VINTAGE SEASON

by Henry Kuttner
THREE PEOPLE came up the walk to the old mansion just at
dawn on a perfect May morning. Oliver Wilson in his pyjamas
watched them from an upper window through a haze of con-
flicting emotions, resentment predominant. He didn't want
them there.
They were foreigners. He knew only that much about
them. They had the curious name of Sancisco, and their first
names, scrawled in loops on the lease, appeared to be Omerie,
Kleph and Klia, though it was impossible as he looked down
upon them to sort them out by signature. He hadn't even been
sure whether they would be men or women, and he had
expected something a little less cosmopolitan.
Oliver's heart sank a little as he watched them follow the
taxi driyer up the walk. He had hoped for less self-assurance
in his UEtwelcome tenants, because he meant to force them
out of the house if he could. It didn't look very promising
from here.
The man went first. He was tail and dark, and he wore his
clothes and carried his body with that peculiar arrogant assur-
antfe that comes from perfect confidence in every phase of
one's being. The two women were laughing as they followed
"mm. Their voices were light and sweet, and their faces were
beautiful, each in its own exotic way, but the first thing Oliver
thought of when he looked at them was. Expensive!
It was not only that patina of perfecton that seemed to
dwell in every line of their incredibly flawless garments. There
are degrees of wealth beyond which wealth itself ceases to
have significance. Oliver had seen before, on rare occasons,
something like this assurance that the earth turning beneath
their well-shod feet turned only to their whim.
It puzzled him a little in this case, because he had the
feeling as the three came up the walk that the beautiful cloth-
ing they wore so confidently was not clothing they were ac-
customed to. There was a curious air of condescension in the
way they moved. Like women in costume. They minced a
little on their delicate high heels, held out an arm to stare at
the cut of a sleeve, twisted now and then inside their garments
as if the clothing sat strangely on them, as if they were ac-
customed to something entirely different.
And there was an elegance about the way the garments fitted
them which even to Oliver looked strikingly unusual. Only an
actress on the screen, who can stop time and the film to adjust
every disarrayed fold so that she looks perpetually perfect,
might appear thus elegantly clad. But let these women move
as they liked,  and each fold of their clothing followed
perfectly with the movement and fell perfectly into place
again. One might almost suspect the garments were not cut of
ordinary cloth, or that they were cut according to some un-
known, subtle scheme, with many artful hidden seams placed
by a tailor incredibly skilled at his trade.
They seemed excited. They talked in high, clear, very sweet
voices, looking up at the perfect blue and transparent sky in
which dawn was still frankly pink. They looked at the trees
on the lawn, the leaves translucently green with an under
colour of golden newness, the edges crimped from constric-
tion in the recent bud.
Happily and with excitement in their voices they called to
the man, and when he answered his own voice blended so per-
fectly in cadence with theirs that it sounded like thiee people
singing together. Their voices, like their clothing, seemed to
have an elegance far beyond the ordinary, to be undgl~ con-
trol such as Oliver Wilson had never dreamed of before, this
morning.
The taxi driver brought up the luggage, which was of a
beautiful pale stuff that did not look quite like leather, and
had curves in it so subtle it seemed square until you saw"
how two or three pieces of it fitted together when carried, into
a perfectly balanced block. It was scuffed, as if from much
use. And though there was a great deal of it, the taxi man
did not seem to find his burden heavy. Oliver saw him look
down at it now and then and heft the weight incredulously.
One of the women had very black hair and skin like cream,
and the smoke-blue eyes heavy-lidded with the weight of her
lashes. It was the other woman Oliver's gaze followed as she
came up the walk. Her hair was a clear, pale red, and her
face had a softness that he thought would be like velvet to
touch. She was tanned to a warm amber darker than her hair.
Just as they reached the porch steps the fair woman lifted
her head and looked up. She gazed straight into Oliver's eyes
and he saw that hers were very blue, and just a little
amused, as if she had known he was there all along. Also they .
were frankly admiring.
Feeling a bit dizzy, Oliver hurried back to his room to dress.
"We are here on a vacation," the dark man said, accepting
the keys. "We will not wish to be disturbed, as I made clear
in our correspondence. You have engaged a cook and house-
maid for us, I understand? We will expect you to move your
own belongings out of the house, then, and"
"Wait," Oliver said uncomfortably. "Something's come up.
I" He hesitated, not sure just how to present it. These
were such increasingly odd people. Even their speech was odd.
They spoke so distinctly, not slurring any of the words into
contractions. English seemed as familiar to them as a native
tongue, but they all spoke as trained singers sing, with perfect
breath control and voice placement.
And there was a coldness in the man's voice, as if some
gulf lay between him and Oliver, so deep no feeling of human
contact could bridge it.
"I wonder," Oliver said, "if I could find you better living
quarters somewhere else in town. There's a place across the
street that"
The dark woman said, "Oh, no!" in a lightly horrified
voice, and all three of them laughed. It was cool, distant
laughter that did not include Oliver.
The dark man said, "We chose this house carefully, Mr.
Wilson. We would not be interested in living anywhere else."
Oliver said desperately, "I don't see why. It isn't even a
modern house. I have two others in much better condition.
Even across the street you'd have a fine view of the city.
Here there isn't anything. The other houses cut off the view,
and"
"We engaged rooms here, Mr. Wilson," the man said with
finality. "We expect to use them. Now will you make arrange-
ments to leave as soon as possible."
Oliver said, "No," and looked stubborn. "That isn't in the
lease. You can live here until next month,  since you paid
for it, but you can't put me out. I'm staying."
The man opened his mouth to say something. He looked
coldly at Oliver and closed it again. The feeling of aloofness
was chill between them. There was a moment's silence. Then
the man said, "Very well. Be kind enough to stay out of our
way."
It was a little odd that he didn't inquire into Oliver's motives.
Oliver was not yet sure enough of the man to explain. He
couldn't very well say, "Since the lease was signed. I've been
offered three times what the house is worth if I'll sell it before
the end of May." He couldn't say, "I want the money, and
I'm going to use my own nuisance-value to annoy you until
you're willing to move out." After all, there seemed no reason
why they shouldn't. After seeing them, there seemed doubly
no reason, for it was clear they must be accustomed to sur-
roundings infinitely better than this timeworn old house.
It was very strange, the value this house had so suddenly
acquired. There was no reason at all why two groups of semi-
anonymous people should be so eager to possess it for the
month of May.
In silence Oliver showed his tenants upstairs to the three
big bedrooms across the front of the house. He was intensely
conscious of the red-haired woman and the way she watched
him with a sort of obviously covert interest, quite warmly, and
with a curious undertone to her interest that he could not quite
place. It was familiar, but elusive. He thought how pleasant
it would be to talk to her alone, if only to try to capture that
elusive attitude and put a name to it.
Afterwards he went down to the telephone and called
his fiancee.
Sue's voice squeaked a little with excitement over the wire.
"Oliver, so early? Why, it's hardly six yet. Did you tell
them what I said? Are they going to go?"
"Can't tell yet. I doubt it. After all. Sue, I did take their
money, you know."
"Oliver, they've got to go! You've got to do something!"
"I'm trying, Sue. But I don't like it."
"Well, there isn't any reason why they shouldn't stay some-
where else. And we're going to need that money. You'll
just have to think of something, Oliver."
Oliver met his own worried eyes in the mirror above the
telephone and scowled at himself. His straw-coloured hair was
tangled and there was a shining stubble on his pleasant, tanned
face. He was sorry the red-haired woman had first seen him
in his untidy condition. Then his conscience smote him at the
sound of Sue's determined voice and he said:
"I'll try, darling. I'll try. But I did take their money."
They had, in fact, paid a great deal of money, considerably
more than the rooms were worth even in that year of high
prices and high wages. The country was just moving into one
of those fabulous eras which are later referred to as the Gay
Forties or the Golden Sixtiesa pleasant period of national
euphoria. It was a stimulating time to be alivewhile it
lasted.
"All right," Oliver said resignedly. "I'll do my best."
But he was conscious, as the next few days went by, that he
was not doing his best. There were several reasons for that.
From the beginning the idea of making himself a nuisance to
his tenants had been Sue's, not Oliver's. And if Oliver had
been a little determined the whole project would never have
got under way. Reason was on Sue's side, but
For one thing, the tenants were so fascinating. All they said
and did had a queer sort of inversion to it, as if a mirror had
been held up to ordinary living and in the reflection
showed strange variations from the norm. Their minds
worked on a different basic premise, Oliver thought, from his
own. They seemed to derive covert amusement from the
most unamusing things; they patronized, they were aloof with
a quality of cold detachment which did not prevent them
from laughing inexplicably far too often for Oliver's comfort.
He saw them occasionally, on their way to and from their
rooms. They were polite and distant, not he suspected, from
anger at his presence but from sheer indifference.
Most of the day they spent out of the house. The perfect
May weather held unbroken and they seemed to give them-
selves up wholeheartedly to admiration of it, entirely confident
that the warm, pale-gold sunshine and the scented air would
not be interrupted by rain or cold. They were so sure of it
that Oliver felt uneasy.
They took only one meal' a day in the house, a late dinner.
And their reactions to the meal were unpredictable. Laughter
greeted some of the dishes, and a sort of delicate disgust oth-
ers. No one would touch the salad, for instance. And the fish
seemed to cause a wave of queer embarrassment around the
table.
They dressed elaborately for each dinner. The manhis
name was Omerielooked extremely handsome in his dinner
clothes, but he seemed a little sulky and Oliver twice heard
the women laughing because he had to wear black. Oliver
entertained a sudden vision, for no reason, of the man in
garments as bright and subtly cut as the women's, and it
seemed somehow very right for him. He wore even the dark
clothing with a certain flamboyance, as if cloth-of-gold would
be more normal for him.
When they were in the house at other mealtimes, they ate
in their rooms. They must have brought a great deal of food
with them, from whatever mysterious place they had come.
Oliver wondered with increasing curiosity where it might be.
Delicious odours drifted into the hall sometimes, at odd hours,
from their- closed doors. Oliver could not identify them, but
almost always they smelled irresistible. A few times the food
smell was rather shockingly unpleasant, almost nauseating. It
takes a connoisseur, Oliver reflected, to appreciate the deca-
dent. And these people, most certainly, were connoisseurs.
Why they lived so contentedly in this huge ramshackle old
house was a question that disturbed his dreams at night. Or
why they refused to move. He caught some fascinating
glimpses into their rooms, which appeared to have been
changed almost completely by additions he could not have
defined very clearly from the brief sights he had of them. The
feeling of luxury which his first glance at them had evoked
was confirmed by the richness of the hangings they had ap-
parently brought with them, the half-glimpsed ornaments,
the pictures on the walls, even the whiffs of exotic perfume
that floated from half-open doors.
He saw the women go by him in the halls, moving softly
through the brown dimness in their gowns so uncannily perfect
in fit, so lushly rich, so glowingly coloured they seemed un-
real. That poise born of confidence in the subservience of the
world gave them an imperious aloofness, but more than once
Oliver, meeting the blue gaze of the woman with the red
hair and the soft, tanned skin, thought he saw quickened in-
terest. She smiled at him in the dimness and went by in a
haze of fragrance and a halo of incredible richness, and the
warmth of the smile lingered after she had gone.
He knew she did not mean this aloofness to last between
them. From the very first he was sure of that. When the time
came she would make the opportunity to be alone with him.
The thought was confusing and tremendously exciting. There
was nothing he could do but wait, knowing she would see
him when it suited her.
On the third day he lunched with Sue in a little downtown
restaurant overlooking the great sweep of the metropolis across
the river far below. Sue had shining brown curls and brown
eyes, and her chin was a bit more prominent than is strictly
accordant with beauty. From childhood Sue had known what
she wanted and how to get it, and it seemed to Oliver just now
that she had never wanted anything quite so much as the sale
of this house.
"It's such a marvellous offer for the old mausoleum," she
said, breaking into a roll with a gesture of violence. "We'll
never have a chance like that again, and prices are so high
we'll need the money to start housekeeping. Surely you can
do something, Oliver!"
"I'm trying," Oliver assured her uncomfortably.
"Have you heard anything more from that madwoman
who wants to buy it?"
Oliver shook his head. "Her attorney phoned again yester-
day. Nothing new. I wonder who she is."
"I don't think even the attorney knows. All this mystery
I don't like it, Oliver. Even those Sancisco peopleWhat
did they do today?"
Oliver laughed. "They spent about an hour this morning
telephoning movie theatres in the city, checking up on a lot of
third-rate films they want to see parts of."
"Parts of? But why?"
"I don't know. I think . . . oh, nothing. More coffee?"
The trouble was, he thought he did know. It was too unlikely
a guess to tell Sue about, and without familiarity with the
Sancisco oddities she would only think Oliver was losing his
mind. But he. had from their talk, a definite impression that
there was an actor in bit parts in all these films whose per-
formances they mentioned with something very near to awe.
They referred to him as Golconda, which didn't appear to be
his name, so that Oliver had no way of guessing which ob-
scure bit player it was they admired so deeply. Golconda
might have been the name of a character he had once played
and with superlative skill, judging by the comments of the
Sanciscosbut to Oliver it meant nothing at all.
"They do funny things," he said, stirring his coffee reflec-
tively. "Yesterday Omeriethat's the mancame in with a
book of poems published about five years ago, and all of them
handled it like a first edition of Shakespeare. I never even
heard of the author, but he seems to be a tin god in their
country, wherever that is."
"You still don't know? Haven't they even dropped any
hints?"
"We don't do much talking," Oliver reminded her with
some irony.
"I know, but Oh, well I guess it doesn't matter. Go on,
what else do they do?"
"Well, this morning they were going to spend studying
'Golconda' and his great art, and this afternoon I think
they're taking a trip up the river to some sort of shrine I
never heard of. It isn't very far, wherever it is, because I
know they're coming back for dinner. Some great man's birth-
place, I thinkthey promised to take home souvenirs of the
place if they could get any. They're typical tourists, all right
if I could only figure out what's behind the whole thing.
It doesn't make sense."
"Nothing about that house makes sense any more. I do
wish"
She went on in a petulant voice, but Oliver ceased suddenly
to hear her, because just outside the door, walking with im-
perial elegance on her high heels, a familiar figure passed. He
did not see her face, but he thought he would know that poise,
that richness of line and motion, anywhere on earth.
"Excuse me a minute," he muttered to Sue, and was out of
his chair before she could speak. He made the door in half
a dozen long strides, and the beautifully elegant passerby was
only a few steps away when he got there. Then, with the words
he had meant to speak already half uttered, he fell silent
and stood there staring.
It was not the red-haired woman. It was not her dark com-
panion. It was a stranger. He watched, speechless, while the
lovely, imperious creature moved on through the crowd and
vanished, moving with familiar poise and assurance and an
equally familiar strangeness as if the beautiful and ex-
quisitely fitted garments she wore were an exotic costume to
her, as they had always seemed to the Sancisco women.
Every other woman on the street looked untidy and ill at
ease beside her. Walking like a queen, she melted into the
crowd andLwas gone.
She came from their country, Oliver told himself dizzily. So
someone else nearby had mysterious tenants in this month of
perfect May weather. Someone else was puzzling in vain to-
day over the strangeness of the people from the nameless
land.
In silence he went back to Sue.
The door stood invitingly ajar in the brown dimness of the
upper hall. Oliver's steps slowed as he drew near it, and his
heart began to quicken correspondingly. It was the red-haired
woman's room, and he thought the door was not open by acci-
dent. Her name, he knew now, was Kleph.
The door creaked a little on its hinges and from within a
very sweet voice said lazily, "Won't you come in?"
The room looked very different indeed. The big bed had
been pushed back against the wall, and a cover thrown over
it that brushed the floor all around looked like soft-haired fur
except that it was pale blue-green and sparkled as if every
hair were tipped with invisible crystals. Three books lay open
on the fur, and a very curious-looking magazine with faintly
luminous printing and a page of pictures that at first glance
appeared three-dimensional. Also a tiny porcelain pipe en-
crusted with porcelain flowers, and a thin wisp of smoke float-
ing from the bowl.
Above the bed a broad picture hung, framing a square of
blue water so real Oliver had to look twice to be sure it was
not rippling gently from left to right. From the ceiling swung
a crystal globe on a glass cord. It turned gently, the light
from the windows making curved rectangles in its sides.
Under the centre window a sort of chaise-longue stood
which Oliver had not seen before. He could only assume it
was at least partly pneumatic and had been brought in th6 lug-
gage. There was a very rich-looking quilted cloth covering
and hiding It, embossed all over in shining metallic pat-
terns.
Kleph moved slowly from the door and sank upon the
chaise-longue with a little sigh of content. The couch accom-
modated itself to her body with what looked like delightful
comfort. Kleph wriggled a little and then smiled up at Oliver.
"Do come on in. Sit over there, where you can see out the
window. I love your beautiful spring weather. You know,
there never was a May like it in civilized times." She said
that quite seriously, her blue eyes on Oliver's, and there was
a hint of patronage in her voice, as if the weather had been
arranged especially for her.
Oliver started across the room and then paused and looked
down in amazement at the floor, which felt unstable. He had
not noticed before that the carpet was pure white, unspotted,
and sank about an inch under the pressure of the feet. He
saw then that Kleph's feet were bare, or almost bare. She
wore something like gossamer buskins of filmy net, fitting her
feet exactly. The bare soles were pink as if they had been
rouged, and the nails had a liquid gleam like tiny mirrors.
He moved closer, and was not as surprised as he should have
been to see that they really were tiny mirrors, painted with
some lacquer that gave them reflecting surfaces.
"Do sit down," Kleph said again, waving a white-sleeved
arm towards a chair by the window. She wore a garment
that looked like short, soft down, loosely cut but follow-
ing perfectly every motion she made. And there was some-
thing curiously different about her very shape today. When
Oliver saw her m street clothes, she had the square-shouldered,
slim-flanked figure that all women strove for, but here in her
lounging robe she lookedwell, different. There was an almost
swan-like slope to her shoulders today, a roundness and soft-
ness to her body that looked unfamiliar and very appealing.
"Will you have some tea?" Kleph asked, and smiled charm-
ingly.
A low table beside her held a tray and several small cov-
ered cups, lovely things with an inner glow like rose quartz,
the colour shining deeply as if from within layer upon layer of
translucence. She took up one of the cupsthere were no
saucersand offered it to Oliver.
It felt fragile and thin as paper in his hand. He could not
see the contents because of the cup's cover, which seemed to
be one with the cup itself and left only a thin open crescent
at the rim. Steam rose from the opening.
Kleph took up a cup of her own and tilted it to her lips,
smiling at Oliver over the rim. She was very beautiful. The
pale red hair lay in shining .loops against her head and the
corona of curls like a halo above her forehead might have
been pressed down like a wreath. Every hair kept order
as perfectly as if it had been painted on, though the breeze
from the window stirred now and then among the softly
shining strands.
Oliver tried the tea. Its flavour was exquisite, very hot, and
the taste that lingered upon his tongue was like the scent of
flowers. It was an extremely feminine drink. He sipped again,
surprised to find how much he liked it.
The scent of flowers seemed to increase as he drank,
swirling through his head like smoke. After the third sip there
was a faint buzzing in his ears. The bees among the flowers,
perhaps, he thought incoherentlyand sipped again.
Kleph watched him, smiling.
"The others will be out all afternoon," she told Oliver
comfortably. "I thought it would give us a pleasant time to be
acquainted."
Oliver was rather horrified to hear himself saying, "What
makes you talk like that?" He had had no idea of asking the
question; something seemed to have loosened his control
over his own tongue.
Kleph's smile deepened. She tipped the cup to her lips and
there was indulgence in her voice when she said, "What
do you mean like that'?"
He waved his hand vaguely, noting with some surprise that
at a glance it seemed to have six or seven fingers as it moved
past his face.
"I  don't knowprecision,  I  guess.  Why  don't you say
'don't', for instance?"
"In our country we are trained to speak with precision,"
Kleph explained. "Just as we are trained to move and dress
and think with precision. Any slovenliness is trained out of us
in childhood. With you, of course" She was polite. "With
you, this does not happen to be a national fetish. With us, we
have time for the amenities. We like them."
Her voice had grown sweeter and sweeter as she spoke, un-
til by now it was almost indistinguishable from the sweetness
of the flower-scent in Oliver's head, and the delicate flavour
of the tea.
"What country do you come from?" he asked, and tilled the
cup again to drink, mildly surprised to notice that it seemed
inexhaustible.
Kleph's  smile  was  definitely  patronizing  this  time.  It
didn't irritate him. Nothing could irritate him just now. The
whole room swam in a beautiful rosy glow as fragrant as
the flowers.
"We must not speak of that, Mr. Wilson."
"But" Oliver paused. After all, it was, of course, none of
his business. "This is a vacation?" he asked vaguely.
"Call it a pilgrimage, perhaps."
"Pilgrimage?" Oliver was so interested that for an instant
his mind came back into sharp focus. "Towhat?"
"I should not have said that, Mr. Wilson. Please forget it.
Do you like the tea?"
"Very much."
"You will have guessed by now that it is not only tea, but
an euphoriac."
Oliver stared. "Euphoriac?"
Kleph made a descriptive circle in the air with one graceful
hand, and laughed. "You do not feel the effects yet? Surely
you do?"
"I feel," Oliver said, "the way I'd feel after four whiskies."
Kleph shuddered delicately. "We get our euphoria less pain-
fully. And without the after-effects your barbarous alcohol
used to have." She bit her lip. "Sorry. I must be euphoric
myself to speak so freely. Please forgive me. Shall we have
some music?"
Kleph leaned backward on the chaise-longue and reached
towards the wall beside her. The sleeve, falling away from
her round tanned arm, left bare the inside of the wrist, and
Oliver was startled to see there a long, rosy streak of fading
scar. His inhibitions had dissolved in the fumes of the fra-
grant tea; he caught his breath and leaned forward to
stare.
Kleph shook the sleeve back over the scar with a quick
gesture. Colour came into her face beneath the softly tinted
tan and she would not meet Oliver's eyes. A queer shame
seemed to have fallen upon her.
Oliver said tactlessly, "What is it? What's the matter?"
Still she would not look at him. Much later he understood
that shame and knew she had reason for it. Now he listened
blankly as she said:
"Nothing. . . nothing at all. A ...an inoculation. All of us
.. oh, never mind. Listen to the music."
This time she reached out with the other arm. She
touched nothing, but when she had held her hand near the
wall a sound breathed through the room. It was the sound of
water, the sighing of waves receding upon long, sloped
beaches. Oliver followed Kleph's gaze towards the picture of
the blue water above the bed.
The waves there were moving. More than that, the point
of vision moved. Slowly the seascape drifted past, moving
with the waves, following them towards shore. Oliver watched,
half-hypnotized by a motion that seemed at the time quite
acceptable and not in the least surprising.
The waves lifted and broke in creaming foam and ran
seething up a sandy beach. Then through the sound of the
water music began to breathe, and through the water itself a
man's face dawned in the frame, smiling intimately into the
room. He held an oddly archaic musical instrument, lute-
shaped, its body striped light and dark like a melon and its
long neck bent back over his shoulder. He was singing, and
Oliver felt mildly astonished at the song. It was very famil-
iar and very odd indeed. He groped through the unfamiliar
rhythms and found at last a thread to catch the tune byit
was "Make-Believe" from "Showboat," but certainly a show-
boat that had never steamed up the Mississippi.
"What's he doing to it?" he demanded after a few mo-
ments of outraged listening. "I never heard anything like it!"
Kleph laughed and stretched out her arm again. Enigmat-
ically she said: "We call it kyling. Never mind. How do you
like this?"
It was a comedian, a man in semi-clown make-up, his eyes
exaggerated so that they seemed to cover half his face. He
stood by a broad glass pillar before a dark curtain and sang
a gay, staccato song interspersed with patter that sounded
impromptu, and all the while his left hand did an intricate,
musical tattoo of the nailtips on the glass of the column. He
strolled around and around it as he sang. The rhythms of his
fingernails blended with the song and swung widely away
into patterns of their own, and blended again without a
break.
It was confusing to follow. The song made even less sense
than the monologue, which had something to do with a lost
slipper and was full of allusions which made Kleph smile,
but were utterly unintelligible to Oliver. The man had a dry,
brittle style that was not very amusing, though Kleph seemed
fascinated. Oliver was interested to see in him an extension
and a variation of that extreme smooth confidence which
marked all three of the Sanciscos. Clearly a racial trait, he
thought.
Other performances followed, some of them fragmentary as
if lifted out of a completer version. One he knew. The ob-
vious, stirring melody struck his recognition before the fig-
uresmarching men against a haze, a great banner rolling
backward above them in the smoke, foreground figures
striding gigantically and shouting in rhythm, "Forward, for-
ward the lily banners go!"
The music was tinny, the images blurred and poorly col-
oured, but there was a gusto about the performance that
caught at Oliver's imagination. He stared, remembering the old
film from long ago. Dennis King and a ragged chorus, sing-
ing "The Song of the Vagabonds" fromwas it "Vagabond
King"?
"A very old one," Kleph said apologetically. "But I like it."
The steam of the intoxicating tea swirled between Oliver
and the picture. Music swelled and sank through the room
and the fragrant fumes and his own euphoric brain. Nothing
seemed strange. He had discovered how to drink the tea.
Like nitrous oxide, the effect was not cumulative. When you
reached a peak of euphoria, you could not increase the
peak. It was best to wait for a slight dip in the effect of
the stimulant before taking more.
Otherwise it had most of the effects of alcoholeverything
after a while dissolved into a delightful fog through which all
he saw was uniformly enchanting and partook of the quali-
ties of a dream. He questioned nothing. Afterwards he was
not certain how much of it he really had dreamed.
There was the dancing doll, for instance. He remembered
it quite clearly, in sharp focusa tiny, slender woman with
a long-nosed, dark-eyed face and a pointed chin. She moved
delicately across the white rugknee-high, exquisite. Her fea-
tures were as mobile as her body, and she danced lightly,
with resounding strokes of her toes, each echoing like a bell.
It was a formalized sort of dance, and she sang breath-
lessly in accompaniment, making amusing little grimaces. Cer-
tainly it was a portrait-doll, animated to mimic the original
perfectly in voice and motion. Afterwards, Oliver knew he
must have dreamed it.
What else happened he was quite unable to remember
later. He knew Kleph had said some curious things, but they
all made sense at the time, and afterwards he couldn't re-
member a word. He knew he had been offered little glittering
candies in a transparent dish, and that some of them had
been delicious and one or two so bitter his tongue still
curled the next day when he recalled them, and oneKleph
sucked luxuriantly on the same kindof a taste that was
actively nauseating.
As for Kleph herselfhe was frantically uncertain the
next day what had really happened. He thought he could
remember the softness of her white-downed arms clasped at
the back of his neck, while she laughed up at him and
exhaled into his face the flowery fragrance of the tea.
But beyond that he was totally unable to recall anything for
a while.
There was a brief interlude later, before the oblivion of
sleep. He was almost sure he remembered a moment when
the other two Sanciscos stood looking down at him, the man
scowling, the smoky-eyed woman smiling a derisive smile.
The man said, from a vast distance, "Kleph, you know this
is  against  every  rule"  His  voice  began  in  a  thin  hum
and soared in fantastic flight beyond the range of hearing.
Oliver thought he remembered the dark woman's laughter,
thin and distant too, and the hum of her voice like bees
in flight.
"Kleph, Kleph, you silly little fool, can we never trust you
out of sight?"
Kleph's voice then said something that seemed to make
no sense. "What does it matter, here?"
The man answered in that buzzing, faraway hum. "The
matter of giving your bond before you leave, not to inter-
fere. You know you signed the rules"
Kleph's voice, nearer and more intelligible: "But here the
difference is . . . it does not matter here! You both know that.
How could it matter?"
Oliver felt the downy brush of her sleeve against his
cheek, but he saw nothing except the slow, smoke-like ebb
and flow of darkness past his eyes. He heard the voices
wrangle musically from far away, and he heard them cease.
When he woke the next morning, alone in his own room,
he woke with the memory of Kleph's eyes upon him very
sorrowfully, her lovely tanned face looking down on him with
the red hair falling fragrantly on each  side  of  it  and
sadness and compassion in her eyes. He thought he had
probably dreamed that. There was no reason why anyone
should look at him with such sadness.
Sue telephoned that day.
"Oliver, the people who want to buy the house are here.
That madwoman and her husband. Shall I bring them over?"
Oliver's mind all day had been hazy with the vague, be-
wildering memories of yesterday. Kleph's face kept floating
before him, blotting out the room. He said, "What? I...
oh, well, bring them if you want to. I don't see what good
it'll  do."
"Oliver, what's wrong with you? We agreed we needed the
money, didn't we? I don't see how you can think of passing
up such a wonderful bargain without even a struggle. We
could get married and buy our own house right away, and
you know we'll never get such an offer again for that old
trash-heap. Wake up, Oliver!"
Oliver made an effort. "I know. Sue1 know. But"
"Oliver, you've got to think of something!" Her voice was
imperious.
He knew she was right. Kleph or no Kleph, the bargain
shouldn't be .ignored if there was any way at all of getting
the tenants out. He wondered again what made the place so
suddenly priceless to so many people. And what the last week
in May had to do with the value of the house.
A sudden sharp curiosity pierced even the vagueness of hi",
mind today. May's last week was so important that the WhOLL
sale of the house stood or fell upon occupancy by then.
Why? Why?
"What's going to happen next week?" he asked rhetorically
of the telephone. "Why can't they wait till these people
leave? I'd knock a couple of thousand off the price if
they'd"
"You would not, Oliver Wilson! I can buy all our refrigera-
tion units with that extra money. You'll just have to work
out some way to give possession by next week, and that's
that. You hear me?"
"Keep your shirt on," Oliver said practically. "I'm only
human, but I'll try."
"I'm bringing the people over right away," Sue told him.
"While the Sanciscos are still out. Now you put your mind
to work and think of something, Oliv-er." She paused, and her
voice was reflective when she spoke again. "They're. . . aw-
fully odd people, darling."
"Odd?"
"You'll see."
It was  an elderly woman  and  a very young man who
trailed Sue up the walk. Oliver knew immediately what had
struck Sue about them. He was somehow not_at all surprised
to see that both wore their clothing with the familiar air
of elegant self-consciousness he had come to know so well.
They, too, looked around them at the beautiful, sunny after-
noon with conscious enjoyment and an air of faint condescen-
sion. He knew before he heard them speak how musical
their voices would be and how meticulously they would pro-
nounce each word.
There was no doubt about it. The people of Kleph's mys-
terious country were arriving here in forcefor something.
For the last week of May? He shrugged mentally; there
was no way of guessingyet. One thing only was sure: all
of them must come from that nameless land where people
controlled their voices like singers and their garments like
actors who could stop the reel of time itself to adjust every
disordered fold.
The elderly woman took full charge of the conversation
from the start. They stood together on the rickety, unpainted
porch, and Sue had no chance even for introductions.
"Young man, I am Madame Hollia. This is my hus-
band." Her voice had an underninning current of harshness,
which was perhaps age. And her face looked almost corset-
ed, the loose flesh coerced into something like firmness by
some invisible method Oliver could not guess at. The make-
up was so skilful he could not be certain it was make-up
at all, but he had a definite feeling that she was much older
than she looked. It would have taken a lifetime of command
to put so much authority into the harsh, deep, musically
controlled voice.
The young man said nothing. He was very handsome. His
type, apparently, was one that does not change much no
matter in what culture or country it may occur. He wore
beautifully tailored garments and carried in one gloved hand
a box of red leather, about the size and shape of a book.
Madame Hollia went on: "I understand your problem
about the house. You wish to sell to me, but are legally bound
by your lease with Omerie and his friends. Is that right?"
Oliver nodded. "But"
"Let me finish. If Omerie can be forced to vacate before
next week, you will accept our offer. Right? Very well. Hara!"
She nodded to the young man beside her. He jumped to instant
attention, bowed slightly, said, "Yes, Hollia," and slipped a
gloved hand into his coat.
Madame Hollia took the little object offered on his palm,
her gesture as she reached for it almost imperial, as if royal
robes swept from her outstretched arm.
"Here," she said, "is something that may help us. My
dear" She held it out to Sue"if you can hide this
somewhere about the house, I believe your unwelcome ten-
ants will not trouble you much longer."
Sue took the thing curiously. It looked like a tiny silver
box, no more than an inch square, indented at the top and
with no line to show it could be opened.
"Wait a minute," Oliver broke in uneasily. "What is it?"
"Nothing that will harm anyone, I assure you."
"Then what"
Madame HoUia's imperious gesture at one sweep silenced
him and commanded Sue forward. "Go on, my dear. HUrry,
before Omerie comes back. I can assure you there is no dan-
ger to anyone."
Oliver broke in determinedly. "Madame Hollia, I'll have to
know what your plans are. I"
"Oh, Oliver, please!" Sue's fingers closed over the silver
cube. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure Madame Hollia knows
best. Don't you want to get those people out?"
"Of course I do. But I don't want the house blown up
or"
Madame Hollia's deep laughter was indulgent. "Nothing so
crude, I promise you, Mr. Wilson. Remember, we want
the house! Hurry, my dear."
Sue nodded and slipped hastily past Oliver into the hall.
Out-numbered, he subsided uneasily. The young man, Hara,
tapped a negligent foot and admired the sunlight as they
waited. It was an afternoon as perfect as all of May had
been, translucent gold, balmy with an edge of chill lingering
in the air to point up a perfect contrast with the summer to
come. Hara looked around him confidently, like a man pay-
ing just tribute to a stage-set provided wholly for himself.
He even glanced up at a drone from above and followed the
course of a big transcontinental plane half dissolved in
golden haze high in the sun. "Quaint," he murmured in a
gratified voice.
Sue came back and slipped her hand through Oliver's arm,
squeezing excitedly. "There," she said. "How long will it
take, Madame Hollia?"
"That will depend, my dear. Not very long. Now, Mr. Wil-
son, one word with you. You live here also, I understand? For
your own comfort, take my advice and"
Somewhere within the house a door slamiped and a clear
high voice rang wordlessly up a rippling scale. Then there
was the sound of feet on the stairs, and single line of
song, "Come hider, love, to me"
Hara started, almost dropping the red leather box he held.
"Klephi" he said in a whisper. "Or Klia. I know they
both just came on from Canterbury. But I thought"
"Hub." Madame Hollia's features composed themselves
into an imperious blank. She breathed triumphantly through
her nose, drew back upon herself and turned an imposing
fa$ade to the door.
Kleph wore the same softly downy robe Oliver had seen
before, except that today it was not white, but a pale, clear
blue that gave her tan an apricot flush. She was smiling.
"Why, Hollia!" Her tone was at its most musical. "I
thought I recognized voices from home. How nice to see you.
No one knew you were coming to the" She broke off
and glanced at Oliver and then away again. "Hara, too,"
she said. "What a pleasant surprise."
Sue said flatly, "When did you get back?"
Kleph smiled at her. "You must be the little Miss Johnson.
Why, I did not go out at all. I was tired of sightseeing. I
have been napping in my room."
Sue drew in her breath in something that just escaped be-
ing a disbelieving sniff. A look flashed between the two wom-
en, and for an instant heldand that instant was timeless. It
was an extraordinary pause in which a great deal of word-
less interplay took place in the space of a second.
Oliver saw the quality of Kleph's smile at Sue, that same
look of quiet confidence he had noticed so often about all of
these strange people. He saw Sue's quick inventory of the other
woman, and he saw how Sue squared her shoulders and stood
up straight, smoothing down her summer frock over her flat
hips so that for an instant she stood posed consciously, look-
ing down on Kleph. It was deliberate. Bewildered, he glanced
again at Kleph.
Kleph's shoulders sloped softly, her robe was belted to a
tiny waist and hung in deep folds over frankly rounded hips.
Sue's was the fashionable figurebut Sue was the first to
surrender.
Kleph's smile did not falter. But in the silence there was
an abrupt reversal of values, based on no more than the
measureless quality of Kleph's confidence in herself, the
quiet, assured smile. It was suddenly made very clear that
fashion is not a constant. Kleph's curious, out-of-mode curves
without warning became the norm, and Sue was a queer,
angular, half-masculine creature beside her.
Oliver had no idea how it was done. Somehow the authority
passed in a breath from one woman to the other. Beauty is
almost wholly a matter of fashion; what is beautiful today
would have been grotesque a couple of generations ago and
will be grotesque a hundred years ahead. It will be worse
than grotesque; it will be outmoded and therefore faintly
ridiculous.
Sue was that. Kleph had only to exert her authority to
make it clear to everyone on the porch. Kleph was a beauty,
suddenly and very convincingly, beautiful in the accepted
mode, and Sue was amusingly old-fashioned, an anachronism
in her lithe, square-shouldered slimness. She did not belong.
She was grotesque among these strangely immaculate people.
Sue's collapse was complete. But pride sustained her, and
bewilderment. Probably she never did grasp entirely what
was wrong. She gave Kleph one glance of burning resentment
and when her eyes came back to Oliver there was suspicion
in them, and mistrust.
Looking backward later, Oliver thought that in that mo-
ment, for the first time clearly, he began to suspect the
truth. But he had no time to ponder it, for after the brief
instant of enmity the three people fromelsewherebegan
to speak all at once, as if in a belated attempt to cover
something they did not want noticed.
Kleph said, "This beautiful weather" and Madame
HoUia said. "So fortunate to have this house" and Hara,
holding up the red leather box, said loudest of all, "Cenbe
sent you. this, Kleph. His latest."
Kleph put out both hands for it eagerly, the eiderdown
sleeves falling back from her rounded arms. Oliver had a
quick glimpse of that mysterious scar before the sleeve fell
back, and it seemed to him that there was the faintest trace
of a similar scar vanishing into Hara's cuff as he let his
own arm drop.
"Cenbe!" Kleph cried, her voice high and sweet and de-
lighted. "How wonderful! What period?"
"From November 1664," Hara said. "London, of course,
though I think there may be some counterpoint from the
1347 November. He hasn't finishedof course." He glanced
almost nervously at Oliver and Sue. "A wonderful example," he
said quickly. "Marvellous. If you have the .taste for it, of
course."
Madame Hollia shuddered with ponderous delicacy. "That
man!" she said. "Fascinating, of coursea great man. But
so advanced!"
"It takes a connoisseur to appreciate Cenbe's work fully,"
Kleph said in a slightly tart voice, "We all admit that."
"Oh yes, we all bow to Cenbe," Hollia conceded. "I con-
fess the man terrifies me a little, my dear. Do we expect
him to join us?"
"I suppose so," Kleph said. "If hisworkis not yet fin-
ished, then of course. You know Cenbe's tastes."
Hollia and Hara laughed together. "I know when to look
for him, then," Hollia said. She glanced at the staring Oliver
and the subdued but angry Sue, and with a commanding ef-
fort brought the subject back into line.
"So fortunate, my dear Kleph, to have this house," she
declared heavily. "I saw a tridimensional of itafterwards
and it was still quite perfect. Such a fortunate coincidence.
Would you consider parting with your lease, for a considera-
tion? Say, a coronation seat at"
"Nothing could buy us, Hollia," Kleph told her gaily,
clasping the red box to her bosom.
Hollia gave her a cool stare. "You may change your mind,
my dear Kleph," she said pontifically. "There is still time.
You can always reach us through Mr. Wilson here. We have
rooms up the street in the Montgomery Housenothing like
yours, of course, but they will do. For us, they will do."
Oliver biinked. The Montgomery House was the most ex-
pensive hotel in town. Compared to this collapsing old ruin,
it was  a palace.  There  was  no understanding these  people.
Their values seemed to have suffered a complete reversal.
Madame Hollia moved majestically towards the steps.
"Very pleasant to see you, my dear," she said over one
well-padded shoulder.  "Enjoy your stay.  My regards to
Omerie and Klia. Mr. Wilson" she nodded towards the
walk. "A word with you."
Oliver followed her down towards the street. Madame Hol-
lia paused half-way there and touched his  arm.
"One word of advice," she said huskily. "You say you sleep
here? Move out, young man. Move out before tonight."
Oliver was searching in a half-desultory fashion for the hid-
ing place Sue had found for the mysterious silver cube, when
the first sounds from above began to drift down the stairwell
towards him. Kleph had closed her door, but the house was
old, and strange qualities in the noise overhead seemed to
seep through the woodwork like an almost visible stain.
It was music, in a way. But much more than music. And it
was a terrible sound, the sounds of calamity and of all hu-
man reaction to calamity, everything from hysteria to heart-
break, from irrational joy to rationalized acceptance.
The calamity wassingle. The music did not attempt to
correlate all human sorrows; it focused sharply upon one and
followed the ramifications out and out. Oliver recognized
these basics to the sounds in a very brief moment. They were
essentials, and they seemed to beat into his brain with the
first strains of the music which was so much more than mu-
sic.
But when he lifted his head to listen he lost all grasp upon
the meaning of the noise and it was slieer medley and confu-
sion. To think of it was to blur it hopelessly in the mind, and
he could not recapture that first instant of unreasoning ac-
ceptance.
He went upstairs almost in a daze, hardly knowing what
he was doing. He pushed Kleph's door open. He looked in-
side
What he saw there he could not afterwards remember ex-
cept in a blurring as vague as the blurred ideas the music
roused in his brain. Half the room had vanished behind a
mist, and the mist was a three-dimensional screen upon which
were projectedHe had no words for them. He was not
even sure if the projections were visual. The mist was spin-
ning with motion and sound, but essentially it was neither
sound nor motion that Oliver saw.
This was a work of art. Oliver knew no name for it. It
transcended all art-forms he knew, blended them, and out of
the blend produced subtleties his mind could not begin to
grasp. Basically, this was the attempt of a master composer to
correlate every essential aspect of a vast human experience
into something that could be conveyed in a few moments to
every sense at once.
The shifting visions on the screen were not pictures in
themselves, but hints of pictures, subtly selected outlines that
plucked at the mind and with one deft touch set whole
chords ringing through the memory. Perhaps each beholder
reacted differently, since it was in the eye and the mind of
the beholder that the truth of the picture lay. No two would
be aware of the same symphonic panorama, but each would
see essentially the same terrible story unfold.
Every sense was touched by that deft and merciless genius.
Colour and shape and motion flickered in the screen, hint-
ing much, evoking unbearable memories deep in the mind;
odours floated from the screen and touched the heart of the
beholder more poignantly than anything visual could do. The
skin scrawled sometimes as if to a tangible cold hand laid
upon it. The tongue curled with remembered bitterness and
remembered sweet.
It was outrageous. It violated the innermost privacies of a
man's mind, called up secret things long ago walled off be-
hind mental scar tissue, forced its terrible message upon the
beholder relentlessly though the mind might threaten to
crack beneath the stress of it.
And yet, in spite of all this vivid awareness, Oliver did not
know what calamity the screen portrayed. That it was real,
vast, overwhelmingly dreadful he could not doubt. That it
had once happened was unmistakable. He caught flashing
glimpses of human faces distorted with grief and disease and
deathreal faces, faces that had once lived and were seen
now in the instant of dying. He saw men and women in rich
clothing superimposed in panorama upon reeling thousands of
ragged folk, great throngs of them swept past the sight in an
instant, and he saw that death made no distinction among
them.
He saw lovely women laugh and shake their curls, and the
laughter shriek into hysteria and the hysteria into music. He
saw one man's face, over and overa long, dark saturnine
face, deeply lined, sorrowful, the face of a powerful man
wise in worldliness, urbaneand helpless. That face was for
a while a recurring motif, always more tortured, more help-
less than before.
The music broke off in the midst of a rising glide. The
mist vanished and the room reappeared before him. The an-
guished dark face for an instant seemed to Oliver printed
everywhere he looked, like after-vision on the eyelids. He
knew that face. He had seen it before, not often, but he
should know its name
"Oliver, Oliver" Kleph's sweet voice came out of a
fog at him. He was leaning dizzily against the doorpost look-
ing down into her eyes. She, too, had that dazed blankness
he must show on his own face. The power of the dreadful
symphony still held them both. But even in this confused
moment Oliver saw that Kleph had been enjoying the ex-
perience.
He felt sickened to the depths of his mind, dizzy with sick-
ness and revulsion because of the superimposing of human
miseries he had just beheld. But Klephonly appreciation
showed upon her face. To her it had been magnificence, and
magnificence only.
Irrelevantly Oliver remembered the nauseating candies she
had enjoyed, the nauseating odours of strange food that drift-
ed sometimes through the hall from her room.
What was it she had said downstairs a little while ago?
Connoisseur, that was it. Only a connoisseur could appreciate
work asas advancedas the work of someone called Cen-
be.
A whiff of intoxicating sweetness curled past Oliver's face.
Something cool and smooth was pressed into his hand.
"Oh, Oliver, I am so sorry," Kleph's voice murmured con-
tritely. "Here, drink the euphoriac and you will feel better.
Please drink!"
The familiar fragrance of the hot sweet tea was on his
tongue before he knew he had complied. Its relaxing fumes
floated up through his brain and in a moment or two the
world felt stable around him again. The room was as it had
always been. And Kleph
Her eyes were very bright. Sympathy showed in them for
him, but for herself she was still brimmed with the high ela-
tion of what she had just been experiencing.
"Come and sit down," she said gently, tugging at his arm.
"I am so sorry1 should not have played that over, where you
could hear it. I have no excuse, really. It was only that I for-
got what the effect might be on one who had never heard
Cenbe's symphonies before. I was so impatient to see what he
had done with. . . with his new subject. I am so very sorry,
Oliver!"
"What was it?" His voice sounded steadier than he had
expected. The tea was responsible for that. He sipped again,
glad of the consoling euphoria its fragrance brought.
"A. . . a composite interpretation of. .. oh, Oliver, you
know I must not answer questions!"
"But"
"Nodrink your tea and forget what it was you saw.
Think of other things. Here, we will have musicanother
kind of music, something gay"
She reached for the wall beside the window, and as before,
Oliver saw the broad framed picture of blue water above the
bed ripple and grow pale. Through it another scene began to
dawn like shapes rising beneath the surface of the sea.
He had a glimpse of a dark-curtained stage upon which a
man in a tight dark tunic and hose moved with a restless,
sidelong pace, his hands and face startlingly pale against the
black about him. He limped; he had a crooked back and he
spoke familiar lines. Oliver had seen John Barrymore once
as the crook-backed Richard, and it seemed vaguely out-
rageous to him that any other actor should essay that diffi-
cult part. This one he had never seen before, but the man
had a fascinatingly smooth manner and his interpretation of
the Plantagenet king was quite new and something Shake-
speare probably never dreamed of.
"No," Kleph said, "not this. Nothing gloomy." And she
put out her hand again. The nameless new Richard faded
and there was a swirl of changing pictures and changing
voices, all blurred together, before the scene steadied upon a
stageful of dancers in pastel ballet skirts, drifting effortlessly
through some complicated pattern .of motion. The music that
went with it was light and effortless too. The room filled up
with the clear, floating melody.
Oliver set down his cup. He felt much surer of himself
now, and he thought the euphoriac had done all it could for
him. He didn't want to blur again mentally. There were things
he meant to learn about. Now. He considered how to begin.
Kleph was watching him. "That HoUia," she said sudden-
ly. "She wants to buy the house?"
Oliver nodded. "She's offering a lot of money. Sue's going
to be awfully disappointed if" He hesitated. Perhaps,
after all. Sue would not be disappointed. He remembered the
little silver cube with the enigmatic function and he wondered
if he should mention it to Kleph. But the euphoriac had not
reached that level of his brain, and he remembered his duty
to Sue and was silent.
Kleph shook her head, her eyes upon his warm with
was it sympathy?
"Believe me," she said, "you will not find thatimportant
after all. I promise you, Oliver."
He stared at her. "I wish you'd explain."
Kleph laughed on a note more sorrowful than amused. But
it occurred to Oliver suddenly that there was no longer con-
descension in her voice. Imperceptibly that air of delicate
amusement had vanished from her manner towards him. The
cool detachment that still marked Omerie's attitude,  and
Klia's, was not in Kleph's any more. It was a subtlety he
did not think she could assume. It had to come spontaneously
or not at all. And for no reason he was willing to examine,
it  became  suddenly  very  important  to  Oliver  that  Kleph
should not condescend to him, that she should feel towards him
as he felt towards her. He would not think of it.
He looked down at his cup, rose-quartz, exhaling a thin
plume of steam from its crescent-slit opening. This time, he
thought, maybe he could make the tea work for him. For he
remembered how it loosened the tongue, and there was a
great deal he needed to know. The idea that had come to
him on the porch m the instant of silent rivalry between
Kleph and Sue seemed not too fantastic to entertain. But
some answer there must be.
Kleph herself gave him the opening.
"I must not take too much euphoriac this afternoon," she
said, smiling at him over her pink cup. "It will make me
drowsy, and we are going out this evening with friends."
"More friends?" Oliver asked. "From your country?"
Kelph nodded. "Very dear friends we have expected all
this week."
"I wish you'd tell me," Oliver said bluntly, "where it is
you come from. It isn't from here. Your culture is too differ-
ent from ourseven your names" He broke off as
Kleph shook her head.
"I wish I could tell you. But that is against all the rules. It
is even against the rules for me to be here talking to you
now."
She made a helpless gesture. "You must not ask me, Oli-
ver." She leaned back on the chaise-longue, which adjusted
itself luxuriously to the motion, and smiled very sweetly at
him. "We must not talk about things like that. Forget it, listen
to the music, enjoy yourself if you can" She closed her
eyes and laid her head back against the cushions. Oliver
saw the round tanned throat swell as she began to hum a
tune. Eyes still closed, she sang again the words she had
sung upon the stairs. "Come hider, love, to me"
A memory clicked over suddenly in Oliver's mind. He had
never heard the queer, lagging tune before, but he thought
he knew the words. He remembered what Hollia's husband
had said when he heard that line of song, and he leaned for-
ward. She would not answer a direct question, but per-
haps
"Was the weather this warm in Canterbury?" he asked,
and held his breath. Kleph hummed another line of the
song and shook her head, eyes still closed.
"It was autumn there," she said. "But bright, wonderfully
bright. Even their clothing, you know. . . everyone was sing-
ing that new song, and I can't get it out of my head." She
sang another line, and the words were almost unintelligible
English, yet not an English Oliver could understand.
He stood up. "Wait," he said. "I want to find something.
Back in a minute."
She opened her eyes and smiled mistily at him, still
humming. He went downstairs as fast as he couldthe stair-
way swayed a little, though his head was nearly clear now
and into the library. The book he wanted was old and bat-
tered, interlined with the pencilled notes of his college days.
He did not remember very clearly where the passage he want-
ed was, but he thumbed fast through the columns and by
sheer luck found it within a few minutes. Then he went
back upstairs, feeling a strange emptiness in his stomach be-
cause of what he almost believed now.
"Kleph," he said firmly, "I know that song. I know the
year it was new."
Her lids rose slowly; she looked at him through a mist of
euphoriac. He was not sure she had understood. For a long
moment she held him with her gaze. Then she put out one
downy-sleeved arm and spread her tanned fingers towards
. him. She laughed deep in her throat.
"Come hider, love, to me," she said.
He crossed the room slowly, took her hand. The fingers
closed warmly about his. She pulled him down so that he
had to kneel beside her. Her other arm lifted. Again she
laughed, very softly, and closed her eyes, lifting her face to
his.
The kiss was warm and long. He caught something of her
own euphoria from the fragrance of the tea breathed into his
face. And he was startled at the end of the kiss, when the
clasp of her arms loosened about his neck, to feel the sudden
rush of her breath against his cheek. There were tears on her
face, and the sound she made was a sob.
He held her off and looked down in amazement. She
sobbed once more, caught a deep breath, and said, "Oh,
Oliver, Oliver" Then she shook her head and pulled
free, turning away to hide her face. "I.. . I am sorry," she
said unevenly. "Please forgive me. It does not matter... I
know it does not matter . . . but"
"What's wrong? What doesn't matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing . . . please forget it. Nothing at all." She
got a handkerchief from the table and blew her nose, smiling
at him with an effect of radiance through the tears.
Suddenly he was very angry. He had heard enough eva-
sions and mystifying half-truths. He said roughly, "Do you
think I'm crazy? I know enough now to"
"Oliver, please!" She held up her own cup, steaming fra-
grantly. "Please, no more questions. Here, euphoria is what
you need, Oliver. Euphoria, not answers."
"What year was it when you heard that song in Canter-
bury?" he demanded, pushing the cup aside.
She biinked at him, tears bright on her lashes. "Why...
what year do you think?"
"I know," Oliver told her grimly. "I know the year that
song was popular. I know you just came from Canterbury
HoUia's husband said so. It's May now, but it was autumn in
Canterbury, and you just came from there, so lately the song
you heard is still running through your head. Chaucer's
Pardoner sang that song some time around the end of the
fourteenth century. Did you see Chaucer, Kleph? What was
it like in England that long ago?"
Kleph's eye fixed his for a silent moment. Then her shoul-
ders drooped and her whole body went limp with resignation
beneath the soft blue robe. "I am a fool," she said gently.
"It must have been easy to trap me. You really believe
what you say?"
Oliver nodded.
She said in a low voice. "Few people do believe it. That is
one of our maxims, when we travel. We are safe from much
suspicion because people before The Travel began will not
believe."
The emptiness in Oliver's stomach suddenly doubled in vol-
ume. For an instant the bottom dropped out of time itself and
the universe was unsteady about him. He felt sick. He felt
naked and helpless. There was a buzzing in his ears and the
room dimmed before him.
He had not really believednot until this instant. He had
expected some rational explanation from her that would tidy
all his wild half-thoughts and suspicions into something a man
could accept as believable. Not this.
Kleph dabbed at her eyes with the pale-blue handkerchief
and smiled tremulously.
"I know," she said. "It must be a terrible thing to accept.
To have all your concepts turned upside downWe
know it from childhood, of course, but for you. . . here, Oliv-
er. The euphoriac will make it easier."
He took the cup, the faint stain of her lip rouge still on the
crescent opening. He drank, feeling the dizzy sweetness spiral
through his head, and his brain turned a little in his skull as
the volatile fragrance took effect. With that turning, focus
shifted and all his values with it.
He began to feel better. The flesh settled on his bones
again, and the warm clothing of temporal assurance settled
upon his flesh, and he was no longer naked and in the
vortex of unstable time.
"The story is very simple, really," Kleph said. "Weta-av-
el. Our own time is not terribly far ahead of yours. No. I
must not say how far. But we still remember your songs and
poets and some of your great actors. We are a people of
much leisure, and we cultivate the art of enjoying ourselves.
"This is a tour we are makinga tour of a year's seasons.
Vintage seasons. That autumn in Canterbury was the most
magnificent autumn our researchers could discover anywhere.
We rode in a pilgrimage to the shrineit was a wonderful
experience, though the clothing was a little hard to manage.
"Now this month of May is almost overthe loveliest
May in recorded times. A perfect May in a wonderful period.
You have no way of knowing what a good, gay period you
live in, Oliver. The very feeling in the air of the cities
that wonderful national confidence and happinesseverything
going as smoothly as a dream. There were other Mays with
fine weather, but each of them had a war or a famine, or
something else wrong." She hesitated, grimaced and went on
rapidly. "In a few days we are to meet at a coronation in
Rome," she said. "I think the year will be 800Christmas-
time. We"
"But why," Oliver interrupted, "did you insist on this
house? Why do the others want to get it away from you?"
Kleph stared at him. He saw the tears rising again in
small bright crescents that gathered above her lower lids. He
saw the look of obstinacy that came upon her soft, tanned
face. She shook her head.
"You must not ask me that." She held out the steaming
cup. "Here, drink and forget what I have said. I can tell you
no more. No more at all."
When he woke, for a little while he had no idea where he
was. He did not remember leaving Kleph or coming to his
own room. He didn't care, just then. For he woke to a sense of
overwhelming terror.
The dark was full of it. His brain rocked on waves of fear
and pain. He lay motionless, too frightened to stir, some ata-
vistic memory warning him to lie quiet until he knew from
which direction the danger threatened. Reasonless panic
broke over him in a tidal flow; his head ached with its vio-
lence and the dark throbbed to the same rhythms.
A knock sounded at the door. Omerie's deep voice said,
"Wilson! Wilson, are you awake?"
Oliver tried twice before he had breath to answer. "Y-yes
what is it?"
The knob rattled. Omerie's dim figure groped for the light
switch and the room sprang into visibility. Omerie's face was
drawn with strain, and he held one hand to his head as
if it ached in rhythm with Oliver's.
It was in that moment, before Omerie spoke again, that
Oliver remembered Hollia's warning. "Move out, young man
move out before tonight." Wildly he wondered what threat-
ened them all in this dark house that throbbed with the
rhythms of pure terror.
Omerie in an angry voice answered the unspoken question.
"Someone has planted a subsonic in the house, Wilson.
Kleph thinks you may know where it is."
"S-subsonic?"
"Call it a gadget," Omerie interpreted impatiently. "Prob-
ably a small metal box that"
Oliver said, "Oh," in a tone that must have told Omerie
everything.
"Where is it?" he demanded. "Quick. Let's get this over."
"I don't know." With an effort Oliver controlled the chat-
tering of his teeth. "Y-you mean all thisall this is just
from the little box?"
"Of course. Now tell me how to find it before we all go
crazy."
Oliver got shakily out of bed, groping for his robe with
nerveless hands. "I s-suppose she hid it somewhere down-
stairs," he said. "S-she wasn't gone long."
Omerie got the story out of him in a few brief questions.
He clicked his teeth in exasperation when .Oliver had fin-
ished it.
"That stupid Hollia"
"Omerie!" Kleph's plaintive voice wailed from the hall.
"Please hurry, Omerie! This is too much to stand! Oh,
Omerie, please!"
Oliver stood up abruptly. Then a redoubled wave of the in-
explicable pain seemed to explode in his skull at the motion,
and he clutched the bedpost and reeled.
"Go find the thing yourself," he heard himself saying diz-
zily. "I can't even walk"
Omerie's own temper was drawn wire-tight by the pres-
sure in the room. He seized Oliver's shoulder and shook him,
saying in a tight voice, "You let it innow help us get it
out, or"
"It's a gadget out of your world, not mine!" Oliver said
furiously.
And then it seemed to him there was a sudden coldness
and silence in the room. Even the pain and the senseless ter-
ror paused for a moment. Omerie's pale, cold eyes fixed
upon Oliver a stare so chill he could almost feel the ice
in it.
"What do you know about ourworld?" Omerie demand-
ed.
Oliver did not speak a word. He did not need to; his face
must have betrayed what he knew. He was beyond conceal-
ment in the stress of night-time terror he still could not un-
derstand.
Omerie bared his white teeth and said three perfectly un-
intelligible words. Then he stepped to the door and snapped,
"Kleph!"
Oliver could see the two women huddled together in the
hall, shaking violently with involuntary waves of that strange,
synthetic terror. Klia, in a luminous green gown, was rigid
with control, but Kleph made no effort whatever at repres-
sion. Her downy robe had turned soft gold tonight; she shiv-
ered in it and the tears ran down her face unchecked.
"Kleph," Omerie said in a dangerous voice, "you were eu-
phoric again yesterday?"
Kleph darted a scared glance at Oliver and nodded guilt-
ily.
"You talked too much." It was a complete indictment in
one sentence. "You know the rules, Kleph. You will not
be allowed to travel again if anyone reports this to the au-
thorities."
Kleph's lovely creamy face creased suddenly into impeni-
tent dimples.
"I know it was wrong. I am very sorrybut you will not
stop me if Cenbe says no."
Klia flung out her arms in a gesture of helpless anger.
Omerie shrugged. "In this case, as it happens, no great harm
is  done,"  he  said,  giving  Oliver  an  unfathomable  glance.
"But it might have been serious. Next time perhaps it will
be. I must have a talk with Cenbe."
"We must find the subsonic first of all," Klia reminded
them, shivering. "If Kleph is afraid to help, she can go out
for a while. I confess I am very sick of Kleph's company
just now."
"We could give up the house!" Kleph cried wildly. "Let
HoUia have it! How can you stand this long enough to
bunt"
"Give up the house?" Klia echoed. "You must he mad!
With all our invitations out?"
"There will be no need for that," Omerie said. "We can
find it if we all hunt. You feel able to help?" He looked at
Oliver.
With an effort Oliver controlled his own senseless panic as
the waves of it swept through the room. "Yes," he said. "But
what about me? What are you going to do?"
"That should be obvious," Omerie said, bis pale eyes in the
dark face regarding Oliver impassively. "Keep you in the
house until we go. We can certainly do no less. You under-
stand that. And there is no reason for us to do more, as it
happens. Silence is all we promised when we signed our trav-
el papers."
"But" Oliver groped for the fallacy in that reasoning.
It was no use. He could not think clearly. Panic surged in-
sanely through his mind from the very air around him. "All
right," he said. "Let's hunt."
It was dawn before they found the box, tucked inside the
ripped seam of a sofa cushion. Omerie took it upstairs without
a word. Five minutes later the pressure in the air abruptly
dropped and peace fell blissfully upon the house.
"They will try again," Omerie said to Oliver at the door of
the back bedroom. "We must watch for that. As for you, I
must see that you remain in the house until Friday. For your
own comfort, I advise you to let me know if Hollia offers
any further tricks. I confess I am not quite sure how to
enforce your staying indoors. I could use methods that would
make you very uncomfortable. I would prefer to accept your
word on it."
Oliver hesitated. The relaxing of pressure upon his brain
had left him exhausted and .'.stupid, and he was' not at all
sure what to say.           sai
Omerie went on after a moment. "It was partly our fault
for not ensuring that we had the house to ourselves," he
said. "Living here with us, you could scarcely help suspect-
ing. Shall we say that in return for your promise, I reimburse
you in part for losing the sale price on this house?"
Oliver thought that over. It would pacify Sue a little. And
it meant only two days indoors. Besides, what good would
escaping do? What could he say to outsiders that would not
lead him straight to a padded cell?
"All right." he said wearily. "I promise."
By Friday morning there was still no sign from Hollia. Sue
telephoned at noon. Oliver knew the crackle of her voice
over the wire when Kleph took the call. Even the crackle
sounded hysterical; Sue saw her bargain slipping hopelessly
through her grasping little fingers.
Kleph's voice was soothing. "I am sorry," she said many
times, in the intervals when the voice paused. "I am truly
sorry. Believe me, you will find it does not matter. I know.
I am sorry"  .
She turned from the phone at last. "The girl says Hollia
has given up," she told the others.
"Not Hollia," Klia said firmly.
Omerie shrugged. "We have very little time left. If she
intends anything more, it will be tonight. We must watch
for it."
"Oh, not tonight!" Kleph's voice was horrified. "Not even
Hollia would do that."
"Hollia, my dear, in her own way is quite as unscrupulous
as you are," Omerie told her with a smile.
"Butwould she spoil things for us just because she can't
be here?"
"What do you think?" Klia demanded.
Oliver ceased to listen. There was no making sense out
of their talk, but he knew that by tonight whatever the secret
was must surely come into the open at last. He was willing to
wait and see.
For two days excitement had been building up in the
house and the three who shared it with him. Even the
servants felt it and were nervous and unsure of themselves.
Oliver had given up asking questionsit only embarrassed
his tenantsand watched.
.~aaa -lairs in the house werb--collected in the three front
b~c~fhtbe tq'he furniture was Aarranged to make room for
them, and dozens of covered cups had been set out on trays.
Oliver recognized Kleph's rose-quartz set among the rest. No
steam rose from the thin crescent-openings, but the cups were
full. Oliver lifted one and felt a heavy liquid move within
it,  like  something  half-solid,  sluggishly.
Guests were obviously expected, but the regular dinner
hour of nine came and went, and no one had yet arrived.
Dinner was finished; the servants went home. The Sanciscos
went to their rooms to dress, amid a feeling of mounting
tension.
Oliver stepped out on the porch after dinner, trying in vain
to guess what it was that had wrought such a pitch of ex-
pectancy in the house. There was a quarter moon swimming
in haze on the horizon, but the stars which had made every
night of May thus far a dazzling translucency were very dim
tonight. Clouds had begun to gather at sundown, and the
undimmed weather of the whole month seemed ready to
break at last.
Behind Oliver the door opened a little, and closed. He
caught Kleph's fragrance before he turned, and a faint whifl
of the fragrance of the euphoriac she was much too fond of
drinking. She came to his side and slipped a hand into his,
looking up into his face in the darkness.
"Oliver," she said very softly. "Promise me one thing.
Promise me not to leave the house tonight."
"I've already promised that," he said a little irritably.
"I know. But tonight1 have a very particular reason for
wanting you indoors tonight." She leaned her head against his
shoulder for a moment, and despite himself his irritation
softened. He had not seen Kleph alone since that last night
of her revelations; he supposed he never would be alone with
her again for more than a few minutes at a time. But he
knew he would not forget those two bewildering evenings.
He knew too, now, that she was very weak and foolish
but she was still Kleph and he had held her in his arms,
and was not likely ever to forget it.
"You might behurtif you went out tonight," she was
saying in a muffled voice. "I know it will not matter, in the
end, butremember you promised, Oliver."
She was gone again, and the door had closed behind her,
before he could voice the futile questions in his mind.
The guests began to arrive just before midnight. From the
head of the stairs Oliver saw them coming in by twos and
threes, and was astonished at how many of these people from
the future must have gathered here in the past weeks. He
could see quite clearly now how they differed from the
norm in his own period. Their physical elegance was what
one noticed firstperfect grooming, meticulous manners, me-
ticulously controlled voices. But because they were all idle,
all, in a way, sensatioa-hunters, there was a certain shrillness
underlying their voices, especially when heard all together.
Petulance and self-indulgence showed beneath the good man-
ners. And tonight, an all-pervasive excitement.
By one o'clock everyone had gathered in the front rooms.
The teacups had begun to steam, apparently of themselves,
around midnight, and the house was full of the faint, thin
fragrance that induced a sort of euphoria all through the
rooms, breathed in with the perfume of the tea.
It made Oliver feel light and drowsy. He was determined
to sit up as long as the others did, but he must have dozed
off in his own room, by the window, an unopened book in
his lap.
For when it happened he was not sure for a few minutes
whether or not it was a dream.
The vast, incredible crash was louder than sound. He
felt the whole house shake under him, felt rather than heard
the timbers grind upon one another like broken bones, while
he was still in the borderland of sleep. When he woke fully
he was on the floor among the shattered fragments of the
window.
How long or short a time he had lain there he did not
know. The world was still stunned with that tremendous
noise, or his ears still deaf from it, for there was no sound
anywhere.    **
He was half-way down the hall towards the front rooms
when sound began to return from outside. It was a low, in-
describable rumble at first, prickled with countless tiny dis-
tant screams. Oliver's eardrums ached from the terrible impact
of the vast unheard noise, but the numbness was wearing
off and he heard before he saw it the first voices of the
stricken city.
The door to Kleph's room resisted him for a moment. The
house had settled a little from the violence of thethe explo-
sion?and the frame was out of line. When he got the door
open he could only stand blinking stupidly into the darkness
within. All the lights were out, but there was a breathless
sort of whispering going on in many voices.
The chairs were drawn around the broad front windows so
that everyone could see out; the air swam with tHe fragrance
of euphoria. There was light enough here from outside for
Oliver to see that a few onlookers still had their hands to
their ears, but all were craning eagerly forward to see.
Through a dream-like haze Oliver saw the city spread out
with impossible distinctness below the window. He knew
quite well that a row of houses across the street blocked the
viewyet he was looking over the city now, and he could
see it in a limitless panorama from here to the horizon. The
houses between had vanished.
On the far skyline fire was already a solid mass, painting
the low clouds crimson. That sulphurous light reflecting back
from the sky upon the city made clear the rows upon rows
of flattened houses with flame beginning to lick up among
them, and farther out the formless rubble of what had been
houses a few minutes ago and was now nothing at all.
The city had begun to be vocal. The noise of the flames
rose loudest, but you could hear a rumble of human voices
like the beat of surf a long way off, and staccato noises of
screaming made a sort of pattern that came and went con-
tinuously through the web of sound. Threading it in undulat-
ing waves the shrieks of sirens knit the web together into
a terrible symphony that had, in its way, a strange, inhuman
beauty.
Briefly through Oliver's stunned incredulity went the memory
of that other symphony Kleph had played here one day,
another catastrophe retold in terms of music and moving
shapes.
He said hoarsely: "Kleph"
The tableau by the window broke. Every head turned, and
Oliver saw the faces of strangers staring at him, some few in
embarrassment avoiding his eyes, but most seeking them
out with that avid, inhuman curiosity which is common to
a type in all crowds at accident scenes. But these people
were here by design, audience at a vast disaster timed almost
for their coming.
Kleph got up unsteadily, her velvet dinner gown tripping
her as she rose. She set down a cup and swayed a little as
she came towards the door, saying, "Oliver . . . Oliver"
in a sweet, uncertain voice. She was drunk, he saw, and
wrought up by the catastrophe to a pitch of stimulation in
which she was not very sure what she was doing.
Oliver heard himself saying in a thin voice not his own,
"W-what was it, Kleph? What happened? What" But hap-
pened seemed so inadequate a word for the incredible pano-
rama below that he had to choke back hysterical laughter
upon the struggling questions, and broke off entirely, trying
to control the shaking that had seized his body.
Kleph made an unsteady stoop and seized a steaming cup.
She came to him, swaying, holding it outher panacea for all
ills.
"Here, drink it, Oliverwe are all quite safe here, quite
safe." She thrust the cup to his lips and he gulped auto-
matically, grateful for the fumes that began their slow, coil-
ing surcease in his brain with the first swallow.
"It was a meteor," Kleph was saying. "Quite a small me-
teor, really. We are perfectly safe here. This house was never
touched."
Out of some cell of the unconscious Oliver heard him-
self saying incoherently, "Sue? Is Sue" he could not fin-
ish.
Kleph thrust the cup at him again. "I think she may be
safefor a while. Please, Oliverforget about all that and
drink."
"But you knew!" Realization of that came belatedly to his
stunned brain. "You could have given warning, or"
"How could we change the past?" Kleph asked. "We knew
but could we stop the meteor? Or warn the city? Before
we come we must give our word never to interfere"
Their voices had risen imperceptibly to be audible above
the rising volume of sound from below. The city was roar-
ing now, with flames and cries and the crash of falling build-
ings. Light in the room turned lurid and pulsed upon the
walls and ceiling in red light and redder dark.
Downstairs a door slammed. Someone laughed. It was high,
hoarse, angry laughter. Then from the crowd in the room
someone gasped and there was a chorus of dismayed cries.
Oliver tried to focus upon the window and the terrible pano-
rama beyond, and found he could not.
It took several seconds  of determined blinking to prove
that more than his own vision was at fault. Kleph whimpered
softly and moved against him. His arms closed about her
automatically, and he was grateful for the warm, solid flesh
against him. This much at least he could touch and be sure
of, though everything else that was happening might be a
dream. Her perfume and the heady perfume of the tea rose
together in his head, and for an instant, holding her in this
embrace that must certainly be the last time he ever held
her, he did not care that something had gone terribly wrong
with the very air of the room.
It was blindnessnot continuous,  but  a series  of swift,
widening ripples between which he could catch glimpses of
the other faces in the room, strained and astonished in the
flickering light from the city.
The ripples came faster. There was only a blink of sight
between them now, and the blinks grew briefer and briefer,
the intervals of darkness more broad.
From downstairs the laughter rose again up the stairwell.
Oliver thought he knew the voice. He opened his mouth to
speak, but a door nearby slammed open before he could find
his tongue, and Omerie shouted down the stairs.
"HoUia?" he roared above the roaring of the city. "Hol-
lia,  is that you?"
She laughed again, triumphantly. "I warned you!" her
hoarse, harsh voice called. "Now come out in the street
with the rest of us if you want to see any more!"
"HoUia!" Omerie shouted desperately. "Stop this or"
The laughter was derisive. "What will you do, Omerie?
This time I hid it too wellcome down in the street if you
want to watch the rest."
There was angry silence in the house. Oliver could feel
Kleph's quick, excited breathing light upon his cheek, feel the
soft motions of her body in his arms. He tried consciously
to make the moment last, stretch it out to infinity. Everything
had happened too swiftly to impress very clearly on his
mind anything except what he could touch and hold. He
held her in an embrace made consciously light, though he
wanted to clasp her in a tight, despairing grip, because
he was sure this was the last embrace they would ever share.
The eye-straining blinks of light and blindness went on.
From far away below the roar of the burning city rolled on,
threaded together by the long, looped cadences of the sirens
that linked all sounds into one.
Then in the bewildering dark another voice sounded from
the hall downstairs. A man's voice, very deep, very melodious,
saying:
"What is this? What are you doing here? Holliais that
you?"
Oliver felt Kleph stiffen in his arms. She caught her breath,
but she said nothing in the instant while heavy feet began to
mount the stairs, coming up with a solid, confident tread that
shook the old house to each step.
Then Kleph thrust herself hard out of Oliver's arms. He
heard her high, sweet, excited voice crying, "Cenbe! Cenbe!"
and she ran to meet the newcomer through the waves of dark
and light that swept the shaken house.
Oliver staggered a little and felt a chair seat catching the
back of his legs. He sank into it and lifted to his lips the
cup he still held. Its steam was warm and moist in his face,
though he could scarcely make out the shape of the rim.
He lifted it with both hands and drank.
When he opened his eyes it was quite dark in the room.
Also it was silent except for a thin, melodious humming al-
most below the threshold of sound. Oliver struggled with the
memory of a monstrous nightmare. He put it resolutely out of
his mind and sat up, feeling an unfamiliar bed creak and
sway under him.
This was Kleph's room. But noKleph's no longer. Her
shining hangings were gone from the walls, her white resilient
rug, her pictures. The room looked as it had looked before
she came, except for one thing.
In the far corner was a tablea block of translucent stuff
out of which light poured softly. A man sat on a
low stool before it, leaning forward, his heavy shoulders
outlined against the glow. He wore earphones and he was
making quick, erratic notes upon a pad on his knee, swaying
a little as if to the tune of unheard music.
The curtains were drawn, but from beyond them came a
distant, muffled roaring that Oliver remembered from his night-
mare. He put a hand to his face, aware of a feverish
warmth and a dipping of the room before his eyes. His
head ached, and there was a deep malaise in every limb
and nerve.
As the bed creaked, the man in the corner turned, sliding
the earphones down like a collar. He had a strong, sensitive
face above a dark beard, trimmed short. Oliver had never
seen him before, but he had that air Oliver knew so well
by now, of remoteness which was the knowledge of time it-
self lying like a gulf between them.
When he spoke his deep voice was impersonally kind.
"You had too much euphoriac, Wilson," he said, aloofly
sympathetic. "You slept a long while."
"How long?" Oliver's throat felt sticky when he spoke.
The man did not answer. Oliver shook his head experi-
mentally. He said, "I thought Kleph said you don't get hang-
overs from" Then another thought interrupted the first,
and he said quickly, "Where is Kleph?" He looked confused-
ly towards the door.
"They should be in Rome by now. Watching Charle-
magne's coronation at St. Peter's on Christmas Day a thousand
years from here."
That was not a thought Oliver could grasp clearly. His
aching brain sheered away from it; he found thinking at all
was strangely difficult. Staring at the man, he traced an idea
painfully to its conclusion.
"So they've gone onbut you stayed behind? Why? You
... you're Cenbe? I heard yoursymphonia, Kleph called it."
"You heard part of it. I have not finished yet. I needed
this." Cenbe inclined his head towards the curtains beyond
which the subdued roaring still went on.
"You neededthe meteor?" The knowledge worked pain-
fully through his dulled brain until it seemed to strike some
area still untouched by the aching, an area still alive to im-
plication. "The meteorl But"
There was a power implicit in Cenbe's raised hand that
seemed to push Oliver down upon the bed again. Cenbe
said patiently, "The worst of it is past now, for a while.
Forget if you can. That was days ago. I said you were asleep
for some time. I let you rest. I knew this house would be
safefrom the fire at least."
"Thensomething more's to come?" Oliver only mumbled
his question. He was not sure he wanted an answer. He had
been curious so long, and now that knowledge lay almost
within reach, something about his brain seemed to refuse to
listen.  Perhaps  this  weariness,  this  feverish,  dizzy  feeling
would pass as the effect of the euphoriac wore off.
Cenbe's voice ran on smoothly, soothingly, almost as if
Cenbe too did not want him to think. It was easiest to lie
here and listen.
"I am a composer," Cenbe was saying. "I happen to be in-
terrested in interpreting certain forms of disaster into my own
terms. That is why I stayed on. The others were dilettantes.
They came for the May weather and the spectacle. The after-
mathwell why should they wait for that? As for myself
1 suppose I am a connoisseur. I find the aftermath rather
fascinating. And I need it. I need to study it at first hand,
for my own purposes."
His eyes dwelt upon Oliver for an instant very keenly, like
a physician's eyes, impersonal and observing. Absently he
reached for his stylus and the note pad. And as he moved,
Oliver saw a familiar mark on the underside of the thick,
tanned wrist.
"Kleph had that scar, too," he heard himself whisper. "And
the others."
Cenbe nodded. "Inoculation. It was necessary, under the
circumstances. We did not want disease to spread in our own
time-world."
"Disease?"
Cenbe shrugged. "You would not recognize the name."
"But, if you can inoculate against disease" Oliver
thrust himself up on an aching arm. He had a half-grasp
upon a thought now which he did not want to let go. Ef-
fort seemed to make the ideas come more clearly through his
mounting confusion. With enormous effort he went on.
"I'm getting it now," he said. "Wait. I've been trying to
work this out. You can change history? You can! I know you
can. Kleph said she had to promise not to interfere. You
all had to promise. Does that mean you really could change
your own pastour time?"
Cenbe laid down his pad again. He looked at Oliver
thoughtfully, a dark, intent look under heavy brows. "Yes,"
he said. "Yes, the past can be changed, but not easily. And
it changes the future, too, necessarily. The lines of probabil-
ity are switched into new patternsbut it is extremely diffi-
cult,  and  it  has  never  been  allowed.  The physic-temporal
course tends to slide back to its norm, always. That is why
it is so hard to force any alteration." He shrugged.  "A the-
oretical science. We do not change history, Wilson. If we
changed our past, our present would be altered, too. And our
time-world is entirely to our liking. There may be a few
malcontents there, but they are not allowed the privilege of
temporal travel."
Oliver spoke louder against the roaring from beyond the
windows. "But you've got the power! You could alter history,
if you wanted towipe  out  all the pain  and  suffering  and
tragedy"
"All of that passed away long ago," Cenbe said.
"Notnow! Not this"'
Cenbe looked at him enigmatically for a while. Then
"This, too," he said.
And suddenly Oliver realized from across what distances
Cenbe was watching him. A vast distance, as time is meas-
ured. Cenbe was a composer and a genius, and necessarily
strongly empathic, but his psychic locus was very far away in
time. The dying city outside, the whole world of now was
not quite real to Cenbe, falling short of reality because of
that basic variance in time. It was merely one of the building
blocks that had gone to support the edifice on which Cenbe's
culture stood in a misty, unknown, terrible future.
It seemed terrible to Oliver now. Even Klephall of them
had been touched with a pettiness, the faculty that had en-
abled HoUia to concentrate on her malicious, small schemes
to acquire a ringside seat while the meteor thundered in to-
wards Earth's atmosphere. They were all dilettantes, Kleph
and Omerie and the others. They toured time, but only as
onlookers. Were they. boredsatedwith their normal exist-
ence?
Not sated enough to wish change, basically. Their own
timeworld was a fulfilled womb, a perfection made manifest
for their needs. They dared not change the pastthey could
not risk flawing their own present.
Revulsion shook him. Remembering the touch of Kleph's
lips, he felt a sour sickness on his tongue. Alluring she had
been: he knew that too well. But the aftermath
There was something about this race from the future. He
had felt it dimly at first, before Kleph's nearness had
drowned caution and buffered his sensibilities. Time travelling
purely as an escape mechanism seemed almost blasphemous.
A race with such power
Klephleaving him for the barbaric, splendid coronation
at Rome a thousand years agohow had she seen him? Not
as a living, breathing man. He knew that, very certainly
Kleph's race were spectators.
But he read more than casual interest in Cenbe's eyes
now. There was an avidity there, a bright, fascinated probing.
The man had replaced his earphoneshe was different from
the others. He was a connoisseur. After the vintage season
came the aftermathand Cenbe.
Cenbe watched and waited, light flickering softly in the
translucent block before him, his fingers poised over the note
pad. The ultimate connoisseur waited to savour the rarities
that no non-gourmet could appreciate.
Those thin, distant rhythms of sound that was almost mu-
sic began to be audible again above the noises of the distant
fire. Listening, remembering.  Oliver could very nearly catch
the pattern of the symphonia as he had heard it, all inter-
mingled with the flash of changing faces and the rank upon
rank of the dying
He lay back on the bed letting the room swirl away into
the darkness behind his closed and aching lids. The ache was
inplicit in every cell of his body, almost a second ego taking
possession and driving him out of himself, a strong, sure ego
taking over as he himself let go.
Why, he wondered dully, should Kleph have lied? She
had said there was no aftermath to the drink she had given
him. No aftermathand yet this painful possession was strong
enough to edge him out of his own body.
Kleph had not lied. It was no aftermath to drink. He
knew thatbut the knowledge no longer touched his brain
or his body. He lay still, giving them up to the power of the
illness which was aftermath to something far stronger than
the strongest drink. The illness that had no nameyet.
Cenbe's new symphonia was a crowning triumph. It had
its premiere  from  Antares  Hall,  and  the  applause  was  an
ovation. History itself, of course, was the artistopening with
the meteor that forecast the great plagues of the fourteenth
century and closing with the climax Ceabe had caught on the
threshold of modern times. But only Cenbe could have in-
terpreted it with such subtle power.
Critics spoke of the masterly way in which he had chosen
the face of the Stuart king as a recurrent motif against the
montage of emotion and sound and movement. But there were
other faces, fading through the great sweep of the composi-
tion, which helped to build up to the tremendous climax.
One face in particular, one moment that the audience ab-
sorbed greedily. A moment in which one man's face loomed
huge in the screen, every feature clear. Cenbe had never
caught an emotional crisis so effectively, the critics agreed.
You could almost read the man's eyes.
After Cenbe had left, he lay motionless for a long while.
He was thinking feverishly
I've got to find some way to tell people, if I'd known in
advance, maybe something could have been done. We'd have
forced them to tell us how to change the probabilities. We
could have evacuated the city.
if I could leave a message
Maybe not for today's people. But later. They visit all
through time. If they could be recognized and caught some-
where, some time, and made to change destiny
It wasn't easy to stand up. The room kept tilling. But he
managed it. He found pencil and paper and through the
swaying of the shadows he wrote down what he could.
Enough. Enough to warn, enough to save.
He put the sheets on the table, in plain sight, and weighted
them down before he stumbled back to bed through closing
darkness.
The house was dynamited six days later, part of the futile
attempt to halt the relentless spread of the Blue Death.