“Ididn’tknow,”shesaid,“youwereaLambertexpert.”“I’mnot,”hesaid.“Iwenttothelibrarythismorning,afterIlearnedabout

thispartyandthepaintingNancyhadandhuntedupabookthathadplatesofhispaintings.”

“Butwhatiftheyweredifferent?”Carolasked.“Apaintersurelyhasarighttopaintanythinghewantsto.”

“Of course he has,” saidMaxwell. “There’s no question of that.But thispaintingwasofEarth.Or, at least, if thatwas theArtifact, and I think itwas,then it was of Earth. But not this Earth, not the Earth we know. Perhaps theJurassicEarth.”

“Andyoudon’tthinkhisotherpaintingswereofEarth?They’dhavetobeofEarth.WhenLambert lived, therewasnootherplace topaint.Therewasn’tanyspacetravel-notanyrealspacetravel,justouttotheMoonandMars.”

“There was the space travel of imagination,” Maxwell told her. “Spacetravelandtimetravelofthemind.Nopaintereverhasbeencircumscribedbythehere and now.And that’swhat everyone had thought, of course-that Lambertpainted in therealmof imagination.Butafter tonightIwonder ifhemightnothavebeenpaintingactualscenesandactualcreatures-placeswherehe’dbeen.”

“Youmayberight,”saidCarol,“buthowcouldhehavegottenthere?ThisbusinessoftheArtifactisexciting,ofcourse,but-”

“It’s something that Oop is always talking about,” he explained. “Heremembers the goblins and the trolls and all the rest of the Little Folk fromNeanderthalerdays.Buttherewereothersthen,hesaid.Othersthatwereworse.Theyweremoremalicious andmischievous and theNeanderthal peoplewerescaredtodeathofthem.”

“Andyou thinksomeof these things in thepaintingmaybe thecreaturesOopremembers.”

“It was in mymind,” he admitted. “I wonder if Nancy would mind if IbroughtOopheretomorrowsohecouldseethepainting.”

“I don’t imagine that she would,” said Carol, “but, actually, it’s notnecessary.Itookpicturesofthepainting.”

“Butyou…”“I know, of course,” she said, “that it’s not the proper thing to do.But I

askedNancyandshesaidshedidn’tmind.Whatelsecouldshesay?Ididn’ttakethepictures toselloranything like that. I just took them tohave themformyown,formypersonalenjoyment.Asortofpay,perhaps,forbringingSylvesterwithmesopeoplecouldhavealookathim.Nancyknowswhatthescoreisandtherewasn’tanythingthatshecoulddoaboutthepicturetaking.IfyouwantOoptohavealookatthem…”

“Youmeanyouwould?”heasked.“Why, of course I would. And don’t blame me, please, for taking the

pictures.It’sawayofgettingeven.”“Gettingeven?WithNancy?”“Notwithher,particularly,butwithalltheseotherpeoplewhoinvitemeto

their parties. With everyone who does. For they don’t want me, really. It’sSylvestertheyinvite.Asifhewereatrainedbearoraclownofsomesort.And,ofcourse,togethimtotheirparties,theymustinviteme,too.ButIknowwhythey’reinvitingmeandtheyknowthatIknowandtheykeeponinvitingme.”

“IthinkIunderstand,”hesaid.“Ithink,”shesaid,“it’sverypatronizingofthem.”“SodoI,”hesaid.“Ifwe’regoingtoshowOopthepictures,”shesaid,“perhapswe’dbestget

going.Thispartyisdyingonitsfeet.Youarepositiveyouwon’t tellmewhathappenedwiththeWheeler.”

“Lateron,”hesaid.“Notrightnow.Maybelateron.”Theylefttheirplacebehind the potted plant and walked across the floor, heading for the door,threadingtheirwaythroughthethinningclustersofguests.

“WeshouldhuntupNancy,”Carolsuggested,“andsaygood-byetoher.”“Someothertime,”saidMaxwell.“Wecanwriteheranoteorphoneherto

say we couldn’t find her and thank her for the evening, say how much weenjoyedit,howherpartiesaretheoneswetrytonevermiss,howmuchwelikedthepaintingandhowcleveritwasofhertogetholdofitand-”

“Cutout theclowning,”Carolsaid.“Youare forcing it toomuch.You’renotverygoodatit.”

“Iknowit,”Maxwellsaid,“butIalwaystry.”They came to the door and started down the long flight ofwide, curving

stonestairswhichleddowntotheroadway.“ProfessorMaxwell!”criedavoice.Maxwellturned.ComingdownthestairswasChurchill.“Justamoment,Maxwell,ifyouplease,”hesaid.“Yes,whatisit,Churchill?”“Aword.Alone,iftheladydoesn’tmind.”“I’ll wait for you at the road,” Carol said to Maxwell. “Don’t bother,”

Maxwellsaid.“I’llsettlehimrealfast.”“No,”saidCarol,“I’llwait.Idon’twantanytrouble.”MaxwellwaitedwhileChurchillcameswiftlydownthestairs.Themanwas

slightlyoutofbreathandhereachedoutahandtograbMaxwellbythearm.“I’ve been trying to get to you all evening long,” he said, “but youwere

alwayswithacrowd.”“Whatisitthatyouwant?”Maxwellaskedhimsharply.“The Wheeler,” Churchill said. “You must pay no attention to him. He

doesn’tknowourways.Ididn’tknowwhatheintendedtodo.Infact,Itoldhimnotto.”

“YoumeanyouknewtheWheelermightbelayingforme?”“Itoldhimnotto,”Churchillprotested.“Itoldhimtoleaveyoualone.I’m

verysorry,ProfessorMaxwell.Believeme,Ididmyverybest.”Maxwell’shandshotoutandgrabbedChurchillbytheshirtfront,twisting

thefabricandpullingthemanclosetohim.“Soyou’re theWheeler’sman!” he shouted. “You’re fronting for him. It

wasyouwhomadetheofferfortheArtifactandyoumadeitfortheWheeler.”“What I did,” declaredChurchill angrily, “wasmyownbusiness. Imake

mylivingrepresentingpeople.”“TheWheelerisn’tpeople,”Maxwellsaid.“GodknowswhataWheeleris.

Ahivefullofinsects,foronething.Whatelsewedonotknow.”“Hehashisrights,”saidChurchill.“He’sentitledtodobusiness.”“And you’re entitled to help him,” Maxwell said. “Entitled to take his

wages.Butbecarefulhowyouearnthem.Anddon’tgetinmyway.”HestraightenedhisarmandflungChurchillfromhim.Themanstaggered,

losthisbalance,fellandrolleddownseveralstepsbeforehecouldcatchhimself.Helaythere,sprawled,nottryingtogetup.

“Byrights,”saidMaxwell,“Ishouldhavethrownyoudownthestairsandbrokenyourfilthyneck.”

Heglanceduptowardthehouseandsawthatasmallcrowdofpeoplehadcollectedatthedoorandwerestaringdownathim.Staringandmutteringamongthemselves.

Heturnedonhisheelandwentstalkingdownthestairs.AtthebottomCarolwasclingingdesperatelytoafranticcat.“I thoughthewasgoingtogetawayandgoupthereandtearthatmanto

pieces,”shegasped.ShelookedatMaxwellwithdisgustwrittenonherface.“Can’tyougetalongwithanyone?”sheasked.Maxwell got off the roadway at the pointwhere it crossed themouth of

HoundDogHollowandstoodforamoment,staringattherockycliffsandboldheadlands of the autumn bluffs. A short distance up the hollow, he caught aglimpse,throughtheredandyellowofthetintedleaves,ofthebarerockfaceofCatDenPointandupthere,highagainstthesky,standingjustbackofthemostprominentoftheheadlands,heknewhe’dfindthecastleofthegoblins,withoneO’Toole in residence.Andsomewhere in thatwilderness lay themossybridgethatservedasadenfortrolls.

Itwas still early in themorning, since he had started outwell before thedawn.Afrostydewlayuponthegrassandtwinkledonclumpsofweedsthesunhadnotyetfound.Theairhadawinyflavortoitandtheskywassofaintanddelicateabluethatitseemedtohavenocolorandoverallofit,overtheentirelandscape,hungasenseofstrangeexpectancy.

Maxwellwalkedacrossthehigh-archedfootbridgethatspannedthedoubleroadwayandontheothersidehefoundapaththatledhimupthehollow.

Thetreesclosedinaroundhimandhewalkedthroughafairylandthathelditsbreath.Hefoundhimselfmovingslowlyandverycarefullysothatnoquickmovement or noise would break the forest hush. Leaves came planing downfromthecanopyabove,flutteringwingsofcolorfallinggentlytoearth.Aheadofhimamouse ran,humping in itshaste,moving throughandover the fallenleaves,butmakingscarcelya rustle in its fleeing.Farup thehollowabluejayscreeched, but among the trees the screech was muted and robbed of itscustomaryharshness.

Thepathforked,withtheleft-handforkcontinuingupthehollow,whilethe

right-handforkangledupthebluff.Maxwelltooktheright-handpath.Aheadofhimlayalongandwearyingclimb,buthewouldtakeiteasyandstoptorestatfrequentintervals.Itwouldbeashameonadaylikethis,hetoldhimself,nottostoptorestasoftenashecould,begrudgingthetimethateventuallywouldtakehimoutofthisplaceofcolorandofsilence.

The path was steep, with many turnings to dodge the massive boulderscrouchedupontheground,anchoredinthesoil,gray-beardedwiththeircropsoflichens.Thetreetrunkscrowdedclose,therough,darkbarkofancientoak,thesatinwhitenessofthebirches,showinglittletanblotcheswherethethinbarkhadpeeled off but still clung, fluttering in the wind. In the cluttered trash of thesurfacerosethefatredpyramidofthejack-in-the-pulpitfruit,theshriveledhooddroopinglikeatitteredpurplerobe.

Maxwellclimbedslowly,savinghisbreath,stoppingoftentolookaround,to soak in the feel of autumn that lay all about.He reached, finally, the fairygreen where Churchill’s flier, with himself as passenger, had come crashingdownunderthespellofthetrolls’enchantment.Justupthehillawayslaythegoblincastle.

Hestoodforamomentonthegreen,resting,thentookuptheclimbagain.Dobbin,oranotherhorseverysimilar tohim,wascroppingat thescantygrasswhichgrew in raggedbunches inapole-fencedpasture.Afewdoves flutteredaboutthecastle’sturrets,buttherewerenoothersignsoflife.

Suddenshoutsshatteredthemorning’speaceandoutoftheopencastlegatecameagangof trolls,moving rapidly and in curious formation.Theywere inthreelinesandeachlinehadaropeacrossitsshoulders,exactly,Maxwell toldhimself, liketheoldpaintinghehadseenoftheVolgaboatmen.Theychargedoutonto thedrawbridgeandnowMaxwellcouldsee that the three ropeswereattachedtoablockofhewnstonewhichbouncedalongbehindthem,raisingahollow,boomingracketwhenithitthedrawbridge.

OldDobbinwasneighingwildly,kickinguphisheelsandgallopingmadlyaroundtheinsideperimeterofthefence.

Thetrolls,theirfangsgleamingagainstthebrown,wrinkledviciousnessoftheirfaces,theirroachedhairseemingtobristlemorestifflythanwastheusualcase, came pounding down the path, with the massive stone bouncing alongbehindthem,raisingpuffsofdustasitgougedintotheground.

Boilingoutof thegatebehind themcameacloudofgoblins, armedwithclubs,withhoes,withpitchforks,apparentlywithanythingtheycouldlaytheirhandsupon.

Maxwell leaped out of the path as the trolls bore down upon him. Theywererunningsilentlyandwithvastdetermination,theirweightbentagainstthe

ropes,whilethegoblinhordepursuedthemwithwildwarwhoopsandshrieks.Intheforefrontofthegoblinband,Mr.O’Tooleranheavily,hisfaceandneckvioletwithhisanger,atwo-by-fourbrandishedinhisfist.

At the point whereMaxwell had leaped out of the way, the path took asuddendip,toboganningdownwardinarockyslidetothefairygreen.Atthetopof the dip the block of stone took amighty leap as its forward edge struck arocky ledge.Theropeshungslackand theblockcamedownandbouncedandthen,withtheropesflying,startedpinwheelingdownthehill.

One of the trolls looked behind him and shouted a frantic warning. Thetrollsdroppedtheropesandscattered.Theblockofstonewenttearingdowntheslope,gainingspeedwitheveryrevolution.Itstruckthefairygreenandgashedagreatholeinit,madeonelastbounceintotheair,musheddownintothegrassandskidded,rippingupthesod,tearinganuglygashacrosstheplaceofdancing.Crashingintoalargewhiteoakatthefarendofthegreen,itfinallycametorest.

Thegoblinswentroaringdownthehillinpursuitofthetrolls,scatteringoutintothetreestohuntdownthestealersofthestone.Hootsoffearandyelpsofrage floatedup thehill, intermingledwith the soundofmanybodies thrashingthroughtheunderbrush.

Maxwellcrossed thepathandwalkedover to thepole fence.OldDobbinnow had quieted down and stood with his lower jaw resting on one of thetopmostpoles,asifheneededittoprophimup.Hewasstaringdownthehill.

Maxwell reached out a hand and strokedDobbin’s neck, pulled gently atoneear.Dobbinslantedagentleeyetowardhimandwhuffledhisupperlip.

“Ihope,”Maxwell said tohim, “that theywon’t expectyou todragbackthatstone.It’salong,steeppull.”

Dobbinflickedoneearlanguidly.“IfIknowO’Toole,”Maxwellsaid,“Idon’texpectyou’llhaveto.Ifhecan

roundupthetrolls,they’llbetheoneswho’lldoit.”TheuproardownthehillhadquietednowandinalittlewhileMr.O’Toole

camepuffingupthepath,carryingthetwo-by-fouracrossoneshoulder.Hestillwas purple of face, but apparently from exhaustion rather than from rage.HehurriedfromthepathtowardthefenceandMaxwellwalkedouttomeethim.

“My great apology,” saidMr.O’Toole, in as stately a voice as he couldmanagewiththeshortnessofhisbreath.“Iglimpsedyouandwashappyofyourpresence, but engaged most earnestly and very urgently. You witnessed, Isuspect,thelowdownhappening.”

Maxwellnodded.“Mymountingstonetheytook,”ragedMr.O’Toole,“withmaliciousintent

ofputtingmeafoot.”

“Afoot?”askedMaxwell.“Youcomprehendmostfeebly,Isee.Mymountingstone,upwhichImust

scramble to get astride Old Dobbin.Without a mounting stone there gets nohorseback riding and I must trudge afoot unhappily, with much pain andpuffing.”

“Isee,”saidMaxwell.“Asyousay,atfirstIdidnotcomprehend.”“Them dirty trolls,” said Mr. O’Toole, grinding his teeth in fury, “at

nothingwilltheystop.Afterthemountingstoneitwouldhavecomethecastle,piecebypiece, stonebystone,until therebenomore than thebarenessof therockuponwhichitoncehadroosted.It isnecessary, insuchcircumstance, thebudtonipwithquickdetermination.”

Maxwelljerkedhisheadinadownhilldirection.“Howdiditcomeout?”heasked.

“Weroot themout,”said thegoblinwithsomesatisfaction.“Theyscatterlikethequail.Wedigthemoutfromunderrocksandfromhidinginthethicketsand thenwe harness them, like somanymules, ofwhich, indeed, they bear astriking likeness, and they drag themounting stone,most laboriously, I think,backtowheretheyfoundit.”

“They’re getting back at you,” said Maxwell, “for tearing down theirbridge.”

Mr.O’Toole jigged in exasperation. “You arewrong!” he cried. “Out ofgreatandmisplacedcompassion,werefrainedfromthetearingofitdown.Justtwolittlestonesisall-twotinylittlestones,andmucheffectiveroaringatthem.AndthentheybetooktheenchantmentsoffthebroomstickandalsooffthesweetOctoberaleand,beingsimplesoulsmuchgiventogoodnature,welet itgoatthat.”

“They took the enchantment off the ale? I would have thought thatimpossibleoncecertainchemicalchanges…”

Mr.O’ToolefixedMaxwellwithalookofcontempt.“Youprate,”hesaid,“inscientificlingo,whichbringsnomorethanerrantnonsense.Ifailtofathomyourengagementinthissciencewhenmagicyoucouldhavefortheaskingfromusandthewillingnesstolearn.AlthoughImustconfessthedisenchantmentofthealeleftsomethingfordesire.Ithasafaintlymustytouchaboutthetastingofit.

“Although,”he said, “it is anotchor two improveduponnoale at all. Ifyouwouldonlyjoinme,wecoulddoasampleofit.”

“Therehasbeennothingalldaylong,”saidMaxwell,“thatsoundsasgoodasthat.”

“Then leave us retire,” cried Mr. O’Toole, “to the drafty halls built so

inexpertly by you crazy humanswho thoughtwe doted upon ruins and regaleourselveswithfoamingmugsofcheer.”

Inthedraftygreathallof thecastle,Mr.O’Tooledrewthefoamingmugsfromamightycasksetupontwosawhorsesandcarriedthemtotherough-hewntable before the large stone fireplace inwhich a smoldering and reluctant firewassmokingratherbadly.

“Theblasphemyofit,”saidMr.O’Toole,asheliftedhismug,“isthatthispreposterousoutrageof themountingstonewascommittedata timewhenwegoblinswereembarkeduponawake.”

“I’msorry,”Maxwellsaid.“Awake,yousay.Ihadnotbeenaware…”“Oh, not one of us,” Mr. O’Toole said quickly. “With the possible

exceptionofmyself,indisgustinggoodhealthisallthegoblintribe.WewereinobservanceofitfortheBanshee.”

“ButtheBansheeisnotdead.”“Notdead,”saidMr.O’Toole,“butdying.And,oh,thepityofit.Hebethe

lastofagreatandnobleraceinthisreservationandtheonesstillleftelsewhereintheworldcanbecounteduponlessthanthefingersofonehand.”

Heliftedthemugandburiedhismuzzleinit,drinkingdeepandgustily.Whenheputitdowntherewasfoamuponhiswhiskersandheleftitthere,

notbotheringtowipeitoff.“Wedieoutmostnotably,”hesaid,insombertones.“Theplanethasbeen

changed.AllofusLittleFolksandsomewhoarenotsolittlewalkdownintothevalley,where shadows hang so densely, andwe are gone from the ken of allliving things and that is the end of us. And the very shame of it makes onetremblewhenhethinksuponit,forwewereagoodlypeopledespiteourmanyfaults.Even the trolls,beforedegradation fellupon them,stillhada fewweakvirtues all intact, although I would proclaim that, at the moment, they aredestituteofvirtue.Forsurelythestealingofamountingstoneisaverylowdowntrickandonewhichclearlydemonstratestheyarebereftofallnobilityofspirit.”

Heputthemugtohismouthagainandemptieditinseverallustygulps.HeslammeditdownonthetableandlookedatMaxwell’smug,stillfull.

“Drink up,” he urged. “Drink up, then I fill them yet again for a furtherwettingofthewhistle.”

“Yougoahead,”Maxwelltoldhim.“It’sashametodrinkalethewayyoudo.Itshouldbetastedandappreciated.”

Mr.O’Tooleshrugged.“ApigIam,nodoubt.Butthisbedisenchantedaleandnotonetolingerover.”

Nevertheless he got to his feet and shuffled over to the cask to refill hismug.Maxwell liftedhismugand tookadrink.Therewasamustiness,asMr.

O’Toolehadsaid, in theflavorof theale-a tang that tastednotunlike thewaythatleafsmokesmelled.

“Well?”thegoblinasked.“Ithasastrangetastetoit,butitispalatable.”“Someday that troll bridge I will take down,” said Mr. O’Toole, with a

surgeofsuddenwrath.“Stonebystone,withthemossmostcarefullyscrapedofftorobthestonesofmagic,andwithahammerbreaktheminmanysmallishbits,andtransportthebitstosomehighcliffandthereflingthemfarandwidesothatinall eternity therecanbenoharvestingof them.Except,”he said, lettinghisshouldersdroop,“somuchhardlaboritwouldbe.Butoneistempted.Thisbethesmoothestandsweetestalethatwaseverbrewedandnowlookatit-scarcelyfit for hogs. But it be a terrible sin to waste even such foul-tasting slop if itshouldbeale.”

Hegrabbedthemugandjerkedittohisface.HisAdam’sapplebobbedandhedidnottakedownthemuguntilallthealewasgone.

“AndifIwreaktoogreatadamagetothatmostfoulbridge,”hesaid,“andshouldthosecraventrollsgosnivelingtoauthority,youhumanswilljerkmeontherugtoexplainmythinkingandthatisnotthewayitshouldbe.Thereisnodignityinthelivingbytheruleandnojoy,either,anditwasarottendaywhenthehumanracearose.”

“Myfriend,”saidMaxwell,shaken,“youhavenotsaidanythinglikethistomebefore.”

“Nor to anyotherhuman,” said thegoblin, “and to all thehumans in theworld,onlytoyoucouldIdisplaymyfeeling.ButI,perchance,haverunoffatthemouthexceedingly.”

“Youknowwellenough,”saidMaxwell,“thatI’llnotbreatheawordofit.”“Ofcoursenot,”saidMr.O’Toole.“ThatIdidnotworryon.Youbealmost

oneofus.You’retheclosesttoagoblinthatahumancanapproach.”“Iamhonored,”Maxwelltoldhim.“Weareancient,”saidMr.O’Toole,“moreancient,Imustthink,thanthe

humanmindcanwonder.You’resureyoudon’twanttopolishoffthatmostfoulandterribledrinkandstartanotheroneafresh?”

Maxwellshookhishead.“Yougoaheadandfillyourmugupagain.I’llsithereandenjoymineinsteadofgulpingit.”

Mr.O’Toolemadeanothertriptothecaskandcamebackwithabrimmingmug,slappeditonthetable,andsettledhimselfelaboratelyandcomfortably.

“Longyearsgone,”hesaid,shakinghisheadinsadness,“soawfullongagoandthenafilthylittleprimatecomesalongandspoilsitallforus.”

“Longago,”saidMaxwell.“AslongastheJurassic?”

“Youspeakconundrums.Idonotcatchtheterm.Butthereweremanyofusandmanydifferentkindsandtodaytherebefewofusandnotall thedifferentkinds.Wedieoutveryslowly,butinexorably.Afurtherdaywilldawntofindnooneofus.Thenyouhumanswillhaveittoyourselves.”

“You are overwrought,” Maxwell cautioned him. “You know that’s notwhatwewant.Wehavegonetomucheffort…”

“Lovingeffort?”askedthegoblin.“Yes,I’devensaytomuchlovingeffort.”Weak tears ran down the goblin’s cheeks andhe lifted a hairy, calloused

handtowipethemaway.“Youmust payme slight attention,” he toldMaxwell. “I deep am in the

dumps.It’sthisbusinessoftheBanshee.”“TheBansheeisyourfriend?”Maxwellaskedinsomesurprise.“Nofriendofmine,”saidMr.O’Toole.“Hestandsononesidethepaleand

I upon the other.An ancient enemy, but still one of us.One of the really oldones.Hehungonbetterthantheothers.Hediesmorestubbornly.Theothersallaredead.And indays like this,olddifferencesgoswiftlydown thedrain.Wecouldnotsitawakewithhim,asconsciencewoulddecree,butintheabsenceofthiswepayhimthesmallhonorofawakeforhim.Andthentheselow-crawlingtrollswithoutaflakeofhonorinthem-”

“Youmeannoone,noonehereonthereservation,couldsitthedeathwatchwiththeBanshee?”

Mr.O’Tooleshookhisheadwearily.“Nosingleoneofus.Itistothelawcontrary, to the old custom in violation. I cannot make you understand-he isoutsidethepale.”

“Butheisallalone.”“In a thorn bush,” said the goblin, “close beside the hut that was his

domicile.”“Athornbush?”“Inthethorns,”thegoblinsaid,“dwellmagic,inthetreeitself…”Hechokedandgrabbedhastilyat themugandraised it tohismouth.His

Adam’sapplebobbed.Maxwellreachedinto thepocketofhis jacketandpulledout thephotoof

thelostLambertthathungonNancyClayton’swall.“Mr.O’Toole,”hesaid,“there’ssomethingImustshowyou.”Thegoblinsetdownthemug.“Letmeseeit, then,”hesaid.“Allthisbeatingamongstthebushes,when

therewassomethingthatyouhad.”Hereachedforthephoto,bendinghisheadtopuzzleoverit.

“Thetrolls,”hesaid,“ofcourse.ButtheseothersIdonotrecognize.AsifIshould,butfail.Therebestories,old,oldstories…”

“Oopsawthepicture.YouknowofOop,ofcourse.”“Thegreatbarbarianwhoclaimstobeyourfriend.”“Heismyfriend,”saidMaxwell.“AndOoprecallsthesethings.Theyare

oldonesfromtheancientdays.”“Butwhatmagiciscalledupontogetapictureofthem?”“ThatIdon’tknow.That’sapictureofapainting,paintedbyamanmany

yearsago.”“Bywhatmeans…“Idonotknow,”saidMaxwell.“Ithinkthathewasthere.”Mr.O’Toolepickeduphismugandsawthatitwasempty.Hetotteredto

the cask and filled it. He came backwith his drink and picked up the photo,lookingatitcarefully,althoughsomewhatblearily.

“Iknownot,”hefinallysaid.“Therewereothersofus.Manydifferentonesnolongerpresent.Weherearethetailendofanoblepopulation.”

He pushed the photo back across the table. “Mayhaps the Banshee,” hesuggested.“TheBanshee’syearsarebeyondalltelling.”

“ButtheBanshee’sdying.”“Thathe is,”saidMr.O’Toole,“andanevilday it isandabitterdayfor

him,withnoonetokeepthedeathwatch.”Heliftedhismug.“Drinkup,”hesaid.“Drinkup.Canonedrinkenough,it

maynotbesobad.”Maxwell came around the corner of the tumble-down shack and saw the

thorntreestandingtoonesideofit.Therewassomethingstrangeaboutthetree.It lookedas ifacloudofdarknesshadsettledalongitsverticalaxis,makingitappear tohaveamassivebole,outofwhichemergedshortandslender, thorn-armedtwigs.AndifwhatO’Toolehadsaidwastrue,Maxwelltoldhimself,thatdarkcloudclusteredinthetreemustbethedyingBanshee.

Hewalkedslowlyacrosstheinterveningspaceandstoppedafewfeetfromthetree.Theblackcloudmovedrestlessly,likeacloudofslowlyroilingsmoke.

“YouaretheBanshee?”Maxwellaskedthetree.“You’vecometoolate,”theBansheesaid,“ifyouwishtotalkwithme.”“Ididnotcometotalk,”saidMaxwell.“Icametositwithyou.”“Sitthen,”theBansheesaid.“Itwillnotbeforlong.”Maxwell satdownupon thegroundandpulledhiskneesupcloseagainst

hischest.Heputhishandsdownbesidehim,palmsflatagainst thematofdryandbrowninggrass.Belowhimtheautumnvalleystretchedtothefarhorizonofthe hills north of the river-unlike the hills of this southern shore, but gentle,

rollinghillsthatwentuptowardtheskyinslanted,staircasefashion.A flurry of wings swept across the ridge behind him and a flock of

blackbirds went careening through the blue haze that hung against the steepravine thatwentplungingdownwardfromtheridge.Butexcept for thatsingleinstantofwingsbeatingintheair, therewasasoftandgentlesilencethatheldnoviolenceandnothreat,adreamingsilenceinwhichthehillsstoodquiet.

“The others did not come,” the Banshee said. “I thought, at first, theymight.Foramoment I thought theymight forgetandcome.Thereneedbenodistinctionamongusnow.Westandasone,allbeatentotheselfsamelevel.Buttheoldconventionsarenotbrokenyet.Theold-timecustomshold.”

“Italkedwiththegoblins,”Maxwelltoldhim.“Theyholdawakeforyou.TheO’Tooleisgrievinganddrinkingtoblunttheedgeofgrief.”

“Youarenotofmypeople,”theBansheesaid.“Youintrudeuponme.Yetyousayyoucometositwithme.Howdoesithappenthatyoudothis?”

Maxwelllied.Hecoulddonothingelse.Hecouldnot,hetoldhimself,tellthisdyingthinghehadcomeforinformation.

“I have worked with your people,” he said, “and I’ve become muchconcernedwiththem.”

“YouaretheMaxwell,”saidtheBanshee.“Ihaveheardofyou.”“Howdoyou feel?”askedMaxwell. “Is thereanything Icando foryou?

Somethingthatyouneed?”“No,” theBanshee said. “I ambeyond all needing. I feel almost nothing.

Thatisthetrouble,thatIfeelnothing.Mydyingisdifferentthanyourdying.Itisscarcelyphysical.Energydrainsoutfrommeandthere’sfinallynothingleft.Likeaflickeringlightthatfinallyguttersout.”

“Iamsorry,”Maxwellsaid.“Iftalkinghastens-”“Talkingmighthastenitalittle,butInolongermind.AndIamnotsorry.I

havenoregret.Iamalmostthelastofus.Therearethreeofusstillleft,ifyoucountme,andIamnotworththecounting.Outofthethousandsofus,onlytwoareleft.”

“Buttherearethegoblinsandthetrollsandfairies…”“Youdonotunderstand,”theBansheesaid.“Noonehasevertoldyou.And

youneverthoughttoask.Thoseyounamearethelaterones,theonesthatcameafter uswhen the planetwas no longer young.Wewere colonists, surely youknowthat.”

“Ihadthoughtso,”Maxwellsaid.“Injustthelastfewhours.”“You should have known,” the Banshee said. “You were on the elder

planet.”Maxwellgasped.“Howdidyouknowthat?”

“Howdoyoubreatheair?”theBansheeasked.“Howdoyousee?Withme,communicatingwiththatancientplanetisasnaturalasisbreathandsightwithyou.Iamnottold;Iknow.”

So thatwas it, thoughtMaxwell.TheBansheehadbeen thesourceof theWheeler’s knowledge and it must have been Churchill who had tipped theWheelertothefactthattheBansheehadtheinformation,whohadguessedtheBansheemighthaveknowledgenooneelsesuspected.

“Andtheothers-thetrolls,the…”“No,” theBanshee said. “TheBansheeswere the only ones towhom the

roadwasopen.Thatwasourjob,thatwasouronlypurpose.Wewerethelinkswith theelderplanet.Wewerecommunicators.Whentheelderplanetsentoutcolonies, it was necessary that some means of communicating should beestablished.Weallwerespecialists,althoughthespecialtieshavelittlemeaningnowandnearlyallofthespecialistsaregone.Thefirstoneswerethespecialists.Theoneswhocamelatersimplyweresettlersmeanttofilltheland.”

“Youmeanthetrollsandgoblins?”“Thetrollsandgoblinsandtherestof them.Withabilities,ofcourse,but

not specialized. We were the engineers, they the workers. There was a gulfbetween us. That iswhy theywill not come to sitwithme.The old gulf stillexists.”

“Youtireyourself,”saidMaxwell.“Youshouldconserveyourstrength.”“Itdoesnotmatter.Energydrainsoutofmeandwhentheenergyisgone,

life isgoneaswell.ThisdyingIamdoinghasnoconcernwithmatterorwithbody,forIneverreallyhadabody.Iwasallenergy.Anditdoesnotmatter.Fortheelderplanetdiesaswell;youhaveseenmyplanetandyouknow.”

“Yes,Iknow,”saidMaxwell.“Itwould have been so different if there had been no humans.Whenwe

firstcameheretherewerescarcelyanymammals,letaloneaprimate.Wecouldhavepreventedit-thisrisingoftheprimates.Wecouldhavepinchedtheminthebud.Therewassomediscussionofit,forthisplanethadprovedpromisingandwe were reluctant at the thought that we must give it up. But there was theancientrule.Intelligenceistooseldomfoundforonetostandinthewayofitsdevelopment. It is a precious thing-even when we stepped aside for it mostreluctantly,westillhadtorecognizethatitwasapreciousthing.”

“Butyoustayedon,”saidMaxwell.“Youmayhavesteppedaside,butyoustillstayedon.”

“Itwastoolate,”theBansheetoldhim.“Therewasnoplaceforustogo.Theelderplanetwasdyingeven then.Therewasnopoint ingoingback.Andthisplanet,strangeasitmayseem,hadbecomehomeforus.”

“Youmusthateushumans.”“Atonetime,wedid.Isupposetherestillishatred.Buthatecanburnoutin

time.Burn low,perhaps,butneverentirelydisappear.Although,perhaps,eveninourhatred,weheldsomeprideinyou.Otherwise,whyshouldtheelderplanethaveofferedyouitsknowledge?”

“ButyouofferedittotheWheeler,too.”“TheWheeler-oh,yes,Iknowwhoyoumean.Butwedidnotreallyofferit.

The Wheeler had heard about the elder planet, apparently from some rumorheard far in space.And that theplanethad something that itwished to sell. Itcametomeandaskedonequestiononly-whatwasthepriceofthiscommodity.Idon’tknowifitknewwhatmightbeforsale.Itonlysaidcommodity.”

“AndyoutolditthepricewastheArtifact.”“OfcourseItolditthat.ForatthetimeIhadnotbeentoldofyou.Itwas

only later Iwas told I should, after a suitable time, communicate the price toyou.”

“And,ofcourse,”saidMaxwell,“youwereabouttodothis?”“Yes,”said theBanshee,“Iwasabout todo it.AndnowI’vedone itand

thematter’sclosed.”“Youcantellmeonethingmore.WhatistheArtifact?”“That,”theBansheesaid,“Icannotdo.”“Can’t,orwon’t?”“Won’t,”theBansheesaid.Sold out, Maxwell told himself. The human race sold out by this dying

thing which, despite what it might say, had never meant to communicate theprice to him.This thingwhich through longmillennia had nursed cold hatredagainst thehumanrace.Andnow that itwasgonebeyondall reaching, tellinghimandmockinghimsothathemightknowhowthehumanshadbeensoldout,sothat thehumanracemightknow,nowthat itwastoolate,exactlywhathadhappened.

“And you told the Wheeler about me as well,” he said. “That’s howChurchillhappenedtobewaitingatthestationwhenIreturnedtoEarth.Hesaidhe’dbeenonatrip,buttherehadbeennotrip.”

Hesurgedangrilytohisfeet.“Andwhatabouttheoneofmewhodied?”Heswungupon the treeand the treewasempty.Thedarkcloud thathad

seethedarounditstrunkwasgone.Thebranchesstoodoutinsharpandnaturalreliefagainstthewesternsky.

Gone,Maxwellthought.Notdead,butgone.Thesubstanceofanelementalcreature gone back to the elements, the unimaginable bonds that had held ittogether instrangesemblanceof life,finallyweakeningtolet thelastof itslip

away,blowingoffintotheairandsunlightlikeapinchofthrowndust.Alive,theBansheehadbeenahardthingtogetalongwith.Dead,itwasno

easier.Forashortspaceoftimehehadfeltcompassionforit,asamanmustfeelfor anything thatdies.But thecompassion,heknew,hadbeenwasted, for theBansheemusthavediedinsilentlaughteratthehumanrace.

There was just one hope, to persuade Time to hold up the sale of theArtifact sohecouldhave the time to contactArnoldand tellhis story tohim,persuadehim,somehow,thatwhathetoldwastrue.Astory,Maxwellrealized,thatnowbecameevenmorefantasticthanithadbeenbefore.

Heturnedaboutandstarteddowntheravine.Beforehereachedthewoods,hestoppedandlookedbackuptheslope.Thethorntreestoodsquatagainstthesky,sturdyandsolid,bracedsolidinthesoil.

Whenhepassedthefairydancinggreenagangoftrollsweregrumpilyatwork, raking and smoothing out the ground, laying new sod to replace thatwhichhadbeengougedout by the bouncing stone.Of the stone therewasnosign.

MaxwellwashalfwaybacktoWisconsinCampuswhenGhostmaterializedandtooktheseatnexttohim.

“IhaveamessagefromOop,”hesaid,ignoringanypreliminaryapproachtoconversation.“Youarenottoreturntotheshack.Thenewspaperpeopleseemto have sniffed you out. When they came to inquire, Oop went into action,without,Iwouldguess,toomuchthoughtorjudgment.Heputthebum’srushonthem,butthey’restillhangingaround,onthelookoutforyou.”

“Thanks,”saidMaxwell.“Iappreciatebeingtold.Althoughasamatteroffact,Idon’timagineitmakestoomuchdifferencenow.”

“Events,”askedGhost,“donotmarchtoowell?”“Theybarelymarchat all,”Maxwell toldhim.Hehesitated, then said, “I

supposeOophastoldyouwhatisgoingon.”“Oop and I are as one,” said Ghost. “Yes, of course he’s told me. He

seemed to take it for granted that you knew he would. But you may restassured…”

“It’snotthat,”saidMaxwell.“IwasonlywonderingifIhadtoreciteitallagain for you.Youknow, then, that Iwent to the reservation to check on theLambertpainting.”

“Yes,”saidGhost.“TheonethatNancyClaytonhas.”“Ihaveafeeling,”Maxwelltoldhim,“thatImayhavefoundoutmorethan

I had expected to. I did find out one thing that doesn’t help at all. Itwas theBansheewho tippedoff theWheelerabout theprice thecrystalplanetwanted.TheBansheewassupposedtotellme,buthetoldtheWheelerinstead.Heclaims

hetoldtheWheelerbeforeheknewaboutme,butIhavesomedoubtofthat.TheBansheewasdyingwhenhetoldme,butthatdoesn’tmeanthathetoldthetruth.Healwayswasaslipperycustomer.”

“TheBansheedying?”“He’sdeadnow.Isatwithhimuntilhedied.Ididn’tshowhimthephotoof

thepainting.Ididn’thavethehearttointrudeuponhim.”“ButdespitethishetoldyouabouttheWheeler.”“Onlytoletmeknowthathehadhatedthehumanracesinceitfirstbegan

itsevolutionaryclimb.Andtoletmeknowthathewasfinallygettingeven.Hewould have liked to have said that the goblins and the rest of the Little Folkhatedusaswell,butheneverquitegotaroundtothat.Knowing,perhaps,thatIwouldnotbelieveit.AlthoughsomethingthattheO’Toolehadsaidearliermademe realize that there probably is some ancestral resentment. Resentment, butprobablynotany realhatred.But theBansheedidconfirm thatadeal isbeingmade for theArtifact and that theArtifact actually is the price for the crystalplanet. I thought so from the first, of course.Andwhat theWheeler said lastnightmade it almost a certainty.Although I couldn’tbeabsolutely sure, for itdoesn’t seem that theWheeler himself is actually sure of the situation. If hewere,whatwouldhavebeenthepointofwaylayingmeandofferingmeajob?Itsoundedtomeasifheweretryingtobuymeoff,asifhewereafraidthattherewassomethingIcoulddotolouseuphisdeal.”

“It looks fairly hopeless, then,” Ghost observed. “My good friend, I amvery sorry for this. Is there anything thatwe can do to help-Oop andme andperhapseventhatgirlwhodrankwithyouandOopsostaunchly.Theonewhohasthecat.”

“Itlookshopeless,”Maxwelltoldhim,“butthereareacoupleofthingsthatIstillcando-gotoHarlowSharpatTimeandtrytoconvincehimtoholdupthedeal, thencrash inadooror twoupatAdministrationandbackArnold intoacorner. If Ican talkArnold intoduplicating theWheeler’soffer in fundingforHarlow ’sTimeprojects, I am sure thatHarlowwill turndown theWheeler’soffer.”

“Youwillmakeanobleeffort, Iamsure,”saidGhost,“but I fear for theresults.NotfromHarlowSharp,forhe’safriendofyours,butPresidentArnoldisafriendofnoone.Andhewillnotrelishthebreakingdownofdoors.”

“YouknowwhatIthink,”saidMaxwell.“Ithinkthatyouareright.Butyoucan’ttelluntilyoutry.ItmaybethatArnoldwillhavealapseofmoralfiberandwill,foronce,setprejudiceandstuff-shirtednessaside.”

“Imustwarnyou,”saidGhost.“HarlowSharpmayhavelittletimeforyouorforanyone.Hehasworries.Shakespearearrivedthismorning-”

“Shakespeare!”yelledMaxwell.“For theloveofGod,I’dforgottenabouthim coming. But I do remember he speaks tomorrow night. Of all the lousybreaks.Itwouldhavetobeatatimelikethis.”

“It would seem,” said Ghost, “thatWilliam Shakespeare is not any easymantohandle.Hewantedatoncetogooutandhavealookatthisnewageofwhichhe’dbeentoldsomuch.TimehadaroughtimepersuadinghimtochangehisElizabethandressforwhatweweartoday,buttheypositivelyrefusedtolethimgountilheagreedtoit.AndnowTimeissweatingoutwhatmighthappentohim.Theyhavetokeephimintow,buttheycan’tdoanythingthatwillgethisbackup.Theyhavesoldthehalldowntothelastinchofstandingroomandtheycan’ttakethechancethatanythingwillhappen.”

“Howdidyouhearallthis?”askedMaxwell.“Seemstomeyoumanagetocomeupwithcampusgossipaheadofanyone.”

Ghostsaidmodestly,“Igetaroundalot.”“Well,it’snotgood,”saidMaxwell,“butIhavetotakethechance.Timeis

runningoutforme.Harlowwillseemeifhe’llseeanyone.”“It seems incredible,” saidGhost sadly, “that such a dire combination of

circumstances shouldhave arisen toblockwhatyou try todo. Impossible thatthrough sheer stupidity, the university and Earth should fail to obtain theknowledgeoftwouniverses.”

“ItwastheWheeler,”Maxwellsaid.“Hisofferputsthepressureon,setsupatimelimit.IfIonlyhadmoretime,Icouldworkitout.IcouldtalktoHarlow,could finallygetahearing fromArnold.And ifnothingelse, Iprobablycouldtalk Harlow into a deal, Time, rather than the university, buying the planet’slibrary.Butthereisn’tanytime.Ghost,whatdoyouknowabouttheWheelers?Anythingtherestofusdon’tknow?”

“Idoubt it. Just that theycouldbe thathypothetical enemywe’vealwaysfiguredwewould finallymeet in space.Their actions argue that they, at leastpotentially, are that enemy. And their motives, their mores, their ethics, theirentire outlook on life, must be different than ours.We probably have less incommonwiththemthanamanwouldwithaspiderorawasp.Althoughtheyareclever-andthatistheworstofit.Theyhaveabsorbedenoughofourviewpointsandmannersthattheycanmixwithus,canpasswithus,candobusinesswithus-and theyhavedemonstrated that in thedeal theyare trying tomake for theArtifact.Myfriend,itisthisclevernessoftheirs,thisflexibility,thatIfearaboveall.Idoubtifthepositionswerereversedthatmancoulddoaswell.”

“Youareright,Ithink,”saidMaxwell.“Andthatiswhywecan’taffordtoletthemhavewhatthecrystalplanethastooffer.Godknowswhat’stobefoundinthatlibrary.Ihadawhackatit,butIcoulddonomorethansampleit,could

barelytouchtheedgeofit.AndtherewasmaterialthatIcouldn’tcomewithintenlight-yearsofunderstanding.Whichdoesn’tmeanthatgiventimeandskillsthatIhaven’tgot,thatperhapsI’venotevenheardof,manwouldn’tbeabletounderstand it. I thinkman could. I think theWheelers can.Vast areas of newknowledge that we haven’t any inkling of. That knowledgemight just be themarginbetweenusand theWheelers. IfmanandtheWheelersevercomeintocollision, the crystal planet’s knowledge just possibly could be the differencebetween our victory or defeat. And it might mean as well that theWheelers,knowingthatwehadthisknowledge,mightneverallowthatcollisiontohappen.Itmightspellthedifferencebetweenpeaceandwar.”

HesatcrouchedintheseatandthroughthewarmthoftheautumnafternoonfeltachillthatblewfromsomewhereotherthanthecolorfullandandtheskyofChina-silkthatenclosedthisportionoftheearth.

“You talked with the Banshee,” said Ghost. “Just before he died. Hementioned theArtifact.Didhegiveyouanyclueas towhat it really is? Ifweknewwhatitreallywas…”

“No, Ghost. Not in so many words. But I got the impression-no, you’dbettercallthatahunch.Notstrongenoughtobeanimpression.Andnotatthetime,butafterward.Afunnyfeelingandnobasisforthebelief-if it isabelief.ButIthinkthattheArtifactissomethingfromthatotheruniverse,theonebeforethis one, from the earlier universe in which the crystal planet was formed. Aprecious thing, perhaps, preserved through all the aeons since that otheruniverse.Andsomethingelseaswell-that theBansheeandtheotherOldOnesthatOopremembersarenativesofthatotheruniverseaswell,relatedsomehowto the creatures on the crystal planet. Life forms that rose and developed andevolved in that past universe and came here, and to other planets as well, ascolonists,inanattempttoestablishanewcivilizationwhichcouldfollowinthecrystal planet’s tracks. But something happened. All of those colonizationattempts failed. Here on earth because man developed. For other reasons,perhaps,ontheotherplanets.AndIthinkthatIknowwhysomeofthoseotherattemptsfailed.Mayberacesdodieout.Quitenaturallyandfornootherreasonthanthat theymustdieout tomakeroomforsomethingelse.Anatural lawofsomesortthatwedon’tunderstand.Maybearacecanonlylivesolong.Maybeancient creaturescarry theirdeathwarrantswith them.Someprinciple thatwehaveneverthoughtaboutbecausewearesoyoung,anaturalprocessthatclearsthewayforevolution,so thatnoracecan liveforeverandstand in thewayofevolution.”

“Itsoundsreasonable,”saidGhost.“Thatallthecoloniesdiedout,Imean.If therehadbeenasuccessfulcolonyanywhere in theuniverse, itwouldseem

likelythecrystalplanetwouldpassonitsheritagetoitinsteadofofferingittousortheWheelers,tosomeracethathadnoconnectionwiththecrystalplanet.”

“Whatbothersme,”saidMaxwell,“iswhythepeopleofthecrystalplanet,soclosetodeaththattheyarenomorethanshadows,shouldwanttheArtifact.Whatgoodwillitdothem?Whatusecantheymakeofit?”

“Maybeifweknewwhatitwas,”saidGhost.“You’resurethatyouhavenoidea?Nothingthatyouheardorsawor…”

“No,”saidMaxwell.“Nottheleastidea.”HarlowSharphadaharriedlookabouthim.“Sorryyouhadtowaitsolong,”hetoldMaxwell.“Thisisahecticday.”“I was glad to get in anyway at all,” saidMaxwell. “That watchdog of

yoursoutatthedeskwasnotabouttoletme.”“I’vebeenexpectingyou,”saidSharp.“Figuredyou’dturnupsoonorlate.

Beenhearingsomestrangestories.”“Andmostofthemaretrue,”saidMaxwell.“Butthat’snotwhatI’mhere

for.Thisisabusinessmatter,notasocialvisit.Iwon’ttakemuchtime.”“OK,then,”saidSharp,“whatcanIdoforyou?”“You’resellingtheArtifact,”saidMaxwell.Sharpnodded.“I’msorryaboutthat,Pete.Iknowyouandafewothershad

aninterestinit.Butit’sbeenoutthereinthemuseumforyearsand,exceptasacuriositytobestaredatbyvisitorsandtourists,it’sdonenooneanygood.AndTimeneedsmoney.Surelyyouknowthat.Theuniversityholdsthepursestringsfastandtheothercollegesfeedustinydribletsforspecificprogramsand-”

“Harlow,Iknowallthat.Isupposeit’syourstosell.Irecalltheuniversity,atthetimeyoubroughtitforward,wouldhavenopartofit.Thecostofmovingitwasyoursand-”

“We’vehadtoscrapeandbegandborrow,”saidSharp.“We’veworkedupprojectafterproject-goodsound,solidprojectsthatwouldpayoffinknowledgeandnewdata-andsubmittedthemandnoone’sbuyingthem.Canyouimagineit!Withallthepasttodigaroundinandnooneinterested.Afraid,perhaps,thatwe’llupset someof theirpet theories theyhaveworkedout sonicely.Butwehavetogetmoneysomehowtocarryonourwork.DoyouthinkI’velikedsomeofthethingswe’vedonetogetsomeextramoney?LikethisShakespearecircusweareputtingon-anda lotofotherstuntsaswell. It’sdoneusnogood, I tellyou.It’sdegradedourimage,andthetrouble-Pete,youcan’timaginethetroublethatwe have.Take this Shakespeare, for example.He’s out there somewhere,likea tourist, casing the joint, andme sittingbackherewithmynails cheweddowntotheelbow,imaginingallthethingsthatcouldhappentohim.Canyouenvision the ruckus there would be if a man like Shakespeare should not be

returnedtohisproperage-amanwho-”Maxwell broke in to head himoff. “I’mnot arguingwith you,Harlow. I

didn’tcometo-”“Andthen,suddenly,”saidSharp,interruptinghim,“therewasthischance

to sell the Artifact. For more money than we’ll ever get from this crummyuniversity in a hundredyears.Youmust realizewhat this salemeant to us.Achancetodothe jobwe’venotbeenable todobecauseof the lackoffinance.Sure,IknowabouttheWheelers.WhenChurchillcamesuckingaroundtosoundus out, I knew he was working for someone behind the scenes, but I wasn’tdealingwith anyone behind the scenes. I nailedChurchill hard and refused totalkbusinessuntilIknewwhoitwashewasfrontingfor.Andwhenhetoldme,Igaggedabit,butIwentahead,becauseIknewitwasouronlychancetosetupadecent fund. I’dhavedonebusinesswith theDevil,Pete, toget thatkindofmoney.”

“Harlow,allIwanttoask,”saidMaxwell,“isforyoutoholdupthedeal,togivemealittletime…”

“Time?Timeforwhat?”“IneedtheArtifact.”“YouneedtheArtifact!Whateverfor?”“Icantradeit,”Maxwelltoldhim,“foraplanet-foraplanetcrammedwith

knowledge, with recorded knowledge, not from one universe, but from two,knowledgethatmayspanfiftybillionyears.”

Sharpleanedforward,thensankbackintohischair.“You mean this, Pete? You aren’t kidding me? There are some funny

stories that I’veheard.Therewere twoofyouandoneofyouwaskilled.Andyou’vebeenduckingthenewsmen,perhapsthecopsaswell.You’vegottenintosomesortofhasslewiththeadministration.”

“ Harlow, I could tell you all of it, but it wouldn’t help. You probablywouldn’tbelieveme.ButwhatIsayistrue.Icanbuyaplanet…”

“You?Foryourself,youmean?”“No,notmyself.Theuniversity.That’swhyIneed time.Toget in tosee

Arnold…”“Andsellhimonit?Pete,youhaven’tgotachance.Youhadarowofsome

sort with Longfellow, and Longfellow runs the joint. Even if you had alegitimateproposition…”

“It is legitimate. I tell you it’s legitimate. I talked to the people on theplanet,Isawsomeoftherecords.”

Sharpshookhishead.“We’vebeenfriendsforalong,longtime,”hesaid.“I’d do almost anything for you.But I can’t go alongwith this. I can’t throw

awaythisopportunityforTime.Besides,I’mafraidyoucametoolate.”“Toolate?”“Thepurchasepricewaspaidthisafternoon.TheWheelertakespossession

of theArtifact tomorrowmorning.Hewanted to immediately,but therewasahitchortwoinarrangingtransportation.”

Maxwellsatsilent,stunnedbywhathe’dheard.“SoIguessthat’sit,”saidSharp.“There’snotmuchIcandoaboutit.”Maxwellstartedtogetup,thensatbackinthechair.“Harlow,ifIcouldseeArnoldtonight.IfIcouldtalkhimintoduplicating

theprice…”“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sharp. “He’d faint when you mentioned the

price.”“Itwasthatmuch?”“Itwasthatmuch,”saidSharp.Maxwellgotslowlytohisfeet.“OnethingIwillsay,however,”Sharptold

him, “you must, somehow or other, have thrown a scare into the Wheeler.Churchillwasherethismorning,nervousasacat,frothingatthemouth,toclosethedeal at once. Iwishyou couldhave seenme earlier.Wemight havebeenabletoworksomethingout,althoughIcan’timaginewhatitmighthavebeen.”

About to turn away, Maxwell hesitated, turned back to the desk behindwhichSharpwassitting.

“One thing more. About time travel. Nancy Clayton has a Lambertpainting…”

“Iheardshehad,”saidSharp.“In the background there’s a hill and a stone upon it. I could swear that

stoneistheArtifact.OopsaysthecreaturesinthepaintingareliketheonesheremembersfromNeanderthaldays.AndyoudidfindtheArtifactonaJurassichilltop. How could Lambert have known about it being on that hilltop? TheArtifactwasn’tfounduntilcenturiesafterhehaddied.IthinkLambertsawtheArtifact and the creatures that he painted. I think he traveled back to theMesozoic.Thereisanargument,isn’tthere,aboutamannamedSimonson?”

“I see what you’re getting at,” said Sharp. “It’s just barely possible.Simonsondidsometemporal investigationbackinthetwenty-firstcenturyandclaimed some measure of success, but admitted he had problems in control.Thereisalegendthathelostamanortwointimesentthembackandcouldn’tget themout.But there always has been a question as towhether he had anyactualsuccess.Hisnotes, theoneswehave,aren’t too revealing,andheneverpublished.Hecarriedtheworkonsecretlybecauseheseemedtohavetheideathat time travelwould turn out to be a goldmine, that he could rent it out to

scientific expeditions, transport hunters back to the big-game fields-stuff likethat, you know. One idea that he seemed to have was going back in time toSouthAfricaandcleanout theKimberleydiamondfields.Sohekept itsecret;nooneeverknewtoomuchaboutwhathereallydid.”

“But it could have been possible,”Maxwell insisted. “The time is right.Simonson and Lambert were contemporaries and there’s an abrupt break inLambert’sstyle-asifsomethinghadhappened.Thatsomethingcouldhavebeengoingintotime.”

“Sureit’spossible,”saidSharp.“ButIwouldn’tbetonit.”WhenMaxwellcameoutof theTimebuilding, thestarswerecomingout

andthenightwindhadanedgeofchill.Thegreatelmswereclumpedmassesofadeeperdarkness,blottingoutthelightsofthewindowsinthebuildingsacrossthemall.

Maxwell shivered and turned up the collar of his jacket close about histhroat,andwentquicklydownthestairstothesidewalkwhichflankedthemall.Therewerefewpeopleout.

Herealizedthathewashungry.Hehadnoteatensinceearlymorning.Andthatheshouldthinkofhungerwhenthelasthopehehadheldhadbeenshatteredseemedtobeamusing.Notonlyhungry,hethought,butrooflessaswell,forifhehoped tododge thenewsmenhecouldnotgoback toOop’s.Although,heremindedhimself,therewasnolongeranyreasonheshouldshunthenewsmen.Nowthere’dbenothinggainedorlostinthetellingofhisstory.Butheshrankfrom the thought of it, from the thought of the incredulous expressions theirfaceswould assume, from the questions theywould ask, and then,more thanlikely,thetongue-in-cheekstyletheywouldemployinthewritingofthestory.

He reached the sidewalk and stood for amoment, undecided as towhichdirectionheshouldgo.Hetried,vainly,torememberwherehemightfindacafeor restaurantwhichwould not be frequented by any of the facultywhomightrecognizehim.Tonight,ofallnights,hehadanaversion to facing thekindofquestionstheywouldask.

Somethingrustledbehindhimandhe turnedquickly tocomeface to facewithGhost.

“Oh,it’syou,”hesaid.“I’vebeenwaitingforyou,”Ghostsaid.“Youwerealongtimeinthere.”“Ihadtowait.Thenwegottotalking.”“Doyouanygood?”“Noneatall.TheArtifactissoldandpaidfor.TheWheelerhaulsitaway

tomorrow. I’mafraid that’s the endof it. I could goup and try to seeArnoldtonight,butthere’snopointtoit.Notanymore,thereisn’t.”

“Oopisholdingdownatableforus.Iimagineyouarehungry.”“Iamstarved,”saidMaxwell.“ThenIleadtheway.”TheyturnedoffthemallandwithGhostleading,woundtheirwayforwhat

seemedtoMaxwellanunusuallylongtime,throughbackstreetsandalleys.“Aplace,”Ghostexplained,“wherewewon’tbeseen.Butwherethefood

isedibleandthewhiskey’scheap.Oopmadeapointofthat.”Theyfinallyreachedtheplace,walkingdownanironstaircasetoreachthe

basement level. Maxwell pushed open the door. The interior was dim. Fromsomewhereinthebackcamethesmellofcooking.

“Theyservefamilystylehere,”saidGhost.“Plankitdownuponthetableandeveryonehelpshimself.Oopisdelightedwiththatwayofserving.”

Oop’s massive figure moved out from one of the tables in the rear. Hewavedanarmatthem.Therewere,Maxwellsaw,onlyahalfdozenorsootherpeopleintheplace.

“Overhere!”yelledOop.“Someoneforyoutomeet.”FollowedbyGhost,Maxwellmadehiswayacrosstheroom.Fromthetable,Carol’sfacelookedupat him.And another face, a bearded, shadowed face-the face of someone thatMaxwellfeltheshouldremember.

“Ourguesttonight,”saidOop.“MasterWilliamShakespeare.”Shakespeare got up and held out his hand to Maxwell. A white-toothed

smileflashedabovethebeard.“I deem me fortunate,” he said, “to have fallen in with such rough and

rowdyfellows.”“TheBardisthinkingofstayinghere,”saidOop.“Ofsettlingdownamong

us.”“Nay,nottheBard,”saidShakespeare.“Iwillnothaveyoucallmeit.Ibe

nomorethananhonestbutcherandadealerinthewool.”“A mere slip of the tongue,” Oop assured him. “We have grown so

accustomed…”“Aye,aye, Iknow,”saidShakespeare.“Onemistake treadsharduponthe

footstepsoftheoneitfollows.”“But stay here,” said Maxwell. He shot a swift glance at Oop. “Does

Harlowknowhe’shere?”“Ithinknot,”saidOop.“Wetooksomepainshewouldn’t.”“I slipped the leash,” said Shakespeare, grinning, pleased with himself.

“Butwithassistance,forwhichIacknowledgegratitude.”“Assistance,” saidMaxwell. “I just bet there was.Will you clowns ever

learn…”

“Pete,don’tcarryon,”saidCarol.“IthinkitverynobleofOop.Herewasthispoorfellowfromanothertimeandallhewantedwastoseehowthepeoplelivedand-”

“Let’ssitdown,”saidGhosttoMaxwell.“Youhavethelookofamanwhocouldstandagoodstiffdrink.”

Maxwellsatdown,nexttoShakespeare,Ghosttakingthechairontheothersideofhim.Ooppickedupabottleandhandeditacrossthetabletohim.

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Don’t bother with aglass.We’reinformalhere.”

Maxwell tilted the bottle to his mouth and let it gurgle. Shakespearewatched him with admiration. When he took it down, Shakespeare said, “Icannotbutadmireyourfortitude.Iessayedadrinkofitanditfair toshriveledme.”

“Afteratimeyougetusedtoit,”saidMaxwell.“Butthisale,”saidShakespeare,touchingwithafingerahalf-filledbottle

ofbeer.“Now,thereisstuffsofttothepalateandpleasingtothestomach.”SylvesterwormedhiswaybehindShakespeare’schair,squeezedinbeside

MaxwellandlaidhisheadinMaxwell’slap.Maxwellscratchedbehindhisears.“Isthatcatbotheringyouagain?”askedCarol.“Sylvester and I are comrades,”Maxwell told her. “We’ve been through

warstogether.WetookontheWheelerlastnight,youmustremember,andwevanquishedhim.”

“Youbearacheerfulcountenance,”ShakespearesaidtoMaxwell.“Iwouldpresume that the business you have been about, and which had detained youuntilnow,hasgonefavorably.”

“Thebusinessdidnotgoatall,”saidMaxwell.“TheonlyreasonIhaveacheerfulcountenanceisbecauseIaminsuchgoodcompany.”

“YoumeanHarlow turnedyoudown!”explodedOop. “Thathewouldn’tgiveyouadayortwooftime.”

“Therewasnothingelseforhimtodo,”Maxwellexplained.“He’salreadybeenpaidandtheWheelercartsofftheArtifacttomorrow.”

“We have the means,” Oop declared darkly, “to make him change hismind.”

“Notanylonger,”saidMaxwell.“Hecan’tpulloutnow.Thedealisdone.Hewon’tgivebackthemoney,bewon’tbreakhisword.AndifwhatyouhaveinmindiswhatIthinkitis,allheneedstodoiscalloffthelectureandrefundthemoneyforthetickets.”

“Isupposeyou’reright,”Oopagreed.“Wehadn’tknownthedealhadgonesofar.Wefiguredwemightpickupalittlebargainingstrength.”

“Youdidthebestyoucould,”saidMaxwell,“andIthankyouforit.”“Wehadfigured,”saidOop,“thatifwecouldbuyadayortwo,thenallof

uscouldgomarchingupthehillandbustinonArnoldandexplainthingstohimbyhand.Butit’sallovernow,Iguess-sohaveanotherdrinkandpassitovertome.”

Maxwell had another drink and passed the bottle to him. Shakespearefinishedoffhisbeerandthumpedthebottlebackontothetable.CaroltookthebottlefromOopandpouredacoupleofinchesintoherglass.

“Idon’tcarehowtherestofyouconductyourselves,”shesaid.“Iwillnotgoutterlybarbaric.Iinsistondrinkingfromaglass.”

“Beer!”yelledOop.“Morebeerforourdistinguishedguest.”“Ithankyou,sir,”saidShakespeare.“Howdidyoueverfindthisdump?”askedMaxwell.“Iknow,”saidOop,

“manyofthebackwatersofthiscampus.”“It was exactlywhatwewanted,” saidGhost. “Timewill be beating the

bushesforourfriend.DidHarlowtellyouhehaddisappeared?”“No,”saidMaxwell,“butheseemedsomewhatonedge.Hementionedthat

hewasworried,butyoucouldn’ttellitonhim.He’sthekindwhocansitontheedgeofanexplodingvolcanoandneverturnahair.”“Howaboutthenewsmen?”Maxwellasked.“Stillcoveringtheshack?”Oop shookhishead. “But they’ll beback.We’ll have to find someother

placeforyoutobunk.”“IsupposeImightaswellfacethem,”Maxwellsaid.“Thestorywillhave

tobetoldsomeday.”“They’lltearyouapart,”warnedCarol.“AndOoptellsmeyouarewithout

ajobandLongfellow’ssoreatyou.Youcan’tstandbadpublicityrightnow.”“Noneof it reallymatters,”Maxwell toldher. “Theonlyproblem is how

muchofitIshouldtellthem.”“All of it,” said Oop. “Tear the thing wide open. Let the galaxy know

exactlywhatwaslost.”“No,” saidMaxwell. “ Harlow is my friend. I can’t do anything to hurt

him.”Awaiterbroughtabottleofbeerandputitdown.“Onebottle!”ragedOop.

“Whatdoyoumean,onebottle?Gobackandgetanarmloadof it.Our friendherehasadryon.”

“Youdidn’tsay,”thewaitersaid.“HowwasItoknow?”Heshuffledofftogatherupmorebeer.“Yourhospitality,”saidShakespeare,“isbeyondreproach.ButIfearIam

intrudinginatimeoftrouble.”

“Trouble,yes,”Ghosttoldhim.“Butyouarenotintruding.Wearegladtohaveyou.”

“WhatwasthisOopsaidaboutyourstayinghere?”askedMaxwell.“Aboutyoursettlingdown.”

“Myteetharebad,”saidShakespeare.“Theyhanglooselyinthejawandattimes pain exceedingly. I have intelligence that hereabout are marvelousmechanicswhocanextractthemwithnopainandfabricateasettoreplacetheonesIhave.”

“Thatcanbedone,indeed,”saidGhost.“I left at home,” said Shakespeare, “a wifewith a nagging tongue and I

would be rather loath to return to her. Likewise, the ale that you call beer iswondrous above any I have drunk and I hear tell that you have arrived atunderstandingwithgoblinsandwithfairies,whichisamarvelousthing.Andtosit atmeatwithaghost ispastallunderstanding,althoughonehas the feelingherehemustdigcloseattherootoftruth.”

Thewaiterarrivedwithanarmloadofbeerbottlesanddumpedthemonthetable.

“There!”he said, disgusted. “That’ll holdyou for awhile.Cook says thefoodiscomingup.”

“You don’t intend,” Maxwell asked Shakespeare, “to appear for yourlecture?”

“Forsooth,andifIdid,”saidShakespeare,“theywouldforthwith,oncethatIhadfinished,whiskmehomeagain.”

“And they would, too,” said Oop. “If they ever get their paws on him,they’llneverlethimgo.”

“Buthowwillyouearnaliving?”Maxwellasked.“Youhavenoskillstofitthisworld.”

“I,”saidShakespeare,“willsurelydevisesomething.Aman’swits,driventoit,willcomeupwithanswers.”

Thewaiterarrivedwithacart,ladenwithfood.Hebeganputtingitonthetable.

“Sylvester!”Carolcried.Sylvester had risen swiftly, put his twopawson the table and reached to

grabtwoslabsofrareroastbeefwhichhadbeencarvedoffastandingroastofribs.

Sylvester disappeared beneath the table, with the meat hanging from hisjaws.

“Thepussycatishungry,”Shakespearesaid.“Heharvestswhathecan.”“In the matter of food,” Carol complained, “he has no manners

whatsoever.”Frombeneaththetablecamethesoundofcrunchingbones.“MasterShakespeare,”saidGhost,“youcamefromEngland.Fromatown

upontheAvon.”“Agoodly country to the eye,” said Shakespeare, “but filledwith human

riffraff. There be poachers, thieves, murderers, footpads, and all sort ofloathsomefolk…”

“But I recall,” said Ghost, “the swans upon the river and the willowsgrowingonitsbanksand-”

“Youwhat?”howledOop.“Howcanyourecall?”Ghostroseslowlytohisfeetandtherewassomethingabouthisrisingthatmadeallofthemfixtheireyesuponhim.Heraisedahand,althoughtherewasnohand,justthesleevesofhisrobe,ifrobeitwas.

His voice, when it came, was hollow, as if it might have come from anemptyplacefardistant.

“But Idorecall,”he told them.“Afterall theseyears, Idorecall. IeitherhadforgottenorIhadneverknown.ButnowIdo…”

“MasterGhost,”saidShakespeare,“youactexceedingstrange.Whatqueerdistempercouldhaveseizeduponyou?”

“IknownowwhoIam,”saidGhost triumphantly.“IknowwhoIamtheghostof.”

“Well, thank God for that,” said Oop. “It will put an end to all thismaunderingofyoursaboutyourheritage.”

“Andwho,pray,”askedShakespeare,“mightyoubetheghostof?”“Of you,” Ghost keened. “I know now-I know now-I am William

Shakespeare’sghost!”For an instant they all sat silent, stricken, and then from Shakespeare’s

throatcameastrangledsoundofmoaningfright.Withasuddensurge,hecameoutofhischairandleapedtothetabletop,headingforthedoor.Thetablewentoverwithacrash.Maxwell’schair tippedbackandhewent sprawlingwith it.The edge of the tipping table pinned him to the floor and a bowl of gravy,skatingoffitsedge,caughthimintheface.

He put up both his hands and tried towipe the gravy off his face. FromsomewhereabovehimheheardOop’sragingbellows.

Abletoseeagain,butwithhisfaceandhairstilldrippinggravy,Maxwellmanagedtocrawlfrombeneaththetableandstaggertohisfeet.

Carolsat flatupon the flooramid the litterof the food.Beerbottleswererolling back and forth across the floor. Framed in the kitchen door stood thecook,amightywomanwithchubbyarmsandtousledhair,andherhandsupon

her hips. Sylvesterwas crouched above the roast, ripping it apart and rapidlyswallowinggreatmouthfulsofmeatbeforeanyonecouldstophim.

Oopcamelimpingbackfromthedoor.“Nosignofthem,”hesaid.“Nosignofeitheroneofthem.”HereacheddownahandtohaulCaroltoherfeet.“ThatrottenGhost,”hesaidbitterly.“Whycouldn’thekeepstill?Evenif

heknew…”“But he didn’t know,” said Carol. “Not until just now. It took this

confrontation to jar it out of him. Something Shakespeare said, perhaps. It’ssomethinghe’sbeenwonderingaboutall theseyearsandwhensuddenly ithithim…”

“This tears it,” Oop declared. “Shakespeare never will quit running.There’llbenofindinghim.”

“MaybethatiswhatGhostisdoingnow,”saidMaxwell.“Thatiswherehewent.TofollowShakespeareandstophimandbringhimbacktous.”

“Stophim,how?",askedOop.“IfShakespeareseeshimfollowinghe’llsetnewrecordsrunning.”

They sat dejectedly aboutOop’s rough-lumber table. Sylvester lay onhisbackonthehearthstone,withhisfrontpawsfoldedneatlyonhischest,hisbackfeetthrustupintotheair.Heworeasillygrinofsatisfactionpastedonhisface.

Oop shoved the fruit jar along the boards toCarol. She picked it up andsniffed.“Itsmellslikekerosene,”shesaid,“and,asIrememberit,ittasteslikekerosene.”Sheliftedthejarwithbothherhandsanddrank,thenpusheditacrosstoMaxwell.

“Idobelieve,”shesaid,“thatafteratimeonecouldbecomeaccustomedtodrinkingkerosene.”

“That isgoodbooze,” saidOopdefensively. “Although,”he admitted, “itcoulddowithjustatouchmoreaging.SeemsthatitgetsdrunkupquickerthanIcangetitmade.”

Maxwell lifted the jar and drank moodily. The hooch burned its wayfiercelydownhisgulletandexplodedinhisstomach,but theexplosiondidnogood.Hestillstayedmoodyandaware.Thereweretimes,hetoldhimself,whenthere was no such thing as getting drunk. Pour it in two-fisted and you stillstayed sober.And right now, he thought, hewould dearly love to get soddendrunk and stay that way for a day or so. Maybe when he sobered up, lifewouldn’tseemsobad.

“What I can’t understand,” said Oop, “is why Old Bill should take thisbusinessofhisghostsobad.Hedid,ofcourse.Hewasscaredpinkwithpurplespots.But the thing that bothersme is that hewasn’t upsetwithGhost.Oh, a

littlejitteryatfirst,asonemightexpectofasixteenth-centuryman.Butoncewehad explained it to him, he seemed rather pleasedwith it.He acceptedGhostmuchmorereadilythanwouldhavebeenthecase,say,withatwentieth-centuryman.Inthesixteenthcenturytheybelievedinghostsandghostsweresomethingthatcouldbeaccepted.HenevergotthewindupuntilhefoundthatGhostwashisghostandthen…”

“Hewasquiteintrigued,”saidCarol,“byourrelationswiththeLittleFolk.Hemade us promise we’d take him down to the reservation so he could getacquainted with them. As was the case with ghosts, he believed in themimplicitly.”

Maxwell tookanotherhookeroutof the jar and slid it across toOop.Hewipedhismouthonthebackofhishand.“Beingfreeandeasywithaghost,withjustanyghost,”hesaid,“wouldcomeunderadifferentheadingthanmeetingupwithoneparticularghostthatturnedouttobeyourghost.Itisimpossibleforamantoaccept, toactuallyacceptandbelieve in,hisowndeath.Evenknowingwhataghostis…”

“Oh,don’tpleasestartthatupagain,”saidCarol.Oopgrinned.“Hesurewentoutoftherelikeashot,”hesaid.“Likeyou’d

tiedafirecrackertohistail.Hewentthroughthatdoorwithouteventouchingthelatch.Hejustbustedthroughit.”

“Ididn’tsee,”saidMaxwell.“Ihadabowlofgravyinmyface.”“There wasn’t anyone got anything out of the whole mess,” said Oop,

“exceptthatsaber-tootheroverthere.Hegotahaunchofbeef.Rare,thewayhelikesit.”

“Thecat’sanopportunist,”Carolobserved.“Healwayscomesoutsmellingpretty.”

Maxwellstaredather.“I’vebeenmeaningtoaskyou.Howdoyoucometobemixedupwithus?IthoughtyouwashedyourhandsofuslastnightaftertheaffairwiththeWheeler.”

Oopchuckled.“Shewasworriedaboutyou.Also,sheisnosy.”“There’ssomethingelseaswell,”saidMaxwell.“Howcomeyouaremixed

upinitatall?Let’s takeitfromthefirst.YouweretheonewhotippedusoffabouttheArtifact-aboutitbeingsold.”

“Ididn’ttipyouoff.Imisspoke.Itjust-”“Youtippedusoff,”Maxwelldeclared.“I thinkyoumeanttodoit.What

doyouknowabouttheArtifact?Youmusthaveknownsomethingtonothavewanteditsold.”

“Yeah,thatisright,”saidOop.“Sister,youbetterstarttellinguswhatitisallabout.”

“Acoupleofbullies…”“No,” saidMaxwell, “let’s not turn it to a joke. This is something that’s

important.”“Well,Ihadheardaboutitbeingsold,asItoldyou.Iwasn’tsupposedto

know.AndIwasworriedaboutitandIdidn’tlikethesoundofit.Notthattherewasanythingreallywrongwiththesaleofit,legally,Imean.IunderstoodthatTimehadtitletoitandcouldsellitifitwished.Butitdidn’tseemtomethatathingliketheArtifactshouldbesold,evenforumpteenbilliondollars.BecauseIdidknowsomethingaboutit-somethingthatnooneelseknewaboutitandIwasafraidtotrytotellanyonewhatIknew.AndwhenImentionedhowimportanttheArtifactwastootherpeople,Icouldseethat theycouldn’tcareless.Then,thatnight,whenyoutwotalkedaboutitandweresointerested-”

“Youthoughtmaybewecouldhelp.”“Well, Idon’tknowwhat I thought.Butyouwere thefirstoneswhohad

shownanyinterestinit.AlthoughIcouldn’ttellyou.Icouldn’tcomerightoutand tell you, because, you see, Iwasn’t supposed to know it and therewas amatterofbeingloyaltoTimeandIwasallmixedup.”

“WereyouworkingwiththeArtifact?Isthathow…”“Well,no,”shesaid,“notworkingwithit.ButonedaywhenIstoppedto

lookatit-likeanytourist,youunderstand,justwalkingthroughtheinnercourtofthe museum and stopping to have a look at it, because it was an interestingobject and a mysterious one as well-and I saw something, or thought I sawsomething. I don’t know now. I can’t be sure. Although at the time, IrememberedIwassure,IwasabsolutelycertainthatIsawthisthingaboutitnoonehadevernoticed,oriftheyhadnoticed…”

Shestoppedandlookedfromonetotheotherofthem.Neitherspoke.Theysatsilent,waitingforhertogoon.

“Ican’tbesure,”shesaid.“Notnow.NowIcan’tbesure.”“Goahead,”saidOop.“Tellusthebestyoucan.”Shenoddedsoberly.“Itwasjustforaninstant.Soquick,sofast,andyetat

thetimetherewasnodoubtIhadreallyseenit.Thesunwasshiningthroughthewindows and the sunlightwas fallingon theArtifact.Maybenoonehad everlooked at the Artifact before when the sunlight had been shining on it atprecisely the angle it shone on it that day. I don’t know. That could be theexplanation,Isuppose.ButitseemedtomeIsawsomethinginsidetheArtifact.Well,reallynotinsideofit,either.Rather,asiftheArtifactwassomethingthathad been pressed or shaped into an oblong block, but you couldn’t know thisexceptwhenthesunshonejustrightuponit.ItseemedtomethatIcouldseeaneye,andforjustaninstant,whenIsawthateye,Iknewthatitwasaliveandthat

itwaswatchingmeand-”“Butthatcan’tbe!”yelledOop.“TheArtifactislikeastone.Likeapiece

ofmetal.”“A funny piece of metal,” saidMaxwell. “Something that you can’t pry

into,somethingthat-”“It’sonly fair to say,”Carol reminded them,“thatnowIcan’tbe sure. It

mighthavebeenonlymyimagination.”“We’llneverknow,”saidMaxwell.“TheWheelerwillhaulofftheArtifact

tomorrow.”“And buy the crystal planet with it,” said Oop. “It seems to me we

shouldn’tjustbesittinghere.IfwecouldhaveheldontoShakespeare…”“Itwouldn’thavedoneabitofgood,”Maxwelltoldhim.“Thisbusinessof

kidnapingShakespeare-”“We never kidnaped him,” saidOop, outraged at the thought. “He came

alongwithusverypeaceably.Hewasgladtocome.He’dbeenfiguringallthetimehowhe could lose this escort thatTimehad sent along. Itwas really hisownidea.Weonlyhelpedalittle.”

“Likeclunkingtheescortonthehead?”“No, never,” declaredOop. “Wewere genteel about it.We createdwhat

youmighthavecalledamilddiversion.”“Well, anyhow,” saidMaxwell, “itwas a bum idea.Therewas toomuch

money involved. You could have kidnaped a dozen Shakespeares and you’dnevergotHarlowSharptogiveuphisdealfortheArtifact.”

“But even so,” said Carol, “there should be something that we could bedoing.LikeroustingArnoldoutofbed.”

“The only way,” saidMaxwell, “that Arnold could help us is by givingTimethekindofmoneytheWheelerispayingSharp.Ican’tseethat,canyou?”

“No,Ican’t,”saidOop.Hepickedupthejar,putittohismouthanddrainedit,gotupandwentto

thehideout in the floorandgotanother jar.Ponderously,heunscrewed the lidandhandedthejartoCarol.

“Leave us settle down,” he suggested, “to building up a hangover. ThenewsmenwillbeherebymorningandIgottobuildupthestrengthforthrowingthemallout.”

“Now,waitasecond,”saidMaxwell.“Ifeelanideacomingon.”Theysatandwaitedfortheideatocomeon.“Thetranslator,”saidMaxwell.“TheoneIusedtoreadtherecordsonthe

crystalplanet.Ifounditinmybag.”“Yes?”askedOop.

“WhatiftheArtifactweresimplyanotherrecord?”“ButCarolsays…”“IknowwhatCarol says.But shecan’tbe sure.Sheonly thinks she saw

thateyestaringoutather.Anditseemsimprobable.”“That’sright,”saidCarol.“Ican’tbeabsolutelysure.AndwhatPetesays

does make a crooked sort of sense. If he’s right, it would have to be a veryimportant record-and a rather massive one. Perhaps a whole new world ofknowledge.MaybesomethingthecrystalplanetlefthereonEarth,believingthatnoonewouldeverthinkoflookingforithere.Asortofhiddenrecord.”

“Evenifthatshouldbethecase,”saidOop,“whatgoodwillitdous.ThemuseumislockedandHarlowSharpisnotabouttoopenitforus.”

“Icouldgetusin,”saidCarol.“IcouldphonetheguardandsayIhadtogetinanddosomework.OrthatIhadleftsomethingthereandwantedtopickitup.Ihaveclearanceforthatsortofthing.”

“Andloseyourjob,”suggestedOop.Sheshrugged.“Thereareotherjobs.Andifweworkeditright…”“Butthere’ssolittlepoint toit,”protestedMaxwell.“It’snobetter thana

million-to-oneshot.Maybelessthanthat.Idon’tdenyI’dliketohaveatryatit,but-”

“What ifyoufound that itwas reallysomething important?”askedCarol.“ThenwecouldgetholdofSharpandexplainittohimandmaybe…”

“Idon’tknow,”saidMaxwell.“IwoulddoubtthatwecouldfindanythingsoimportantthatHarlowwouldrenegeuponthedeal.”

“Well,”saidOop,“let’snotwastetimesittinghereandtalkingaboutit.Letusbeaboutit.”

MaxwelllookedatCarol.“Ithinkso,Pete,”shesaid.“Ithinkit’sworththechance.”

Oop reached out and took the jar ofmoonshine from in front of her andscrewedonthecap.

Thepastsurroundedthem,thecabinetedandcasedandpedestaledpast,thelost and forgotten and unknown snatched out of time by the far-ranging fieldexpeditions that had probed into the hidden corners ofmankind’s history.Artandfolkloreobjectsthathadbeenundreamedofuntilmenwentbackandfoundthem;stillnewpotterythathadheretoforebeenknownonlyasscatteredshards,if even that; bottles out of ancient Egypt with the salves and ointments stillimprisoned,fresh,withinthem;ancientironweaponsnew-takenfromtheforge;the scrolls from theAlexandrian librarywhichshouldhaveburned,butdidn’t,becausemenhadbeensentbackin timetosnatchthemfromtheflamesat themomentbeforetheywouldhavebeendestroyed;thefamedtapestryofElythat

had disappeared from the ken of man in a long-gone age-all these andmanymore, a treasure trove of articles, many of them no treasures in themselves,snatchedfromthebowelsoftime.

Theplacewasmisnamed,Maxwellthought.NotTimeMuseum,butrathertheMuseumofNoTime,aplacewhereallagescametogether,wheretherewasno time distinction, a building where all the accomplishments and dreams ofmankindmight eventually be gathered, not aged things, but all fresh and newandshiny,fashionedonlyyesterday.Andhereonewouldnothavetoguessfromoldandscatteredevidencewhat ithadbeen likeback there,butcouldpickupand hold andmanipulate the tools and instruments and gadgets that had beenmadeandusedthroughallthedaysofhisdevelopment.

Standing beside the pedestal which held the Artifact he listened to thefootstepsoftheguardashetrampedawayagainonhisregularrounds.

Carolhadmanagedit,andtherehadbeenatimehehaddoubtedshewouldbeableto.ButeverythinghadgoneOK.She’dphonedtheguardandtoldhimsheandacoupleoffriendshadwantedonelastlookattheArtifactbeforeitwascartedoffandhehadbeenwaitingto let theminat thelittleentrywayset intoone of the large doors that were opened when the museum was open to thepublic.

“Don’ttaketoolong,”hegrumbled.“I’mnotsureIshouldletyoudothis.”“It’sallright,”she’dtoldhim.“Thereisnoneedforyoutoworry.”Hehadshuffledoff,mumblingtohimself.Abankofoverheadspotlightsshonedownontheblackblockthatwasthe

Artifact.Maxwell ducked beneath the velvet rope that guarded the pedestal and

clambered up beside the Artifact, crouching down beside it, fumbling in hispocketfortheinterpretingapparatus.

Itwasacrazyhunch,hetoldhimself.Itwasnohunchatall.Itsimplywasan idea born of desperation and he was wasting his time, more than likelymakinghimselfsomewhatridiculous.Andevenifthiswildventureshouldprovetohavesomepoint,therewasnothingthathecoulddo,atthislatehour,aboutit.Tomorrow the Wheeler would take possession of the Artifact and of theknowledge storedon the crystal planet and so far as thehuman racemightbeconcerned that would be the end of fifty billion years of knowledge dredgedmostlaboriouslyanddevotedlyfromtwouniverses-knowledgethatshouldhavebelongedtotheUniversityofEarth,thatcouldhavebelongedtotheuniversity,butthatnowwouldbelostforevertoanenigmaticculturalblocwhichmight,inturn,provetobethatpotentialcosmicenemyEarthhadalwaysfearedwouldbefoundinspace.

Hisstarthadbeen too late,heknew.Givenabitmore timeandhecouldhave turned thedeal,couldhave found thepeoplewhowouldhave listened tohim,couldhavegainedsomebacking.Buteverythinghadworkedagainsthimandnowitwastoolate.

He slid the interpreterontohisheadand fumbledwith it, for somehow itdidn’twanttofit.

“Let me help,” said Carol. He felt her fingers manipulating it deftly,straighteningoutthestraps,slidingthemintoplace.

Glancingdown,hesawSylvester, seatedon the floorbeside thepedestal,sneeringupatOop.

Oop caught Maxwell’s look. “That cat doesn’t like me,” said theNeanderthaler.“HesensesthatI’mhisnaturalenemy.Somedayhe’llworkuphisnervetohaveagoatme.”

“That’sridiculous,”snappedCarol.“He’sjustalittleputtycat.”“NotthewayIseeit,”saidOop.Maxwell reached up and pulled the assemblage of the interpreter down

acrosshiseyes.AndlookeddownattheArtifact.Therewassomethingthere,somethinginthatblockofblack.Lines,forms,

a strangeness.No longer just a block of unimaginable blackness, rejecting allinfluencefromoutside, toleratingnothingandgivingupnothing,as if itmightbeathingthatstoodapart,sufficienttoitselfwithintheuniverse.

He twisted his head to try to catch the angle from which it might bepossible tountanglewhathesaw.Nolinesofwriting,surely-itwassomethingelse.Hereachedup to theheadpieceandpushedover thewheel that increasedthepower,fiddledforamomentwiththeadjustmentforthesensor.

“Whatisit?”Carolasked.“Idon’t…”Then,suddenly,hedidknow.Thenhesaw.Imprisonedinone

corner of the block was a talon, with iridescent flesh or hide or scale andgleamingclawsthatlookedasiftheyhadbeencarvedfromdiamonds.Atalonthatmovedandstruggledtobefreesoitcouldreachoutforhim.

Heflinchedaway,movingbacktogetoutofreach,andhelosthisbalance.Hefelthimselffallingandtriedtotwisttoonesidesohewouldn’tlandflatuponhisback.Oneshoulderstruckthevelvetropeandthestandardsthatheldtheropein place went over with a clatter. The floor came up and smacked him hard.Strikingtheropehadservedtotwisthimtoonesideandhecamedownheavilyon one shoulder, but his head was protected from the floor. He struck at hisforeheadwithanopenhand,knockingtheinterpreterofftoonesidetofreehiseyes.

Andthere,abovehim,theArtifactwaschanging.Outofitsomethingwasrising-rearingupoutof theoblongofblackness, jerking itself free.Somethingthatwasalive,a-throbwithvitalityandglitteringinitsbeauty.

Aslender,daintyhead,withanelongatedsnout,andasharpserratedcrestthat ran from the forepart of the head along the length of neck. A barrel-likechest and body,with a pair ofwings half-folded, and shapely forelegs, armedwith thediamondclaws. Itglitteredblindingly in the spotlights thatpointedattheArtifact,or,rather,wheretheArtifacthadbeen,eachgleamingscaleapointofhardwhitelightstrikingoffthebronzeandgold,theyellowandtheblue.

A dragon! Maxwell thought. A dragon rising from the blackness of theArtifact!A dragon, finally risen, after long aeons of being imprisoned in thatblockofblackness.

Adragon!Afteralltheyearshe’dhuntedone,afteralltheyearsofwonder,here finally was a dragon. But not as he’d pictured it in hismind-no prosaicthing of flesh and scale, but a thing of glorious symbolism. A symbol of theheydayof the crystalplanet, perhapsof theuniverse thathaddied so that thispresent universe could be born anew-ancient and fabulous, a fellow of thosestrange tribes of beings of which the trolls and goblins, the fairies and thebansheeswerethestuntedandpitifulsurvivors.Athingthenameofwhichhadbeenhandeddownthroughgenerationsthatnumberedintothousands,butneverseenbyanymemberofhumanityuntilthisverymoment.

Oopstoodouton thefloor,beyondoneof the tumbledstandards thathadheldthevelvetcord,hislegsmorebowedthanever,asifhe’dstartedtosinkintoacrouchandhad frozen there,withhishamlikehandshangingathis side,hisfingershookedlikeclaws,whilehestaredupwardat theterrorandthewonderon the pedestal. In front of him, Sylvester crouched close against the floor,knottedmuscles standingoutalonghis furry legs,hisgreatmouthagape,withthefangsexposedandreadyforattack.

Maxwellfeltahanduponhisshoulderandtwistedaround.“Adragon?”Carolasked.Herwordswerestrange,asifshehadbeenafraidtoaskthem,asifshe’d

forced them from her throat. She was not looking at him, but upward at thedragon,whichnowseemedtobecomplete.

Thedragonswitched its tail,whichwas longandsinuous,andouton thefloor Oop tumbled down ungracefully to duck the sweep of it. Sylvestersquawledinangerandcreptforwardafootorso.

“Cutitout,Sylvester,”Maxwellsaidsharplytothecat.Oop scrambled forward hastily on his hands and knees and grabbed

Sylvesterbyoneofhishindlegs.

“Talktohim,”MaxwellsaidtoCarol.“Ifthatfoolcattackleshim,there’llbethedeviltopay.”

“Oop,youmean.Hewouldn’ttackleOop.”“NotOop,”saidMaxwell.“Thedragon.Ifhetakesoffonthedragon-”Abellowof rage came thundering out of the darkness, and the thumpof

runningfeet.“What is going on in here?” howled the watchman, charging from the

shadows.The dragon spun upon the pedestal and came swiftly off it, switching

aroundtofacetherunningwatchman.“Lookout,”Oopyelled,stillwithatightgripuponSylvester’sleg.Thedragonmovedforwardcarefully,almostmincingly,itsheadcantedata

questioning angle. It flourished its tail and the tail swept across the top of adisplaytable,brushingoffahalfdozenbowlsandjugs.Thepotterythuddedandgleamingshardswentskatingacrossthefloor.

“Hey,youcutthatout!”thewatchmanyelpedandthen,apparentlyforthefirst time,sawthedragon.Theyelp turned intoahowlof fear.Thewatchmanturned and fled. The dragon trotted after him, not in any hurry, but veryinterested. His progress was marked by a series of thudding and splinteringcrashes.

“Ifwedon’tgethimoutofhere,”saidMaxwell,“there’llbenothing left.Attheratehe’sgoing,therewon’tbeathingintactinlessthanfifteenminutes.He’llhave theplacewipedout.And,Oop,for the loveofGod,hangonto thatcat.Wedon’twantafull-fledgedbrawlbreakingoutinhere.”

Maxwellgottohisfeet,grabbedtheinterpreteroffhisheadandstuffeditinhispocket.

“I could open the doors,” Carol offered, “andwe could shoo him out ofhere.Thebigdoors,Imean.IthinkthatIknowhow.”

“Howareyou,Oop,”Maxwellasked,“atdragon-herding?”Thedragonhadblundered to the rearof thebuildingandnowhad turned

aroundandwascomingback.“Oop,”saidCarol,“helpmewiththesedoors.Ineedamanwithmuscle.”“Whataboutthiscat?”“Leavehim tome,”saidMaxwell. “Hemaybehavehimself.Maybehe’ll

mindme.”A long chain of crashesmarked the progress of the dragon. Listening to

them,Maxwellmoaned.Sharpwouldhavehisscalp for this.Friendornot,hewouldbeplentysore.ThewholemuseumwreckedandtheArtifacttransformedintorampagingtonsofflesh.

Hetookafewtentativestepsacross thefloor towardthecrashingsounds.Sylvesterslunkcloseagainsthisheels.Inthedimness,Maxwellcouldmakeoutthedimoutlinesoftheflounderingdragon.

“Nicedragon,”Maxwellsaid.“Takeiteasy,fellow.”It sounded rather silly and somehow inadequate. How in the world, he

wondered,shouldonetalktoadragon?Sylvesterletoutahackinggrowl.“Youstayoutofit,”saidMaxwellsharply.“Thingsarebadenoughwithout

youmessingin.”He wondered what had happened to the watchman. More than likely

phoningthepoliceandbuildingupastorm.Behindhimheheard the creakingof thedoors as they cameopen. If the

dragonwouldonlywaituntilthosedoorswereopen,thenhecouldbeshaggedoutdoors.Andonce thedragonhadbeengottenout,whatwouldhappen then?Maxwellshuddered,thinkingofit-ofthegreatbeastblunderingdownthestreetsandacrossthemalls.Maybeitwouldbebetter,afterall,tokeephimpennedinhere.

He stood indecisively for a moment, weighing the disadvantages of adragoncagedwithadragonontheloose.Themuseumwasmoreorlesswreckednowandperhapsthecompletewreckingofitwouldbepreferabletoturningthiscreaturelooseuponthecampus.

The doors still were creaking, slowly opening. The dragon had beenamblingalong,butnowheburstintoagallop,headingfortheopeningportal.

Maxwell spun around. “Close those doors!” he shouted, then duckedquicklytoonesideasthegallopingdragoncamechargingdownuponhim.

The doorswere partly open and they stayed partly open. Oop and Carolwereracingoff indifferentdirections, intentonleavingplentyofroomfor thelumberingtonsoffleshthatwereheadingfortheopen.

Sylvester’sthunderousroarsboomedandechoedinthemuseumashetookoffinpursuitoftherunningcreature.

Off to one side, Carol was shrieking at him. “Cut it out, Sylvester! No,Sylvester,no!”

The dragon’s sinuous tail flicked nervously from side to side as it ran.Cabinets and tables crashed, statues were sent spinning-a path of destructionmarkedthedragon’sflightforfreedom.

Groaning,Maxwell ran, followingSylvesterand thedragon,although, forthelifeofhim,hedidn’tknowexactlywhyheshouldberunning.Hedidn’t,hewascertain,wanttocatchthedragon.

Thedragonreachedtheopeningandwentthroughitinasingleleap,high

into the air, and as it leaped, the wings unfolded and swept downward in athrummingbeat.

At the doorway Maxwell skidded to a stop. On the steps below theentrance,Sylvesteralsohadspuntoaslidinghaltandnowwasstrainingupward,ragingloudlyattheflyingdragon.

Itwasasighttomakeonecatchhisbreath.Moonlightonthebeatingwings,reflecting off the burnished scales of red and gold and blue, made a flashingrainbowthatquiveredinthesky.

OopandCarolburstoutofthedoorandstoppedtostareintothesky.“Beautiful!”saidCarol.“Yes,isn’tit,”saidMaxwell.Andnow,for thefirst time,herealizedinfullexactlywhathadhappened

here. Therewas no longer anyArtifact and theWheeler dealwas dead.And,likewise,anydealthathecouldmakeinbehalfofthecrystalplanet.Thechainofeventsthathadbeenstartedwiththecopyingofhiswavepatternwhenhehadbeen launched for Coonskin had been canceled out. Now, except for thatflashingrainbowinthesky,itwasasifnothingatallhadhappened.

Thedragonwashighernow,wheelinginthesky,nolongeranythingmorethantheflashingoftherainbowcolors.

“Thistearsit,”Oopdeclared.“Whatdowedonow?”“Itwasmyfault,”saidCarol.“Itwasnoone’sfault,”saidOop.“It’sjustthewaythingshappen.”“Well,anyhow,”saidMaxwell,“welousedupHarlow’sdeal.”“I’llsayyoudid,”avoicesaidbehindthem.“Willsomeonepleasetellme

whatisgoingon?”Theyturnedaround.Harlow Sharp stood in the doorway. Someone had turned on all the

museumlightsandhestoodoutsharplyagainstthelightedoblongofthedoors.“Themuseumiswrecked,”hesaid,“andtheArtifactisgoneandhereare

the two of you and I might have known. Miss Hampton, I’m astonished. Ithought youhad better sense than to become entangled in such low company.Althoughthatcrazycatofyours-”

“You leave Sylvester out of this,” she said. “He never had a thing to dowithit.”

“Well,Pete?”askedSharp.Maxwellshookhishead.“Ifinditabithardtoexplain.”“Iwould think so,” saidSharp. “Didyouhaveall this inmindwhenyou

talkedwithmethisevening?”“No,”saidMaxwell.“Itwasasortofaccident.”

“An expensive accident,” said Sharp. “Itmight interest you to know thatyou’vesetTime’sworkbackacenturyormore.Unless,ofcourse,yousomehowmovedtheArtifactandhaveithiddenoutsomewhere.Inwhichcase,myfriend,Igiveyouaflatfivesecondstohanditbacktome.”

Maxwellgulped.“Ididn’tmoveit,Harlow.Infact,Ibarelytouchedit.I’mnotsurewhathappened.Itturnedintoadragon.”

“Itturnedintoawhat?”“Adragon.Itellyou,Harlow-”“Iremembernow,”saidSharp.“Youalwayswereblatheringaroundabout

adragon.You startedout forCoonskin to findyourself a dragon.Andnow itseemsyou’vefoundone.Ihopethatit’sagoodone.”

“It’saprettyone,”saidCarol.“Allgoldandshimmery.”“Oh, fine,” said Sharp. “Isn’t that just bully. We can probably make a

fortune,takingitaroundonexhibition.Wecanwhompupacircusandgivetopbillingtothedragon.Icanseeitnowingreatbigletters:THEONLYDRAGONIN

EXISTENCE.”“Butitisn’there,”saidCarol.“Itupandflewaway.”“Oop,”saidSharp,“youhaven’t saidaword.What isgoingon?Youare

ordinarilyfairlymouthy.Whatisgoingon?”“I’mmortified,”saidOop.SharpturnedawayfromhimandlookedatMaxwell.“Pete,”hesaid,“youprobablyrealizewhatyouhavedone.Thewatchman

phonedmeandwantedtocallthepolice.ButItoldhimtoholduponcallingthepoliceandI’dcomerightdown.Ihadnoideaitwouldturnoutasbadasitdidturnouttobe.TheArtifactisgoneandIcan’tdeliveritandthatmeansI’llhaveto hand back all that cash, and a lot of the exhibits have been smashed tosmithereens-”

“Thedragondidthat,”Maxwellsaid,“beforewelethimout.”“Soyoulethimout?Hedidn’tactuallygetaway.Youjustlethimout.”“Well,hewassmashingallthatstuff.Iguessweweren’tthinking.”“Tellmehonest,Pete.Wasthereactuallyadragon?”“Yes, therewas one.Hewas immobilized inside theArtifact. Perhaps he

wastheArtifact.Don’taskmehowhegotthere.Enchantment,Iwouldguess.”“Enchantment?”“Enchantmentreallyhappens,Harlow.Idon’tknowhow.I’vespentyears

tryingtofindoutandIdon’tknowmuchmoreaboutitnowthanwhenIstartedout.”

“Itseemstome,”saidSharp,“thatthereissomeonemissing.Whenallhell

breaksloose,thereusuallyissomeoneelsewhoistiedintoit.Canyoutellme,Oop,whereGhost,thatgreat,goodfriendofyours,mightbe?”

Oop shook his head. “He’s a hard one to keep track of.Always slippingoff.”

“That isn’t all of it,” said Sharp. “There is still another situation thatweshouldpaysomeheedto.Shakespearehascomeupmissing.Iwonderifanyofyoucouldshedsomelightonhisdisappearance.”

“Hewaswithusforawhile,”saidOop.“Wewerejustsettingdowntoeatwhenhebecamequite frightenedand litoutof there. IthappenedwhenGhostremembered that he was Shakespeare’s ghost. He’s been wondering all theseyears,youknow,whoheistheghostof.”

Slowly,loweringhimselfonesectionatatime,Sharpsatdownonthetopstepandlookedslowlyfromonetotheotherofthem.

“Not a thing,” he said. “Youdidn’tmiss a thingwhenyou started out toruinHarlowSharp.Youmadeajobofit.”

“Wedidn’tstartouttoruinyou,”saidOop.“Weneverhadathingagainstyou. It seemed, somehow, that things started going wrong and they neverstopped.”

“Byrights,”saidSharp,“Ishouldsueeveryoneofyouforeverycentyouhave.Ishouldaskajudgment-anddon’tfoolyourself,I’dgetit-thatwouldkeepallofyouworkingforTimetherestofyournaturallives.Butthethreeofyoutogethercouldn’toffsetbyafraction,duringyourcollectivelifetimes,whatyoucostTimetonight.Sothere’snosenseindoingit.AlthoughIsupposethepolicewillhavetogetintothisruckus.Idon’tseehowtheycanbekeptoutofit.Thethreeofyou,I’mafraid,willhavetoansweralotofquestions.”

“Ifsomeonewouldonlylistentome,”saidMaxwell,“Icouldexplainitall.That’swhat I’vebeen trying todoever since Igotback-to find someonewhowouldlistentome.Itriedtotalktoyouthisafternoon…”

“Then,”saidSharp,“supposeyoustartrightnowbyexplainingittome.I’llowntoaslightcuriosity.Let’sgoacrossthestreettomyoffice,wherewecansettledownandhaveatalk.Ormightthatinconvenienceyou?There’sprobablyathingortwoyoustillhavetodotofinishupthejobofbankruptingTime.”

“No,Iguessthereisn’t,”saidOop.“I’dsay,offhand,thatwe’vedoneabouteverythingwecan.”

InspectorDraytonroseheavilyfromthechairinwhichhehadbeensittinginSharp’souteroffice.

“I’mgladyoufinallyarrived,Dr.Sharp,”hesaid.“Somethinghasarisen-”The inspectorcut shorthis speechwhenhecaught sightofMaxwell. “So

it’syou,”saidtheinspector.“Iamgladtoseeyou.You’veledmealong,hard

chase.”Maxwellmadeaface.“I’mnotsure,Inspector,thatIcanreciprocateyour

gladness.”Iftherewasanyonehecouldgetalongwithoutrightnow,hetoldhimself,it

wasInspectorDrayton.“And whomight you be?” Sharp asked shortly. “What do youmean by

bustinginhere.”“I’m Inspector Drayton, of Security. I had a short talk with Professor

Maxwelltheotherday,ontheoccasionofhisreturntoEarth,butI’mafraidthattherearestillsomequestions…”

“Inthatcase,”saidSharp,“pleasetakeyourplacein line.IhavebusinesswithDr.MaxwellandI’mafraidthatminetakesprecedenceoveryours.”

“Youdon’tunderstand,”saidDrayton.“Ihadnotcomeheretoapprehendyour friend. His turning up with you is a piece of good fortune I had notexpected. There is anothermatter inwhich I thought youmight be helpful, amatterwhichcameupratherunexpectedly.Yousee,IhadheardthatProfessorMaxwellhadbeenaguestatMissClayton’s recentpartyandso Iwent to seeher-”

“Talksense,man,”saidSharp.“WhathasNancyClaytongottodowithallofthis?”

“Idon’tknow,Harlow,”saidNancyClayton,appearingatthedoorwayoftheinneroffice.“Ineverintendedtogetinvolvedinanything.AllIevertrytodoisentertainmyMendsandIcan’tseehowthere’sanythingsowronginthat.”

“Nancy,please,”saidSharp.“Firsttellmewhatisgoingon.WhyareyouhereandwhyisInspectorDraytonhereand-”

“It’sLambert,”Nancysaid.“Youmeanthemanwhopaintedthepicturethatyouhave.”“Ihavethreeofthem,”saidNancyproudly.“ButLamberthasbeendeadmorethanfivehundredyears.”“That’swhatIthought,too,”saidNancy,“butheturneduptonight.Hesaid

thathewaslost.”Aman stepped from the inner room,urgingNancy to one side-a tall and

ruggedmanwithsandyhairanddeeplinesinhisface.“It appears,gentlemen,”he said,“thatyouarediscussingme.Wouldyou

mindifIspokeupformyself?”There was a strange twang to the way he spoke his words and he stood

there,beamingatthem,inagood-naturedmanner,andtherewasnotmuchthatonecouldfindinhimtomakeonedisliketheman.

“YouareAlbertLambert?”Maxwellasked.

“Indeed I am,” said Lambert, “and I hope I don’t intrude, but I have aproblem.”

“Andyou’retheonlyone?”askedSharp.“I’msurethatIdon’tknow,”saidLambert.“Isupposetherearemanyother

personswhoarefacedwithproblems.Whenyouhaveaproblem,however,thequestionisofwheretogotohaveitsolved.”

“Mister,”saidSharp,“IaminthesamepositionandIamseekinganswersjustthesameasyouare.”

“But don’t you see,”Maxwell said to Sharp, “that Lambert has the rightidea.Hehascometotheoneplacewherehisproblemcanbesolved.”

“If Iwereyou,youngfellow,”Draytonsaid,“Iwouldn’tbesosure.Youwereprettyfoxytheotherday,butnowI’montoyou.Therearealotofthings.”

“Inspector,willyoupleasekeepoutof this,” saidSharp.“Thingsarebadenoughwithoutyoucomplicatingthem.TheArtifactisgoneandthemuseumiswreckedandShakespearehasdisappeared.”

“ButallIwant,”saidLambertreasonably,“istogetbackhomeagain.Backto2023.”

“Now,waitaminute,”Sharpcommanded.“Youareoutofline.Idon’t-”“Harlow,”Maxwellsaid,“Iexplaineditalltoyou.Justthisafternoon.And

IaskedyouaboutSimonson.Surelyyourecall.”“Simonson?Yes,Iremembernow.”SharplookedatLambert.“Youarethe

manwhopaintedthecanvasthatshowstheArtifact.”“Artifact?”“Abigblockofblackstonesetatopahill.”Lambert shook his head. “No, I haven’t painted it.Although I suppose I

will. In fact, it seems I must, for Miss Clayton showed it to me and it’sundeniablysomething that Iwouldhavedone.AndImustsay,whoshouldn’t,thatitisnotsobad.”

“ThenyouactuallysawtheArtifactbackinJurassicdays?”“Jurassic?”“Twohundredmillionyearsago.”Lambertlookedsurprised.“Soitwasthatlongago.Iknewitwasprettyfar.

Thereweredinosaurs.”“Butyoumusthaveknown.Youweretravelingintime.”“The trouble is,” said Lambert, “the time unit has gone haywire. I never

seemtobeabletogotothetimeIwant.”Sharpputuphishandsandheldhisheadbetweenthem.Thenhetookthem

awayandsaid:“Now,let’sgoatthisslowly.Onethingatatime.Firstonestepandthenanother,tillwegettothebottomofit.”

“Iexplainedtoyou,”saidLambert,“thatthere’sjustonethingthatIwant.It’sverysimplereally,allIwantistogethomeagain.”

“Whereisyourtimemachine?”askedSharp.“Wheredidyouleaveit.Wecanhavealookatit.”

“I didn’t leave it anywhere. There’s no place I could leave it. It goeseverywherewithme.It’sinsidemyhead.”

“In your head!” yelled Sharp. “A time unit in your head. But that’simpossible.”

MaxwellgrinnedatSharp.“Whenweweretalkingthisafternoon,”hesaid,“youtoldmethatSimonsonrevealedverylittleabouthistimemachine.Nowitappears-”

“I did tell you that,” Sharp agreed, “but who in their right mind wouldsuspect that a time unit could be installed in a subject’s brain. Itmust a newprinciple. Something that we missed entirely.” He said to Lambert, “Do youhaveanyideahowitworks.”

“Not the slightest,”Lambert said. “Theonly thing I know is thatwhen itwasputintomyhead-arathermajorsurgicaloperation,Icanassureyou-Igainedtheabilitytotravelintime.IsimplyhavetothinkofwhereIwanttogo,usingcertain rather simple coordinates, and I am there. But something has gonewrong.NomatterwhatIthink,Igobangingbackandforth,likeayo-yo,fromonetimetoyetanother,noneofwhicharethetimesIwanttobe.”

“It would have advantages,” said Sharp, speakingmusingly andmore tohimself than to the rest of them. “Itwould admit of independent action and itwouldbesmall,muchsmallerthanthemechanismthatwehavetouse.Itwouldhavetobetogoinsidethebrainand…Idon’tsuppose,Lambert,thatyouknowtoomuchaboutit?”

“Itoldyou,”Lambertsaid.“Notathing.Iwasn’treallyinterestedinhowitworked.Simonsonhappenstobeafriendofmine…”

“But why here? Why did you come here? To this particular place andtime?”

“Anaccident, that’s all.Andonce I arrived it lookeda lotmorecivilizedthana lotofplaces Ihadbeenand I started inquiringaround toorientmyself.Apparently I had never been so far into the future before, for one of the firstthings I learnedwas that you did have time travel and that therewas a TimeCollege.Then I heard thatMissClaytonhad a paintingofmine, and thinkingthatifshehadapaintingIhaddoneshemightbedisposedfavorablytowardme,Isoughtherout.Inhope,yousee,offindingouthowtocontactthepeoplewhomightbeabletousetheirgoodofficestosendmehomeagain.AnditwaswhileIwastherethatInspectorDraytonarrived.”

“Now, Mr. Lambert,” Nancy said, “before you go any further, there issomethingthatIwant toaskyou.Whydidn’tyou,whenyouwerebackin theJurassic or wherever it was that Harlow said you were, and you painted thispicture-”

“You forget,” Lambert told her. “I haven’t painted it yet. I have somesketchesandsomedayIexpect-”

“Well, then,whenyougetaround topainting thatpicture,whydon’tyouputindinosaurs.Therearen’tanydinosaursinitandyoujustsaidyouknewyouwerealongwayinthepastbecausethereweredinosaurs.”

“I put no dinosaurs in the painting,” said Lambert, “for a very simplereason.Therewerenodinosaurs.”

“Butyousaid…”“Youmustrealize,”Lambertexplainedpatiently,“thatIpaintonlywhatI

see.Ineversubtractanything.Ineveraddanything.Andtherewerenodinosaursbecause thecreatures in thepaintinghadchased themallaway.SoIput innodinosaurs,noranyoftheothers.”

“Any of the others?” askedMaxwell. “What are you talking about now?Whatweretheseothers?”

“Why,”saidLambert,“theoneswithwheels.”Hestoppedandlookedaroundhimattheirstrickenfaces.“DidIsaysomethingwrong?”heasked.“Oh,notatall,”Carolsaidsweetly.“Gorightahead,Mr.Lambert,andtell

usallabouttheoneswithwheels.”“Youprobablywon’tbelieveme,”Lambertsaid,“andIcan’ttellyouwhat

theywere. The slaves, perhaps. Thework horses. The bearers of the burdens.The serfs.Theywere life forms, apparently-theywere alive, but theywent onwheelsinsteadoffeetandtheywerenotonethingalone.Eachoneofthemwasahiveofinsects,likebeesorants.Socialinsects,apparently.Youunderstand,Idon’texpectthatyou’llbelieveawordIsay,butIswear…”

From somewhere far away came a rumble, the low, thudding rumble ofrapidlyadvancingwheels.Andastheystood,transfixedandlistening,theyknewthat the wheels were coming down the corridor. Nearer came the rumble,growinglouderasitadvanced.SuddenlyitwasjustoutsidethedoorandslowingdowntoturnandallatonceaWheelerstoodinsidethedoor.

“That’soneofthem!”screamedLambert.“Whatisitdoinghere?”“Mr.Marmaduke,”saidMaxwell,“itisgoodtoseeyouonceagain.”“No,” the Wheeler told him. “Not Mr. Marmaduke. The so-called Mr.

Marmadukewillnotbeseenbyyouagain.Heisinverybaddisgrace.Hemadeavastmistake.”

Sylvesterhadstartedforward,butOophadreacheddownandgrabbedhimbythelooseskinoftheneckandwasholdinghimtightlywhilehestruggledtobreakfree.

“Therewasacontractmade,”theWheelersaid,“byahumanoidthatwentbythenameofHarlowSharp.WhichoneofyouwouldbeHarlowSharp?”

“I’myourman,”saidSharp.“Then,sir,Imustaskyouwhatyouintendtodoaboutthefulfillmentofthe

contract.”“ThereisnothingIcando,”saidSharp.“TheArtifactisgoneandcannotbe

delivered.Yourpayment,ofcourse,willberefundedpromptly.”“That,Mr.Sharp,”theWheelersaid,“willnotbesufficient.Itwillfallfar

shortofsatisfaction.Weshallbring the trialof lawagainstyou.Weshallbustyou,mister,witheverythingwecan.Weshalldoourbesttopovertyyouand-”

“Why, you miserable go-cart,” Sharp yelled, “there is no law for you.Galactic lawdoesnotapplywithacreature suchasyou. Ifyou thinkyoucancomehereandthreatenme…”

Ghostappeared,outofthinair,justinsidethedoorway.“It’sabouttime,”Oopyelledangrily.“Where’veyoubeenallnight?What

didyoudowithShakespeare?”“TheBard is safe,” saidGhost,“but there isothernews.”Thearmof the

robe raised andgestured at theWheeler. “Othersofhis kind swarm inGoblinReservationtotrytotrapthedragon.”

So,thoughtMaxwell,somewhatillogically,ithadbeenthedragontheyhadwanted,afterall.Could theWheelershaveknownallalong,hewondered, thattherehadbeenadragon?Andtheanswerwasthat,ofcourse,theywouldhaveknown,forithadbeentheyortheirfarancestorswhohaddonetheworkbackinJurassicdays.

InJurassicdaysonEarth,andhowmanyotherstimesonhowmanyotherplanets? The serfs, Lambert had said, the horses, the bearers of the burdens.Were they now, or had they been, inferior members of that ancient tribe ofbeings, or had they been, perhaps, simply domesticated animals, harnessedbiologicallybygeneticengineering,forthejobstheywereassigned?

Andnow these former slaves, havingestablishedan empireof their own,reached out their hands for something that they may have reason to believeshould be their heritage. Theirs, since nowhere else in the universe, except,perhaps, in scattered, dying pockets, was there left any trace of the greatcolonizationprojectdreamedbythecrystalplanet.

Andperhaps, thoughtMaxwell-perhaps it shouldbe theirs.For theirshadbeenthelaborthathadengineeredtheproject.AndhadthedyingBanshee,laden

with an ancient guilt, sought to right awrongwhen he had doublecrossed thecrystal planet, when he had sought to help these former slaves? Or had he,perhaps, believed that it was better that the heritage should go, not to someoutsider, but to a race of beings who had played a part, however menial,howeversmall,inthegreatprojectthathadcrumbledintofailure?

“Youmean,”Sharpsaid to theWheeler,“that theverymomentyouwerestandinghereandthreateningme,youhadyourbanditsout…”

“Heworksalltheanglesthatthereare,”saidOop.“The dragon went home,” said Ghost, “to the only home that he could

recognizeuponthisplanet.TowheretheLittleFolkreside,sothathecouldseehisfellowsonceagain,flyingintheclearmoonlightabovetherivervalley.AndthentheWheelersattackedhimintheair,tryingtoforcehimtotheground,sothathecouldbecaptured,and thedragon is fightingbackmostmagnificently,but-”

“Wheelers can’t fly,” protested Sharp. “And you say there were a lot ofthem.Oryouimpliedtherewerealotofthem.Therecan’tbe.Mr.Marmadukewastheonly…”

“Perhaps,” said Ghost, “they are not believed to fly, but they are trulyflying.Andasforthenumberofthem,Iammystified.Perhapshereallthetime,hidingfromtheview.Perhapsmanycominginthroughthetransportstations.”

“We can put a stop to that,” said Maxwell. “We can send word toTransportationCentral.Wecan…”

Sharpshookhishead.“No,wecan’tdothat.Transportationisintergalactic,notofEarthalone.Wecannotinterfere.”

“Mr. Marmaduke,” said Inspector Drayton, speaking in his best officialvoice,“orwhoeveryoumaybe,IthinkI’dbetterrunyouin.”

“Leaveoffthisblathering,”saidGhost.“TheLittleFolkneedhelp.”Maxwell reachedoutandpickedupthechair.“It’s timeweputanendto

fooling,”hedeclared.HeraisedthechairandsaidtotheWheeler.“It’stimeforyoutostarttalking,friend.Andifyoudon’t,I’llcaveyouin.”

Acircleof jets suddenlyprotruded fromWheeler’schestand therewasahissing sound.A stenchhit them in the face, a terrible fetor that struck like aclenchedandsavagefist,thatmadethestomachsomersaultandsetthethroattogagging.

Maxwellfelthimselffallingtothefloor,unabletocontrolhisbody,whichseemedtiedupinknotsfromthefearfulstinkthatexudedfromtheWheeler.Hehitthefloorandrolledandhishandswenttohisthroatandtoreatit,asiftoripitopentoallowhimselfmoreair-althoughthereseemedtobenoair,therewasnothingbutthefoulnessoftheWheeler.

Abovehimheheardafearfulscreamingandwhenherolledaroundsohecould lookup,he sawSylvester suspendedabovehim,his frontclawshookedaround the upper portions of the Wheeler’s body, his rear legs clawing andstriking at the bulging and transparent belly in which writhed the disgustingmass of roiling insects. The Wheeler’s wheels were spinning frantically, butsomethinghadgonewrongwiththem.Onewheelspuninonedirectionandthesecond in another, so that theWheeler whirled about in a giddy dance, withSylvesterclingingdesperatelyandhisbacklegsworkinglikedrivingpistonsattheWheeler’sbelly.Itlookedforalltheworld,thoughtMaxwell,asifthetwoofthemwereengagedinarapidandunwieldywaltz.

AnunseenhandreachedoutandgraspedMaxwellby thearmandhauledhimunceremoniously across the floor.His body thumped across the thresholdandsomeofthefoulnessdiminishedandtherenowwasabreathofair.

Maxwell rolled over and got on his hands and knees and fought hiswayerect.Hereachedupwithhisfistsandrubbedathisstreamingeyes.Theairstillwasheavywiththestench,butonenolongergagged.

Sharpsatproppedagainstthewall,gaspingandrubbingathiseyes.Carolwasslumpeduponthefloor.Oop,crouchedinthedoorway,wastuggingNancyoutofthefetidroom,fromwhichstillcamethescreamingofthesaber-toothatwork.

Maxwellstaggeredforwardandreachingdown,pickedupCarolandslungher,likeasack,acrossoneshoulder.Turning,hebeatanunsteadyretreatdownthecorridor.

Thirtyfeetawayhestoppedandturnedaroundandashedid,theWheelerburstoutofthedoorway,finallyfreeofSylvesterandwithbothwheelsspinningin unison.He came down the hall,wheeling crazily and lopsidedly-staggeringblindly,ifathingwithwheelscouldbesaidtostagger,slammingintoonewallandcaromingoffittosmashintotheother.Fromagreatrentinhisbellysmallwhitishobjectsdroppedandscatteredallacrossthefloor.

Ten feet fromwhereMaxwell stood, theWheeler finally collapsedwhenonewheel hit thewall and caved in.Slowly,withwhat seemed tobe a ratherstrangesortofdignity,theWheelertippedoverandoutofthetornbellygushedabushelorsoofinsectsthatpileduponthefloor.

Sylvestercameslinkingdownthehail,crouchedlow,hismuzzleextendedin curiosity, taking one slow step and then another as he crept upon hishandiwork.BehindOopandSylvestercametherestofthem.

“Youcanletmedownnow,”saidCarol.Maxwellletherdown,stoodheronherfeet.Sheleanedagainstthewall.“I never saw amore undignifiedway to be carried,” she declared. “You

haven’tgotasparkofchivalrytopackagirlaroundinamannersuchasthat.”“Itwasallamistake,”saidMaxwell.“Ishouldhaveleftyouthere,laidout

onthefloor.”Sylvester had stopped now and reaching out his neck, sniffed at the

Wheeler,allthewhilewithwrinklesofdisgustandwonderetcheduponhisface.Therewasno signof life in theWheeler.Satisfied,Sylvester pulledback andsquattedonhishaunches,begantowashhisface.OnthefloorbesidethefallenWheeler,themoundofbugswereseething.Afewofthemstartedcrawlingfromthepile,headingoutintothehall.

SharpswungoutpasttheWheeler.“Comeon,”hesaid.“Let’sgetoutofhere.”Thecorridorstillwassourwith

theterriblestench.“Butwhatisitallabout?”wailedNancy.“WhydidMr.Marmaduke…”“Nothingbutstinkbugs,”Ooptoldher.“Canyouimaginethat?Agalactic

raceofstinkbugs!Andtheyhadusscared!”Inspector Drayton lumbered forward importantly. “I’m afraid it will be

necessaryforyoualltocomewithme,”hesaid.“Iwillneedyourstatements.”“Statements,” Sharp said viciously. “You must be out of your mind.

Statements,atatimelikethis,withadragonlooseand…”“Butanalienhasbeenkilled,”protestedDrayton.“Andnotjustanordinary

alien. A member of a race that could be our enemies. This could haverepercussions.”

“Justwritedown,”saidOop,“killedbyasavagebeast.”“Oop,” snapped Carol, “you know better than to say a thing like that.

Sylvesterisn’tsavage.He’sgentleasakitten.Andheisnotabeast.”Maxwell looked around. “Where isGhost?” he asked. “He took it on the

lam,” said Oop. “He always does when trouble starts. He’s nothing but acoward.”

“Buthesaid…”“Thathedid,”saidOop.“Andwearewastingtime.O’Toolecoulddowith

help.”Mr.O’Toolewaswaitingforthemwhentheygotofftheroadway.“Iknewcomingyouwouldbe,”hegreetedthem.“Ghost,hesaidhewould

getyouyet.Andbadlydoweneed someonewhowill talk sense to the trolls,whohideandgibberintheirbridgeandwilllistentonoreason.”

“Whathavethetrollsgottodowithit?”askedMaxwell.“Foronceinyourlife,can’tyouleavethetrollsalone?”

“The trolls,”Mr.O’Toole explained, “filthy as they are,may be our onesalvation.Theybetheonlyoneswho,fromlackofanycivilizationwhatsoever,

or any niceties, remain proficient in the enchantments of old times, and theyspecialize in the reallydirtykindsofwork, themost viciousof enchantments.Thefairies,naturally,alsoclingtotheoldabilities,butalloftheirenchantmentsareof thegentlesortandgentleness issomethingofwhichwedonotstand inneed.”

“Can you tell us,” Sharp asked, “exactly what is going on. Ghost didn’thangaroundtoexplainmuchofittous.’

“Gladly,”said thegoblin,“but leaveusstart towalking,andwalking, I’llrelatetoyouallthehappenstance.Wehavebutlittletimetowasteandthetrollsare stubbornsoulsandvastpersuasion theywillneed todoa job forus.Theylurkwithinthemossystonesofthatsenselessbridgeoftheirsandtheytitterlikethingswhichhave lost theirminds.Although,bitter truth to tell, themstinkingtrollshavelittlemindstolose.”

They trudged in single file up the rocky ravine which lay in the notchbetweenthehillsandintheeastthedawn-lighthadbeguntoshow,butthepath,buriedinthetreesandflankedbybushes,wasdark.Hereandtherebirdswokefromsleepandtwitteredandsomewhereupthehillaraccoonwaswhickering.

“Thedragoncamehometous,”O’Tooletoldthemastheywalked,“theoneplace on Earth left for him to go, to be with his own kind again, and theWheelers which, in ancient times had another name than Wheelers, haveattackedhim,likebroomsticksflyinginformation.Theymustnotforcehimtotheground,forthentheyhavehimcaughtandcanwhiskhimhenceveryrapidly.And,forsooth,hehasmadeanoblefightofit,thefendingofthemoff,butheisgrowing tired andwemust hurry rapidly andwithmuchdispatch ifwe are togivehimaid.”

“Andyou’recounting,”Maxwellsaid,“onthetrollsbeingabletobringtheWheelersdownliketheybroughtdowntheflier.”

“You apprehendmost easily,my friend.That’swhat lingers inmymind.Butthesebefouledtrollsmakeabargainofit.”

“Ineverknew,”saidSharp,“thattheWheelerscouldfly.AllI’veseenthemdowastrundle.”

“Ofabilities theyhavemany,”saidO’Toole.“Fromtheirbodies theycangrow devices without number and beyond imagination. Nozzles for thespreading of their nasty gas, guns to shoot the lethal bolt, jets to make thembroomsticksthatmovewithamazingspeed.Andneveraretheyuptoanygood.Full of anger and resentment after all the ages, lying out there, deep in thegalaxy,with rancor eating like a cancer into their putridminds,waiting for achancetobewhattheynevercanbe-fornomorethanmenialstheyareoreverwillbe.”

“Butwhybotherwiththetrolls?”askedDrayton,outofsorts.“Icouldhavegunsandplanes…”

“Don’ttrytobeanymoreofafoolthanyoualreadyare,”saidSharp.“Wecan’tlayafingeronthem.Wecan’tcreateanincident.Thehumanscantakenopartinthis.ThisissomethingbetweentheLittleFolkandtheirformerslaves.”

“Butthecatalreadykilled-”“Thecat.Notahuman.Wecan-”“Sylvester,”Carolsaid,“wasonlytryingtoprotectus.”“Dowehavetogosofast?”protestedNancy.“I’mnotusedtothis.”“Here,”saidLambert,“takemyarm.Thepathdoesseemslightlyrough.”“Doyouknow,Pete,”saidNancy,bubbling,“thatMr.Lamberthasagreed

tobemyhouseguestforayearorsoandpaintsomepicturesforme.Isn’tthatalovelythingforhimtodo?”

“Yes,”saidMaxwell.“Iamsureitis.”Thepathhadbeenclimbingthehillsideforthelasthundredfeetorsoand

now it dipped down toward the ravine, which was clogged with tumbledboulderswhich,inthefirstfaintlightofmorning,lookedlikecrouched,humpedbeasts.Andspanning the ravinewas theancientbridge, a structure jerked rawfromanoldmedievalroad.Lookingatit,Maxwellfoundithardtobelievethatithadbeenbuiltonlyafewdecadesagowhenthereservationhadbeenlaidout.

Twodays,he thought-had itbeenonly twodays sincehehad returned toEarthtofindInspectorDraytonwaiting?Somuchhadhappenedthatitseemedmuch longer than just two days ago. Somany things had happened thatwereunbelievable,andstillwerehappeningandstillunbelievable,butontheoutcomeof thesehappenings,heknew,mightdepend the futureofallmankindand thefederationthatmanhadbuiltamongtheotherstars.

HetriedtosummonupahatredoftheWheelers,buthefoundtherewasnohatred.Theyweretooalien,toofarremovedfrommankind,toinspireahatred.They were abstractions of evil rather than actual evil beings, although thatdistinction,herealized,madethemnolessdangerous.TherehadbeenthatotherPeterMaxwellandsurelyhehadbeenmurderedbytheWheelers,forwhenhehad been found there had been a curious, repulsive odor lingering, and now,since that moment in Sharp’s office, Maxwell knew what that odor was.MurderedbecausetheWheelershadbelievedthatthefirstMaxwelltoreturnhadcome from the crystal planet and murder had been a way to stop him frominterfering with the deal with Time for the Artifact. But when the secondMaxwellhadappeared,theWheelersmusthavebeenafraidofasecondmurder.Thatwaswhy,Maxwelltoldhimself,Mr.Marmadukehadtriedtobuyhimoff.

AndtherewasthematterofacertainMontyChurchill,Maxwellreminded

himself.Whenthisallwasfinished,nomatterhowitmightcomeout,hewouldhuntupChurchillandmakecertainthat thescoreheowedhimwasallevenedout.

Theycameuptothebridgeandwalkedunderitandhalted.“Allright,youtrashytrolls,”Mr.O’Tooleyelledatthesilentstone,“there

isagroupofusoutheretoholdconversationwithyou.”“Youhushup,”Maxwell told thegoblin.“Youkeepoutof this.Youand

thetrollsdonotgetalong.”“Who,”theO’Tooledemanded,“alongcangetwiththem.Obstinatethings

theyareandwithoutashredofhonorandofcommonsensebereft…”“Justkeepstill,”saidMaxwell.“Don’tsayanotherword.”They stood, all of them, in the silenceof the comingdawn, and finally a

squeakyvoicespoketothemfromtheareaunderneaththefarendofthebridge.“Whoisthere?”thevoiceasked.“Ifyoucometobullyus,bulliedwe’llnot

be.TheloudmouthedO’Toole,foralltheseyears,hasbulliedusandnaggedusandnomorewe’llhaveofit.”

“MynameisMaxwell,”Maxwelltoldthespeaker.“Idonotcometobullyyou.Icometobegforhelp.”

“Maxwell?ThegoodfriendofO’Toole?”“Thegoodfriendofallofyou.Ofeveryoneofyou. I satwith thedying

Banshee, taking the place of those who would not come to see out his finalmoments.”

“But drinkwithO’Toole, you do. And talkwith him, oh, yes. And givecredencetohislies.”

TheO’Toolestrodeforward,bouncingwithwrath.“ThatdownyourthroatsI’llstuff,”hescreamed.“Letmegetmypawsbut

onceupontheirfilthyguzzles-”HiswordsbrokeoffabruptlyasSharpreachedoutand,grabbinghimbythe

slackof his trouser-seat, lifted himandheld him, gurgling and choking in hisrage.

“Yougoahead,”SharpsaidtoMaxwell.“Ifthislittlepipsqueaksomuchaspartshislips,I’llfindapoolanddunkhim.”

SylvestersidledovertoSharp,thrustouthisheadandsniffeddelicatelyatthe danglingO’Toole. O’Toole batted at the cat withwindmilling arms. “Gethimoutofhere,”heshrieked.

“Hethinksyou’reamouse,”saidOop.“He’stryingtomakeuphismindifyouareworththetrouble.”

Sharp hauled off and kicked Sylvester in the ribs. Sylvester shied off,snarling.

“HarlowSharp,”saidCarol,startingforward,“don’tyoueverdaretodoathinglikethatagain.Ifyoudo,I’ll-”

“Shutup!”Maxwellyelled,exasperated.“Shutup,allofyou.Thedragonisuptherefightingforhislifeandyoustandhere,wrangling.”

They all fell silent. Some of them stepped back. Maxwell waited for amoment,thenspoketothetrolls.“Idon’tknowwhat’sgoneonbefore,”hesaid.“Idon’tknowwhatthetroubleis.Butweneedyourhelpandwe’reabouttogetit. I promise you fair dealing, but I also promise that if you aren’t reasonablewe’re about to see what a couple of sticks of high explosives will do to thisbridgeofyours.”

Afeeble,squeakyvoiceissuedfromthebridge.“Butallweeverwanted,allweeverasked,wasforthatbigmouthedO’TooletomakeforusacaskofsweetOctoberale.”

Maxwellturnedaround.“Isthatright?”heasked.SharpsetO’Toolebackuponhisfeetsothathecouldanswer.“It’s the breaking of a precedent,” howled O’Toole. “That is what it is.

From time immemorial us goblins are the only ones who ever brewed thegladsome ale. And drink it by ourselves.Make we cannot more than we candrink.Andmakeitforthetrolls,thenthefairieswillbewanting-”

“Youknow,”saidOop,“thatthefairieswouldneverdrinktheale.Alltheydrinkismilk,andthebrownies,too.”

“Athirstyouwouldhaveusall,”screamedthegoblin.“Hardlaboritisforustomakeonlywhatweneedandmuchtimeandthoughtandeffort.”

“If it’s a simple matter of production,” suggested Sharp, “we certainlycouldhelpyou.”

Mr.O’Tooleboundedupanddowninwrath.“Andthebugs!”heshouted.“What about thebugs?Exclude them from the ale I knowyouwouldwhen itwas brewing. All nasty sanitary. To make October ale, bugs you must havefallingintoitandallothermattersofgreatuncleanlinessortheflavoryouwillmiss.”

“We’ll put in bugs,” saidOop. “We’ll go out and catch a bucket full ofthemanddumpthemintoit.”

The O’Toole was beside himself with anger, his face a flaming purple.“Understandyoudonot,”hescreamedat them.“Bugsyoudonotgodumpingintoit.Bugsfallintoitwithwondrousselectivityand-”

His words cut off in a gurgling shriek and Carol called out sharply,“Sylvester,cutthatout!”

The O’Toole dangled, wailing and flailing his arms, from Sylvester’smouth.SylvesterheldhisheadhighsothatMr.O’Toole’sfeetcouldnotreach

theground.Oopwasrollingonthegroundinlaughter,beatinghishandsupontheearth.

“HethinksO’Toole’samouse!”Oopyelled.“Lookatthatputtycat!Hecaughthisselfamouse!”

Sylvesterwasbeinggentleaboutit.HewasnothurtingO’Toole,excepthisdignity.Hewasholdinghimlightlyinhismouth,withthetwofangsinhisupperjawclosingneatlyabouthismiddle.

Sharphauledofftokickthecat.“No,”Carolyelled,“don’tyoudaredothat!”Sharphesitated.“It’s all right,Harlow,”Maxwell said. “LethimkeepO’Toole.Surelyhe

deservessomethingforwhathedidforusbackthereintheoffice.”“We’lldo it,”O’Tooleyelled frantically. “We’llmake them their caskof

ale.We’llmaketwocasksofit.”“Three,”saidthesqueakyvoicecomingfromthebridge.“Allright,three,”agreedthegoblin.“Noweaselingoutofitlateron?”askedMaxwell.“Usgoblinsneverweasel,”saidO’Toole.“Allright,Harlow,”saidMaxwell.“Goaheadandbelthim.”Sharpsquaredofftokick.SylvesterdroppedO’Tooleandslunkoffapace

ortwo.Thetrollscamepouringfromthebridgeandwentscurryingupthehillside,

yelpingwithexcitement.Thehumansbeganscramblinguptheslope,followingthetrolls.AheadofMaxwell,Caroltrippedandfell.Maxwellstoppedandliftedher.

Shejerkedawayfromhimandturnedtohimafaceflamingwithanger.“Don’tyouevertouchme!”shesaid.“Don’tevenspeaktome.YoutoldHarlowtogoaheadandkickSylvester.Youyelledatme.Youtoldmetoshutup.”

She turned then andwent scrambling up the hill, moving quickly out ofsight.

Maxwell stood befuddled for a moment, then began the climb, skirtingboulders,grabbingatbushestopullhimselfalong.

Uponthetopofthehillheheardwildcheeringandofftohisrightagreatblack globe, with its wheels spinning madly, plummeted out of the sky andcrashedintothewoods.Hestoppedandlookedupandsaw,throughthetreetops,twoglobesstreakingthroughtheskyoncollisioncourses.Theydidnotswerveor slacken speed. They came together and exploded on impact. He stood andwatched the shattered pieces flying. In a few seconds there were patteringsoundsamongtheleavesasthedebriscamerainingdown.

Thecheeringstillwasgoingonatopthebluffandfaroff,nearthetopofthehillthatrosebeyondtheravine,somethingthatheheard,butdidnotsee,cameplungingtotheearth.

Therewasnooneelseinsightashebegantheclimbagain.Itwasallovernow,hetoldhimself.Thetrollshaddonetheirworkandnow

the dragon could come down. He grinned wryly to himself. For years he’dhunteddragonsandhere finallywas thedragon,but somethingmore,perhaps,thanhehadimagined.Whatcouldthedragonbe,hewondered,andwhyhaditbeenenclosedwithintheArtifact,ormadeintotheArtifact,orwhatevermighthavebeendonewithit?

Funny thing about the Artifact, he thought-resisting everything, rejectingeverythinguntilthatmomentwhenhehadfastenedtheinterpretingmechanismonhis head to examine it.What had happened to release the dragon from theArtifact?Clearly themechanismhadhad a part to play in the doingof it, butthere still was no way of knowing what might have happened. Although thepeopleonthecrystalplanetcertainlywouldknow,oneofthemanythingstheyknew,oneof themanyarts theyheldwhichstill layoutside theknowledgeofothers in the galaxy. Had the interpreter turned up in his luggage by designratherthanbyaccident?Haditbeenplantedtherefortheverypurposeforwhichithadbeenused?Wasitaninterpreter,atall,orwasitsomethingelsefashionedinamannerthatresembledaninterpreter?

HerecalledthatatonetimehehadwonderediftheArtifactmightnotoncehave served as a god for the Little Folk, or for those strange creatureswhichearly in thehistoryof theEarthhadbeenassociatedwith theLittleFolk?Andhadhebeenright,hewondered.Wasthedragonagodfromsomeoldentime?

Hebegantheclimbagain,butwentslowernow,for therewasnoneedtohurry.Itwasthefirsttimesincehehadreturnedfromthecrystalplanetthattherewasnourgency.

Hewassomewhatmorethanhalfwayupthehillwhenheheardthemusic,sofaintatfirst,somuted,thatbecouldnotbesureheheardit.

Hestoppedtolistenanditwassurelymusic.Thesunhadjustmovedthetoppartofitsdiskoverthehorizonandasheet

ofblinding light struck the treetopson thehill abovehim, so that theyblazedwithautumncolor.Butthehillsidethatheclimbedstilllayinmorningshadow.

Helistenedandthemusicwaslikethesoundofsilverwaterrunningoverhappystones.Unearthlymusic.Fairymusic.Andthatwaswhat itwas.Onthedancinggreenofftohisleftafairyorchestrawasplaying.

Afairyorchestraandfairiesdancingonthegreen!Itwassomethingthathehadneverseenandherewasachancetoseeit.Heturnedtohisleftandmade

hisway,assilentlyashecould,towardthedancinggreen.Please,hewhisperedtohimself,pleasedon’tgoaway.Don’tbefrightened

byme.Pleasestayandletmeseeyou.He was close now. Just beyond that boulder. And the music kept on

playing.He crawled by inches around the boulder, on guard against making any

sound.Andthenhesaw.Theorchestrasat inarowupona logat theedgeof thegreenandplayed

away, the morning light flashing off the iridescent wings and the shinyinstruments.

But there were no fairies dancing on the green. Instead there were twoothersheneverwouldhaveguessed.Twosuchsimplesoulsasmightdancetofairymusic.

Facingoneanother,dancingtothemusicofthefairyorchestra,wereGhostandWilliamShakespeare.

Thedragonpercheduponthecastlewall,itsmulticoloredbodyglitteringinthe sun. Far below, in its valley, the Wisconsin River, blue as a forgottensummersky,flowedbetweentheshoresofflamingforests.Fromthecastleyardcame sounds of revelry as the goblins and the trolls, for the moment withanimosity laidaside,drankgreat tankardsofOctoberale,bangingthe tankardsonthetablesthathadbeencarriedfromthegreathall,andsingingancientsongsthathadbeencomposedlongbeforetherehadbeensuchathingasMan.

Maxwellsatuponadeep-buriedboulderandgazedoutacrossthevalley.Adozenfeetawaytheedgeofthebluffcutoffaboveahundredfeetofcliffandonthe edge of the cliff grew a twisted cedar tree, twisted by thewinds that hadhowled across the valley for uncounted years, its bark a powdery silver, itsfoliagealightandfragrantgreen.Evenfromwherehesat,Maxwellcouldcatchthesharptangofthefoliage.

Itallhadcomeoutright,hetoldhimself.TherewasnoArtifacttotradeforthe knowledge of the crystal planet, although there was the dragon and thedragon,afterall,probablyhadbeenwhatthepeopleonthatplanetwanted.Butevenifthisshouldnotprovetobethetruth,theWheelershadlostout,andthis,inthelongrun,mightbemoreimportantthantheacquiringoftheknowledge.

ItallhadworkedoutOK.Betterthanhecouldhavehoped.Exceptthatnoweveryonewassoreathim.Carolwasangryathimbecausehe’dtoldHarlowtogoaheadandkickSylvesterandbecausehe’dtoldhertoshutup.O’Toolewassoreathimbecausehe’dabandonedhimtoSylvesterandtherebyforcedhimto

giveintothetrolls.HarlowmorethanlikelystillwasplentyburnedupbecausehehadmessedupthedealfortheArtifactandbecauseofallthebustedpiecesinthemuseum.Butmaybethefactthathe’dgotShakespearebackmightmakeupfor some of that. And there was Drayton, of course, who still might want toquestion him, and Longfellow, at Administration, whowouldn’t like him anybetternomatterwhathadhappened.

Sometimes,hetoldhimself, itdidn’tpaytocaretoomuchaboutanythingor tofight foranything.Maybe itwas theones likeNancyClaytonwhoreallyhad it made-feather-headed Nancy with her famous house guests and herfabulousparties.

Something brushed against him and he turned to see what it might be.Sylvesterreachedoutaroughandraspingtongueandbegantowashhisface.

“Cutitout,”saidMaxwell.“Thattongueofyourstakesoffhide.”Sylvester purred contentedly and settled down beside him, leaning hard

againsthim.Thetwoofthemsatandgazedacrossthevalley.“You got an easy life,” Maxwell told the cat. “You don’t have any

problems.Youdon’thavetoworry.”Afootcrunchedonsomestones.Avoicesaid,“You’vekidnapedmycat.

CanIsitdownandsharehim?”“Sure, sit down,” said Maxwell. “I’ll move over for you. I thought you

neverwantedtospeaktomeagain.”“Youwereanastypersondownthere,”saidCarol,“andIdidn’t likeyou

much.ButIsupposeyouhadtobe.”Ablackcloudcametorestinsidethecedartree.CarolgaspedandshrankagainstMaxwell.Heputoutanarmandheldher

closeagainsthim.“It’sallright,”hesaid.“Itisjustabanshee.”“Buthehasn’tanybody.Hehasn’tanyface.Heisjustacloud.”“That isnot remarkable,” theBanshee toldher.“That iswhatweare, the

twoofusthatareleft.Greatdirtydishclothsflappinginthesky.Andyouneednotbefrightened,forthisotherhumanisafriendofours.”

“Iwasn’t a friend of the third one,” saidMaxwell. “Norwas the humanrace.HesoldouttotheWheelers.”

“Andyet,yousatwithhim,whennooneelsewoulddoit.”“Yes,Ididthat.Evenyourworstenemycoulddemandthatyoudothat.”“Then, I think,” the Banshee said, “that you can understand a little. The

Wheelers,afterall,wereus,stillareus,perhaps.Andancienttiesdiehard.”“IthinkIdounderstand,”saidMaxwell.“WhatcanIdoforyou?”“Ionlycame,”theBansheetoldhim,“totellyouthattheplaceyoucallthe

crystalplanethasbeennotified.”“Andtheywant thedragon?”Maxwellasked.“You’llhave togiveus the

coordinates.”“The coordinates,” said the Banshee, “will be given to Transportation

Central.Youwillwanttogothere,youandmanyothers,totransferthedata.ButthedragonstaysonEarth,hereonGoblinReservation.”“Idon’tunderstand,”saidMaxwell.“Theywanted…”“TheArtifact,”theBansheesaid,“tosetthedragonfree.Hehadbeencaged

toolong.”“SincetheJurassic,”saidMaxwell.“Iagree.Thatisfartoolong.”“Butwedidnotplansolong,”theBansheesaid.“Youmovedhimbefore

we could set him free andwe thought thatwehad lost him.TheArtifactwasonly to preserve and hide him until the colony on Earth could becomeestablished,untilitcouldprotecthim.”

“Butprotecthim?Whydidheneedprotection?”“Because,”theBansheesaid,“heis thelastofhisraceandthereforevery

precious.He is the lastof the-I find ithard to say-youhavecreaturesyoucalldogsandcats?”

“Yes,”saidCarol.“Wehaveoneofthemrighthere.”“Pets,” the Banshee said. “And yet much more than pets. Creatures that

havewalkedtheEarthwithyoufromtheveryearlydays.Thedragonisthepet,thelastpet,ofthepeopleofthecrystalplanet.Theygrowold,theywillsoonbegone.Theycannotleavetheirpetbehinduncaredfor;hemustbedeliveredintolovinghands.”

“Thegoblinswilltakecareofhim,”saidCarol.“Andthetrollsandfairiesandalltherestofthem.Theywillbeproudofhim.Theywillspoilhimrotten.”

“Andthehumans,too?”“Andthehumans,too,”shesaid.Theydidnotseehimgo.Buthewasnolongerthere.Therewasnotevena

dirtydishclothflappinginthesky.Thetreestoodempty.Apet,thoughtMaxwell.Notagod,butasimplepet.Andyet,perhaps,not

sosimpleasitsounded.Whenmenhadfirstmadethebio-mechs,whathadtheycreated?Notothermen,at leastat first,not livestock,not freaksengineered tospecificpurposes.Theyhadcreatedpets.

Carolstirredagainsthisarm.“Whatareyouthinking,Pete?”“Aboutadate,”hesaid.“Yes,IguessIwasthinkingofadinnerdatewith

you.Wehadoneonce,butitneverquitecameoff.Wouldyouliketotryagain?”“AtthePigandWhistle?”“Ifthatiswhatyouwant.”

“WithoutOopandGhost.Withoutanytroublemakers.”“ButwithSylvester,ofcourse.”“No,”shesaid.“Just the twoofus.Sylvester staysathome. It is timehe

learned.” They got up from the boulder and started back toward the castle.Sylvester lookedupat thedragonperchingon thecastlewallandsnarled.Thedragonlowereditsheadonitssinuousneckandlookedhimintheeye.Itstuckoutathimalongandforkedtongue.