Front matter (continued 2)

Worse, as Justin quickly realised, here was the man to whom Deborah's friends and family were asking her to give herself. Justin understood their motives all too well. Apparently, unless he found some outlet away from his strife-torn home, Otis' friends already feared for his sanity. Employing an age-old therapy they had selected Deborah to supply that outlet.

Even in the misery of the moment, Justin found his mind ranging back to Ortine and his motives in having the girl go through with her assignment. In untampered-with history the girl must have turned Otis down. Perhaps in that turn-down Ortine read the outraged pride that had led Otis to stand up and make his revolutionary speech. By having the girl acquiesce Ortine figured, probably correctly, that the attorney would never be so inspired. The chain reaction that led to Independence Hall, to Saratoga, to Yorktown, would not have been touched off.

Justin saw, as if in slow-motion, Otis fling back his arm to clear it of the girl's desperate grip—saw her tossed against the wall. Her head struck with a sickening thud and she dropped to the floor in a pathetic unconscious heap.

Justin forgot about his near-worship for James Otis and sprang forward to do battle. He landed a hard right high on the lawyer's cheek, then felt the snow on a heel again betray him into slipping. Out of the corner of an eye he caught a quick glimpse of a large fist emerging from a ruffled cuff and arching directly toward his own jaw. He felt a jarring impact....

Justin found himself once more lying on a portable bed in one of the cubicles of Ortine's Belvoir dormitory. His jaw hurt and there was a tender spot over his right ribs that would, he knew, grow sorer with time.

He sat up, rubbing his chin, discovered he was still wearing the ill-fitting clothing with which Deborah had fitted him out. He glanced around—and his heart did a ground-loop. Alongside his own cot was another—and on it lay the girl.

Justin forgot his own sorenesses and went to her, put a hand on her face, felt his knees turn to oil as he discovered her face was warm, felt the rhythmic softness of her breath against his fingers.

She opened her eyes and smiled—and Justin felt his insides melt at the trustful happiness of her expression. He said, "It's all right, Debby dear—Ortine's brought us back to Belvoir."

"As long as we're still together," she whispered. Then, frowning, "My head hurts in back—a little."

A familiar sardonic voice spoke from the doorway. "I am glad," said Ortine, "that you find your return here so pleasant. I don't suppose you have the slightest inkling of what this unexpected insanity of yours has cost."

Justin considered for the first time the possible consequences of what he and Deborah had just managed to accomplish. He said, "We fouled up the works?"

Ortine stared at him for a long moment. Only by rigidity of manner did he give indication of the anger he must have felt. He said, "You show rather more discernment than I had expected, Justin—but I fear you still fail to realise the enormity of your sabotage.

"Time, as you conceive it, has no meaning for me, of course—yet I have had to spend vast amounts of it, searching, searching the entire course of human history, to select the exact men and women for my purpose, the exact moments in which they could be effective.

"The essence of my entire plan was simultaneous alteration of the historic line," Ortine went on. "Only thus could the salvation of humanity be effected without dislocation amounting to chaos. By your insane romantic aberration you two have disrupted the entire process."

Justin thought it improbable that Deborah could understand much of what their host was saying, yet the impact of his tone upon her was dynamic. She slipped from her bed, skirts whirling, marched up to Ortine and said, "I care not what ye think, Master Ortine. Neither Charles nor I asked to be brought here. Aye, and furthermore I'll not have ye using that tone to Charles."

Ortine said to Justin, "Perhaps we'd better talk this over in private."

"So ye can soft-talk Charles into doing ye'r bidding—and leave me to face Master Otis alone?" Deborah's defiance was magnificent and Justin put an arm around her.

He said to Ortine, "Since time is of no account to you, perhaps you'll give us a little of it together."

"As you wish." Ortine shrugged and turned to leave. "I shall await your summons."

"What did he mean?" Deborah asked Justin, when he had gone.

Justin studied her briefly, kissed her, then said, "Debby, just how did our friend explain himself to you?"

"Oh...." The girl looked vague for a moment. "He told me that if I failed to heed Master Otis' plea the redcoats would come to Boston and burn my home and kill my father and mother and brothers—aye, and ruin me."

Suddenly Deborah's arms were around him tightly, her worried face peering searchingly into his. She said, "Through my willfulness will all these dreadful things come to pass, Charles darling?"

"Debby," he told her gently, "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

"Ye'll not desert me?" she pleaded.

He smiled down at her. "Debby, I don't think I could desert you if it meant the end of the world—and it may yet."

"Ye'r jesting," she said. "Kiss me."

He did—and again they were interrupted by a throat-clearing in the cubicle doorway. Dr. Phillips said in his old-fashioned London accents, "I don't quite ken why our friend has brought us back—but I see things are the same betwixt the two of you."

"Why, Dr. Phillips!" exclaimed the girl. "Ye'r clad in ye'r breeks now."

"I thought it might be a wise precaution before returning to my nap," said the professor mildly.

Justin said, "Come in, Doctor." He set Deborah on her cot, swung onto his own, while Dr. Phillips accepted the one chair in the cubicle. He seemed not at all surprised to find two beds where one had stood before.

"Dr. Phillips," said Justin, "I've been hoping you'd turn up here again. On our first visit I saw a Roman soldier down the hall toward the dining saloon. He was with a Mohammedan-looking female. Do you have any idea of who he is—or what his assignment is?"

Dr. Phillips nodded. "Aye," he said. "I forget his name—it is of no moment in history. He is—or was—a mere field officer in the suite of a Judaean sub-Praetor during the reign of Augustus."

"And his assignment?" Justin asked quietly.

"I believe to the best of my memory—" Dr. Phillips frowned as he delved into his own mind—"that this chap was supposed to arrest a fellow named John Something-or-other outside of Jerusalem and hold him on a trumped-up charge."

"I take it," said Justin, "that Roman Judaea has not been one of your fields of study."

"Gracious no!" replied the don. "My only knowledge of Latin is derived from an effort to study its imprint, if any, on the pre-Christian tongues of Northern Europe—including Scandinavia."

"Thank you, Dr. Phillips," said Justin, slipping off his couch again. "By the way, how do you summon Ortine when you want him?"

"Just press this button," said Dr. Phillips, indicating a circular buzzer almost invisible against the wall near the corridor door. "Well, in that case I'll be going."

IX

Ortine sauntered in. He nodded pleasantly, said, "That was quicker than I'd dared hope. Thanks, Justin—and you too, Deborah Wilkins. You have reached your decision together?"

Deborah spoke quietly, firmly, said, "Charles is my master. What he decides, I shall obey."

"Remarkable—this strange emotional fusion," Ortine remarked to the banker. He sat down, added, "Of all human madness love is the most difficult to understand."

"You should be used to it by now," Justin told him.

Ortine sighed and said, "Some things one cannot get used to. But come, Justin, I trust you are going to be reasonable."

"I'm going to ask you a few questions before coming to a definite decision," said Justin.

"Sane enough," Ortine replied amiably.

Justin began, "On my first visit here I noticed a Roman legionary a few doors down the corridor."

Ortine nodded. "Right—Marcus Rutilius Catanio. A very well-balanced young man."

Justin said, "When you first discussed with me the madmen of history who have succeeded—you'll pardon an apparent digression—it occurred to me afterward that you failed to mention the Christ."

Ortine made a deprecatory gesture. "My dear fellow, I can never be certain how deep such spiritual beliefs go in any of you humans. I thought it more tactful...."

"This Marcus Rutilius What's-his-name," Justin went on. "From what Dr. Phillips just told me, it is his job to prevent the Christ from going to Jerusalem."

There was a gasp from Deborah but Ortine ignored the interruption. He said, "Of course, Justin. It is my intention to remove much of the world's sense of guilt by preventing your Christ from dying on the Cross."

"I thought as much," Justin nodded. "I have also considered what such a removal of guilt, as you call it, would do to our world. It would not only mean the end of Christianity—it would mean it never had a beginning. For a Christ without his martyrdom would no longer be a Christ."

"I had no idea you'd be shocked," said Ortine, puzzled.

"I'm not shocked," replied Justin. "What has me baffled, Ortine, is your true purpose. You say that the salvation of our world rests upon elimination of all but those you choose to call sane men—the dull plodding fellows who never upset applecarts. Are you sure that these human vegetables are the ones to make a world worth living in?"

"Possibly not," said Ortine, unabashed. "But they will at least make a world in which people can live. Consider, Justin, you are one of them—a prime example. Or you were until very recently."

"I'm well aware of that." Justin shot a quick tender glance at Deborah. He added, "As a matter of fact I'm just beginning to understand what a living death I've been enduring."

"A pity you've changed," Ortine told him. He sighed.

"Ortine," said Justin, "you say you cannot control humans. Yet I feel certain that I have recently seen you twice in human guise—once as Will Molineux in Sam Adams' house, the other as Corinne Forrester in my own office." He looked at Ortine's cigarette, recalled Corinne's Cuban cigarettes, added, "You're quite a smoker, aren't you?"

Ortine hesitated, then said, "It's a pity I couldn't put this experiment into work with a finish date about fifty years before your time, Justin. Dr. Phillips would have been ideal. Unfortunately I must use all of the lapsed time of human history or the whole procedure is worthless—it must be complete and simultaneous. Which is why you and"—with a polite nod—"Deborah were able to make such a botch of it.

"You're quite right about my appearances, of course," Ortine went on. "There are a few people, in whom my strain is especially strong, folk I can actually control to some degree. Naturally I have tried to put such persons in positions close to my probable subjects."

"How did you happen to take up the role of Satan?" Justin asked him quietly. Behind him Deborah gasped again and Justin reached out a hand for her to hold. A faint stirring of her fingers suggested she must be crossing herself.

Ortine looked distressed. He said, "Really, there was nothing deliberate about it. It's something that—well, it just happened." He dropped his cigarette onto the floor, pulled out his case, offered a smoke to Justin.

"Consider my mission. To perform it successfully it was vital that I should become intimately acquainted with humanity not merely on the surface but inside, where fears and motives dwell. How better could I conduct such a delicate test than by testing people? And how better test them than by trying the strength of their so-called decent impulses?"

"You might have something there," said Justin. "But you mention your strain being strong in some of us. Just how does that fit in with what you've told me of your mission?"

Ortine actually appeared embarrassed. He said, his eyes not meeting Justin's, "Of course, you must by this time have surmised that I am polymorphous...."

"Who's she?" Deborah asked.

It stopped both men. Ortine looked puzzled—Justin was unable to suppress a chuckle. Seeing hurt overlaying the worry in her eyes, he said, "It merely means he is a lot of people at once, honey. I didn't mean to laugh."

"Oh," she said, a trifle vaguely.

Ortine said, "I don't suppose it could happen on another planet in your entire galaxy—it's rather embarrassing. Having quickly surveyed the entire course of your history until now I decided to go all the way back to the beginning."

"You must have found yourself dealing with some rather rough customers," Justin suggested.

"To a visitor like myself there is little choice between you and the Neanderthal," replied Ortine.

"I'm not sure the analogy is a happy one," said Justin.

"Perhaps not—but it should give you some idea, Justin." Ortine did not appear to relish criticism any more than a human. "As a matter of fact I didn't go back quite that far. The Sumerians were quite early enough for my purposes.

"In various parts of the world I became a creature analogous to the woman your Judeo-Christian legend calls Lilith. Since only females actually spawn in your world it appeared logical to me that they were the more important. But something was missing. Merely playing goddess to these alien creatures told me little about them. So, in a dozen carefully screened and selected human settlements around your world, I stepped down from my pedestal and became—Eve."

"Good Lord!" said Justin. "You mean that you, an alien...."

"Yes." Ortine's expression was sour. "In at least a half-dozen bodies I conceived! Furthermore, once it had happened, there was no escaping or altering those particular bodies until the child was born."

"I don't quite see how it could happen," said Justin.

"Neither did I at first," said Ortine unhappily. "Mind you, I am in my own universe what could be very roughly compared to a roving social analyst in yours. And here I was, alone, in this situation.

"It took me some time to find the answer. Ultimately, of course, I discovered the reason for my disaster. Despite the vast distortion differences that must occur in any creature or thing that makes a voyage from sub-space to your space, I discovered that I was—in polymorphic form, of course—a highly developed member of a highly developed species corresponding in my universe to yours.

"If I brought a Piltdown woman to Belvoir and induced you to mate with her—don't shudder, I have no intention of doing so—she would ultimately conceive. I could not accept this resemblance at first, any more than you could accept similarity to a Piltdown female. But there I was, mortally chained to beings on your planet through a most elementary process."

Deborah said, her voice shaking, "Charles, he's joking, isn't he?"

Justin shook his head, said to Ortine, "So your strain became inextricably intermixed with ours. But how does that account for your playing Satan?"

"My dear Justin!" Ortine spread his hands wide. "Consider my position. What had originally been a most impersonal mission had become a matter of the deepest personal concern. Confidentially, I have never since—or at least within the past few hundred generations—been able to materialize on Earth itself."

"Why not?" Justin asked him.

"Because of the risk," replied Ortine. "Suppose, as a man, I were killed accidentally or murdered. Suppose, as a woman, I conceived again—I can assure you my desires in such matters are perhaps even stronger than those of your species.

"Each such accident—and in the early days I had my share—is weakening. I have only so much life force and no means of replenishing that which is spent—not in this universe. Hence I have had to indulge in what you might term economy of forces."

"Playing the devil...." Justin reminded him.

"Dammit, don't interrupt. I am quite capable of image projections—hallucinations to you. These I have indulged in frequently when I thought such appearances needful or considered them diverting. In some of them, for various reasons, I have assumed some remarkable shapes."

"How about these folk you can influence directly?"

Ortine regarded Justin irritably, said, "Surely you know enough of Mendel's Law to be aware that dominant strains will pop up again and again, even in a recessive capacity. When mine recurs, as it does in every generation, I am able to exercise over them more control than I can over others."

"How much control can you exercise over someone else—say over me?" Justin asked Ortine quietly.

"I think you can answer that for yourself," said Ortine.

Justine thought it out quickly. If Ortine could actually control him, save when he was unconscious or on the rim of sleep, there would have been no need to bring him to Belvoir at all.

Ortine met his gaze frankly—and Justin, from his long experience of judging living beings, some of whom were perhaps as devious as Ortine himself, decided the other was lying—or at any rate revealing but an expedient fraction of the truth.

Why, he wondered, didn't Ortine simply kill Deborah or himself. The answer to that was obvious. If he could have done so he certainly would have—especially after Justin and Deborah had balluxed up his whole scheme.

Which meant that he couldn't, for all the miracle of his ship and his polymorphism and his ability to span time at will. Justin wondered why his host was so helpless, decided he might as well accept the fact.

"All right," he said, "so it's a stalemate—correct?"

"I wouldn't be too sure," said Ortine. His eyes turned toward Deborah but he spoke to Justin. "The matter of inbred belief is or can be a vital factor. I believe you have heard, in your own enlightened era"—there was a trace of irony in the phrase—"of primitive Haitians and Africans who have succumbed to voodoo for no other reason than that they believed in it and thought someone had put a death-curse on them."

"I have heard of them," said Justin. "But I've been thinking of another factor in our first discussion. We discussed your so-called madmen—but what of sane men?"

"What of them?" Ortine looked troubled.

"Let's look at some of the most successful," Justin offered. "For instance, Ghengis Khan. Now there was a sane man—he fought only for self preservation. And each time he won a victory he was forced to preserve it and himself by winning more. So he destroyed a continent and caused the deaths of, say, fifty million innocent people. He left marks on the world that are still with us—the deserts of Central Asia, the fear-psychology of Russia under Czar or Commissar. Do you call him insane?"

Ortine made an impatient gesture, said, "Of course he was sane. It was his time and environment, not himself, that were at fault."

"You're rationalizing," said Justin. "I could name some other sane men of prominence—Timur the Great, Attila, Metternich, Stalin. Find me any saner men."

"Who are these strangers of whom ye speak?" asked Deborah.

The men ignored her. Ortine said, "In the case of each there were extenuating circumstances...."

"And," said Justin, "I can name you some sane men who, for one reason or another, failed—which can only be called a blessing to mankind. Rokh-ud-Din, the last emir of the Assassins, for instance—or Lucullus or Louis Fourteenth or Bismarck or Robespierre. Now certainly no saner, less imaginative, more honorable man than Robespierre ever lived. Yet he virtually destroyed a great revolution by his very sanity."

For the first time Ortine looked seriously annoyed. He said, "On what range of experience do you base your judgment of what is beneficial for humanity or not, my dear Justin? This is ridiculous—why should I argue with you?"

"Because you've got to persuade me to do your will or your entire scheme will collapse," Justin told him calmly.

"You're risking the person you love most," said Ortine.

"Not yet," replied Justin. "And here's something else that has me stopped—if you're so anxious to save our planet from its so-called ruin, why are you taking the very steps that will lead to its speedy destruction?"

"Consider," said Ortine, regaining his self control, "if my plan is followed your planet will suffer a certain retrogression, of course. Now think what such a retrogression will mean—it will mean no A-bomb, no airplanes, none of the modern destructive machinery. In that way your planet will be aeons from self-destruction."

"You'll force us back to the caves!" cried Justin.

"Not quite." Ortine smiled. "Not quite, my dear Justin. Why not enjoy a good dinner before we resume our little chat?"

X

There were a number of small changes in the clothing of the diners in Ortine's incredible restaurant. The eighteenth-century lady had removed her towering headdress to reveal a closely shaved round pate, the white-haired woman from medieval England had managed to don a shift—and of course Dr. Phillips had his trousers. But most of the diners appeared the same.

There was a general air of festivity about the repast. Apparently the bulk of the visitors had expected no return to the paradise of Belvoir and were resolved to enjoy its luxuries to the hilt. But Justin and Deborah said little, barely toyed with their food.

"Darling Charles," said the girl softly, "what d'ye think is going to happen now?"

"I don't know," said Justin honestly. He captured her near hand, added, "Dear Debby, will you go with me no matter what?"

She answered him with her eyes.

When they returned to their cubicle, after a brief walk in the garden, Ortine was awaiting them. He said, "Well?"

Justin studied him. Finally he said, "Ortine, we've made up our minds. We're going back—together. But this time we're going back into my era."

Deborah gave vent to a little cry of joy. Ortine flicked ashes on the floor. "You still don't seem to understand, my dear Justin," he said. "I can't allow that. I might, of course, be willing to make some concessions. I could arrange things for Deborah so that she will succeed without having actually to give herself to James Otis.

"I might even be able to rig some sort of happiness for you, Justin—say a liaison with Corinne Forrester." Reading Justin's expression correctly he added quickly, "No, of course, that would not do now. But I could influence some very likely facsimile of your young lady here and perhaps get you clear of your present unhappy domestic arrangements."

"That I don't doubt," said Justin. "But what guarantee can you give us that you will?" And, as Ortine colored slightly, "We go together or we don't go at all. In either case you're cooked."

"An odd expression to use toward me," said Ortine thoughtfully, "I assure you I can make things extremely unpleasant for Deborah."

"I don't doubt that either," Justin told him. "But to what avail?" He hesitated, then plunged into a statement he had been considering through dinner. "Ortine, I don't think you give a damn what happens to our world. I don't believe you give a damn about our sun going nova."

Ortine said silkily, "Very well, Justin, what do you believe—where I am concerned?"

"I think you'd have taken off from here like a shot if it weren't for your becoming inextricably entangled with the human race through your multiple-Eve disaster. I have no idea of the effect of plural birth upon a polymorphous being but I have a hunch it is serious. I think you've got to destroy all of us to get away. Otherwise none of this makes sense."

"Then why shouldn't I simply stay on?" Ortine inquired caustically.

"I'll tell you why," replied Justin. "You've got to get away because we're beginning to learn too much. Sooner or later the existence of this ship of yours is going to be discovered—you are going to be discovered. And when that happens, you're in the wrong galaxy and your physical weapons will be as useless as your psychological weapons are useless against an educated mind and spirit."

Ortine said, "You have reared quite a structure upon a few involuntary hints, a smidgin of knowledge and a long train of intuition." He smiled ruefully, added, "I might as well confess you are remarkably close to the truth—not a bullseye but close."

"Thank you for that," said Justin ironically.

"You needn't feel too proud of yourself," Ortine told him. "I suppose the indications are there for anyone to read who is able to. You're right about my mission. Mine is merely an experimental flight to crash the barrier between your space and mine—incidentally, I believe, the first to do so successfully.

"Unfortunately my ship emerged into this galaxy on a collision course for a planet of your system, shattering it into what you know as the asteroids. As a result of the damage it caused I was forced to moor to Earth in an effort to effect repairs.

"I could not make such repairs alone—hence I was forced to develop the dominant species to a point where its members could actually do some of the heavy work. The construction needed, while minuscule in comparison to my ship, was immense in relation to men—immense and generally senseless."

"The Tower of Babel," mused Justin, "and the pyramids...."

"And the basalt water city of Ponape and scores of other structures whose size has always seemed to exceed the needs of their purpose," Ortine affirmed. "Call them jacks if you wish—that was their primary function. At any rate, thanks to the labor of humans, my ship has at last been readied for its return flight."

"And if you should return successfully what will happen?"

Ortine shrugged. "I belong to an aggressive race," he said simply. "We have already conquered one universe. Need I say more?"

"And your communications are ineffective?" Justin asked.

"Yes, thanks to the crash. But don't let your hopes rise too high, Justin. When my plans are complete human science and knowledge will be irreparably set back."

"So you are afraid of what we're beginning to learn."

"Afraid? That is an emotional word but I suppose in a parallel way I am." Ortine paused, added, "Your species is aggressive too. As I have already told you, we are very similar."

"Why not simply cut and run and then come back in force and destroy us?" countered Justin.

"Time is much less simple than you people seem to think," said Ortine. "The few months it would require us to organize such an expedition in my universe would be the equivalent of several centuries in this one. And by that time, if you have not destroyed yourselves, you may know as much as we."

"So you plan to destroy us," said Justin.

Ortine replied, "You should know better than that, Justin. Why should I trouble to bring all of you here, why should I have spent the time and labor I have on this experiment—when I could blast your planet out of hand?"

Justin studied him for a moment, then said, "I can think of a pair of possible reasons, Ortine. One—your extra-space weapons might not be effective in this universe. Two—from some of the things you have dropped about polymorphous conception and birth, you may not be able to dis-ally yourself from humanity so easily."

Ortine studied Justin in turn, then said, "You're wrong about my weapons—they have long since been adjusted to operate in your space. But I am saddled with you—all of you. I am like a man with a diseased appendix—save that in this instance my appendix numbers three to four billion."

"You mean you are actually part of us—and we of you?" asked Justin, appalled at the thought.

"Unfortunately, yes—in what you would call a physiological sense but one which is painfully physical to me," Ortine replied. "Now consider my plight in terms of your own appendicitis. Such major disasters as battles and natural catastrophes are like recurring attacks. An atomic war might well rupture my very fabric.

"Naturally deaths in smaller quantities or lesser disasters do not noticeably affect me—but the destruction for which your world may be heading is more than I can risk. Therefore I have had to take steps, first to obviate the possibility of atomic war, secondly to lower the population. These are the twin purposes toward which I have conducted my experiment. If I were to wipe out humanity, as I easily could, I should myself die."

"I think I understand," Justin told him, frowning. "By removing human imagination—you call it madness—you plan not only to reduce human population to a nubbin but to rig things so that the remnants will eliminate themselves in a manner practically painless to yourself. Am I right?"

Ortine hesitated, then said, "Consider again the man with appendicitis. If it bursts and he has no proper medical care he will die. But if it withers away, then he is free of the diseased organ."

"And for that purpose you expect me to go through with your assignment?" asked Justin. "You're the one who's mad!"

"I think not," said Ortine, rising. "I happen to know how all-powerful the peculiar form of insanity you humans call love can be. For instance...."

He extended a hand casually toward Deborah. At once a wall of flame sprang up around the cot on which she was sitting. She screamed and shrank back, cowering and covering her eyes. Justin sprang toward her, stood in the midst of the fire.

"Come," he told her but she refused to believe the fire was illusory. She screamed again, said, "Ye'r a de'il too, Charles!"

"Stop it!" cried Justin to Ortine.

"Certainly." At once the flames vanished. Deborah looked at Charles piteously. "Charles, he's going to burn us alive. He is Satan!"

"You want to go back to your own time alone, my dear?" Ortine had strolled casually to the other side of the bed.

Deborah gave him a long look, replied, "Nay, I'll take my chances wi' ye'r hellfire, Master Devil."

"I can ensure that the importunities of Master Otis will meet with no success," offered Ortine. "I can see that you wed a fine young man of family with a mansion near North Square."

"Ye cannot give me Charles," Deborah said fiercely.

Ortine lifted a sardonic eyebrow at Justin. He said, "I'll give you a few minutes alone with her, my dear fellow. For her own sake and yours I hope you can talk some sense into her."

He strolled out and Deborah flung herself on Charles, sobbing her fear. He said when she had calmed a little, "Dear Deborah, you've got to understand. Ortine's fire is real only if you believe it. You saw me standing in it unsinged."

"I know!" she sobbed. "My eyes saw and my poor brain understood but the rest of me couldn't believe."

"You can thank your preachers for that," said Justin. "They've been playing right into the hands of Ortine all along. Now that you've seen I can't be hurt you've got to believe yourself. Otherwise I'm afraid...."

"Else what?" she asked tremulously.

"Otherwise there's no hope for us, honey. If we can't stand together against him we might as well both be dead. It will mean the death of the world as we know it." He looked close into the depths of her blue eyes. "Do you think you're strong enough—with me at your side?"

"I—don't—know," she replied. "Darling Charles, can't ye see how much I want to be strong? But can't ye understand how little it will avail us if, after I promise, I fail?"

He sighed, automatically patted his pockets for a cigarette.

The spider! It was still there. Justin pulled it out, looked at it. When Corinne Forrester had questioned him about its uses other than as a waterproofer, he had not given her an answer.

Deborah touched the odd little sprayer with a forefinger, said, "I found this in ye'r nightdress when I put it away. What is it, Charles?"

He hesitated, made up his mind, said, "It's an invention from my own time, honey. It shelters against cold—and against heat. Providence must be with us."

"Against heat? How does it work, Charles?"

"Here—I'll show you." He pressed a tiny button, spraying some of the transparent plastic across the palm of his left hand.

"'Tis as magical as Master Ortine's devices," cried the girl.

"Perhaps," replied Justin. "Now stand very still, honey—I'm going to give you a coat of this stuff. Then you'll have nothing to fear from Ortine's flame illusions."

"Ye'r a very wonderful man, Charles," she told him proudly.

"We'll soon know," he replied, then got busy and sprayed her with it all over, not sparing even her hair and lashes.

Finished, he returned the spider to his pocket, said, "Now let him do his worst. Are ye—are you sure you want to come back with me, honey? There's going to be one hell of a row over you."

"I'll be with ye," she said simply.

Ortine returned. He bowed to his guests, said, "Well, I hope this is our last session."

"We've reached an agreement," Justin told him.

"An intelligent agreement?"

"Quite. We're going back together—to my time."

Ortine's smile was not pleasant. He said, "This may sound a trifle trite but don't say I didn't warn you." Then, to Deborah, "For your information this may be quite painful while it lasts—or while you last."

"Don't be afraid, honey," Justin told her.

"I'm not." The countenance she lifted to his was radiantly assured. "Not any more."

Ortine hesitated, his hand half outstretched, and said, "I truly hate to disillusion you, Justin."

"We'll see how your tricks prevail against love," said Justin.

"Love!" The word seemed to infuriate Ortine. He gestured at them and the room became a cubicle of fire. For a fraction of a second Justin flinched involuntarily and during that time he could actually feel the heat. Then, once more in control of himself, he stood quietly amid flames that neither seared nor burned.

Deborah locked up at him and smiled, the blaze flickering against her face. Her hand found his, pressed it tightly, and she smiled.

The flames vanished. A weary Ortine shook his head in bafflement. He said, "All right, you two—you win. I'll do anything you wish. Anything to get you out of here."

XI

When Justin came to he felt as if he had been wrapped in several layers of flour sacking. Then, with returning consciousness, he discovered himself to be lying in his own bed in the house on Louisburg Square, wearing the coarse heavy clothes Deborah had given him.

Deborah! A quick glance to his left revealed her lying beside him. He put out a reassuring hand to stroke her face, felt its plastic coating, got out of bed in a hurry.

"Come on," he said, "let's get that stuff off of you."

She moved like a girl in a trance. Her eyes ranged from the bed itself to the electric light on the bedside table, to the telephone, to the carpet, to the walls—then at last to Justin.

"Don't let it throw you, honey," he told her. "Think how I felt when I woke up in your bed."

She said in a near-whisper, "But this—this is more wonderful than Belvoir itself!"

"Prepare yourself for another shock, honey—a twentieth-century bathroom. We're going to get you cleaned up."

It was like showing a child its first Christmas tree. It took Justin a full fifteen minutes to get Deborah safely ensconced in a hot tub. He emerged, perspiring, carrying her clothes, and deposited them on a chair, then began to strip off his own ill-fitting garments.

He stopped in the process of disrobing, picked up the phone, dialed the Ritz and reserved a suite. He had no intention of having Marie walk in to find Deborah there with him.

He found the spider again in his pocket, sat down on the bed to examine it once more. On impulse he squirted some of the remaining plastic on his hand, picked up a lighter, ran the flame beneath it. The stuff flamed up like benzine, blistering his palm before he could extinguish it. Justin shook his head and tossed it onto the table, feeling more sweat bead his forehead.

This, he decided, was one invention he was definitely going to turn down—if he still had his job with the Ninth of Boston, come the morning. He got out of his absurd clothes, scratched his flanks with relief, rummaged in the wardrobe for an extra robe.

Deborah called for help. She was having difficulty getting the plastic out of her hair. Justin stood her under the shower, soaped her head and turned on the warm water. "We'll get you a decent shampoo at a beautician's tomorrow, honey," he told her.

It was at that moment that Marie appeared in the doorway. She looked at Justin, then at Deborah incredulously. She was carrying the blue-and-white dress of the girl from Old Boston in her hand. She said, "I was going to ask you what this was, Justin—but I see there's no need."

Justin turned off the water, tossed the girl a towel, escorted his wife to the bedroom, shutting the bathroom door behind them. He glanced for the first time at the clock beside the telephone, discovered it was past two A.M. Ortine had had his little joke—instead of returning them to the banker's house at the moment of his first summons, he had allowed a few hours to elapse.

"What are you smiling about?" Marie asked him sharply. "I was coming in to tell you I met a rather fascinating friend of yours—a Mrs. Forrester—tonight. She suggested I drop in to give you her regards before I turned in. And here I find you...."

"Did she give you a Cuban cigarette?" Justin asked mildly.

"Don't joke—your taste is sufficiently bad as it is."

"Well," said Justin, feeling almost grateful to Ortine for forcing the issue into the open, "I suppose it had to happen sometime. We haven't been of much use to each other lately."

"I wouldn't exactly say that," replied Marie, sitting down and tilting a cigarette for him to light. "After all, I wonder just how far you'd have got without me, Charles."

"And that makes a marriage?" Justin asked sharply.

Marie shrugged disinterestedly. "There are all kinds of marriages." She yawned, added, "Where'd you pick her up? At a servants' costume ball?"

"Not exactly," Justin told her. "Actually it's been a rather remarkable evening."

"I bet it has!" Marie's tone was sharp. "Well, what are you going to do about it, Charles?"

"I've already made reservations at the Ritz," he told her. "We'll both be out of here in a few minutes. By the way, could you loan Debby something to wear?"

She regarded him with amusement. "Do you really think I should?" she countered. "Perhaps the maid has something. I'll go and see. The Ritz—hmmm. Well, gather ye rosebuds and all that, sweetheart. You know I'll have your hide for this, don't you?"

"I never for a moment doubted it," he replied.

She rose, looked as puzzled as had Ortine. Love, pure love between man and woman, was apparently as implausible to Marie as it was to the master of Belvoir. She said, "Charles, you know that's rather sweet. I'll see what I can do for your little friend. Better let me have a look at her though—just for size."

Obeying an unexpected impulse, Justin kissed his wife on the forehead and told her, "You know, Marie, that's the nicest thing you've said since we've been married."

"Don't crowd your luck, Charles," Marie warned. "Call out the concubine."

Deborah emerged hesitantly, her brown hair an uncontrolled mess, Justin's robe flopping about her. She looked at Marie, then at Justin, said, "Is this Mistress Justin, Charles?"

One of Marie's pale eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. She looked at Justin, shocked, then blinked groggily and managed to say, "I don't know who's whose mistress around here but I think I have an outfit that will fit her fairly well. And, Charles, I don't know what she's done to her hair but I'll bring along a snood."

Justin was late in reaching the office the following morning. Devereux Chandler was there ahead of him, practicing chip shots on the carpet with his cane.

Steeled for the worst, Justin was surprised at the half-mocking grin with which Chandler greeted him. "I don't know what you did to my niece last night, Charles," he said, "but you've been the devil of a long time getting to it. She was on the phone this morning, demanding I have you fired."

"I rather expected that, Dev," said Justin. "Drink?"

"Not now," said Chandler. He sank into an armchair, looked at Justin quizzically. "I don't know what got into you, but then I don't know how you could stand Marie this long. She's used you for all you were worth."

"That's not quite her story," said Justin, sitting on a corner of his desk. "She seems to think that without you and her connection with you I'd be counting change in a teller's cage out in Melrose."

"Possibly—but we'd be the losers, Charles," Chandler told him. "I don't like to crowd your business hours but I thought it only proper to set your mind at rest."

"Thanks—I appreciate it," said Justin.

There was a long, rather awkward pause. Then Chandler cleared his throat and said, "I suppose Marie will trap Jack Fellowes next. Too bad—he's not a bad apple."

"There are worse around."

Chandler stood up, cut at the carpet with his cane. He remarked without looking up, "From what Marie tells me you seem to have come up with a rather remarkable young woman. You wouldn't mind telling me how it happened?"

"If I hadn't decided to turn in early," said Justin, "and if I hadn't used a certain mental device to go back to sleep after you woke me up with your call from the party...." He stopped and shook his head helplessly. "You wouldn't believe me if I did explain it."

"Eh? Well, probably not—but I hope you'll ask me around for a drink when you get settled."

"You'll be the very first," Justin assured him warmly.

Henri Dubois was ushered in shortly after Devereux Chandler left. This time he came alone. Justin asked him where Miss Forrester was as he got his visitor seated. Dubois replied, "She had to go away this morning on a long trip."

"A very fascinating woman," said Justin, lighting a smoke. Then, "Mr. Dubois, I can't offer any assurance that we'll be able to give you and your movement the backing you want. But I can tell you this—I shall do everything in my power to see that you get it."

Henri Dubois extended a warm hand across the desk, said, "Mr. Justin, that's good enough for me."

Justin left early that afternoon. With his job safe and Dubois taken care of there was nothing to keep him at his desk. He paused briefly by the entrance to the Park Street Subway station to eye the vast expanse of the modern city and compare it with the snowbound panorama he had viewed from almost the same spot a few hours—or was it two centuries?—earlier.

It seemed strangely like the dream he had, for awhile, believed it to be. But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz. He began to walk faster.

So it hadn't been a dream at all. And, perhaps, he really had saved the world from a savage and sudden retrogression from which it could scarcely have recovered. He had had to lose his sanity to do it—for no man in love is sane, he told himself.

But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz.

He crossed Charles Street, entered the Public Gardens. And it occurred to him that perhaps he hadn't outwitted Ortine. Perhaps his behavior was carefully plotted as part of some far subtler scheme. He wondered.

But Deborah was awaiting him at the Ritz.