The Earthman, Wellesley, came to Ophir in the season of aphelion, when the binary suns of that remote planet were cold serpent's eyes, dimly seen above the chill mists that shrouded its fern forests and craggy, young mountains, its silent oceans and magnificent organ pipe cities of legend.

From space one might look down upon the vista of these latter prominences and imagine a vast, exotic civilization spread over the face of the equinoctial swamps, but Wellesley knew that the giant towers were mere calcareous shells, hollow as the expectations they had inspired in the first planeteers to arrive here two hundred years ago—they were the work, in fact, of small, mindless crustaceans.

His own destination, a small, shabby, corporate plantation, was less impressive in appearance. Its name was Aidennsport. It consisted of a hundred buildings, including a commissary and a hulking communal storehouse. The primordial jungle was all about it.

To Wellesley, yellow-cheeked from too many years in space, cynical from the paucity of human values in his life, Aidennsport was the despised prototype of colonial stagnation about the galactic rim. For he was a dour, lanky pessimist among that immense, invaluable, but nondescript order of men, the Rift constabulary, whose beat is the emptiness between the stars, and which enforces the name of law throughout the vast reaches of the firmament beyond Sol's sprawling civilization.

Wellesley's ship was accustomed to describe an elliptical orbit which brought it near the system containing Ophir once every seventh side-real month. It never stopped. Its course was as inexorable as a comet's; nevertheless, he had lately received the commission of an errand here for the omnipotent Department of Genetics and Genealogical Records.

And so he was forced to make landfall in a rocket tender in a meadow by Aidennsport, while the ground quaked dangerously beneath the settling blasts of the tiny vessel. He located the single course of the village without difficulty. Half a dozen ragged children were playing there, and stopped to stare. Women peered at his dark uniform from behind curtains in the stained, milk-colored bungalows. Quaintly dressed men, tending the auto-pickers in nearby fields of drug-plant, shaded their eyes to gaze with silent menace, though there was no sun.

He was able to find the house of the agent by the frayed company flag flying over it. To the right of it was the warehouse where the annual crop of senna-like leaves of the drug-plant were stored for drying. This was Aidennsport's meagre industry. Beyond lay the swamp, and far across its desolate surface, the multi-colored towers of the pipes fingered the sky, aloof and sinister in aspect.

A boy of no more than ten, dark eyed but with that startling, burnished-gold complexion so often found in the systems of twin or multiple suns, sat upon the steps before the cottage. He was playing with a furry animal not unlike a Martian ferrax, which sprang up, scarlet-eyed and bristling, at the sight of Wellesley.

"Here, boy," said Wellesley, who neither liked nor trusted children. "Is this the house of Amos Sealilly, the factor of Aidennsport?"

"Sure. That's my pa. Say, are you a spaceman?"

"Never mind that. Where is your father?"

"In the warehouse," the boy said. "I'll show you how to get inside. My name's Joseph, and I have a spaceship in the back yard. I call it the Stygia, after the pirate ship of the twenty-eighth century. Do you want to see my crew?"

"Later, perhaps," said Wellesley dryly. "Come along, now."

They found tall, aluminum doors which slid back at the wave of a hand, and entered into a vastness of cool gloom, permeated by a spicelike odor of curing leaves.

A figure emerged from the drying racks at the other end of the warehouse.

"Is that you, Joseph?"

"That's pa," Joseph said.

"Damn you, Joseph!"

"I guess he's drunk," Joseph said.

Wellesley advanced. "I am Lieutenant Wellesley of the Rift police," he said.

Amos Sealilly was a great, craggy ruin of a man, with seamed face and heavy grey brows that shadowed intense blue eyes. Eyes that glared just now. "What do you want here?" he bellowed.

"My mission is to perform an ethnic census for the Bureau of Genetics. I shall require your co-operation."

"There are three hundred and twelve people in Aidennsport," Sealilly said. "Write that down and get out. Go back to your space castle and leave us alone."

Wellesley sighed. "I am afraid that an ethnic census is never quite that simple. However, since you are required by law to assist me, you may as well know the truth. This community is suspected of inbreeding."

Inbreeding is not, of course, a crime, except against nature. Nor is it ordinarily dangerous. Combined, however, with the environmental influences of certain Rim planets, it may cause genuine, true-breeding mutations within the species, such as monsters, impressiono-telepaths, psycho-variants and other undesirables which, if allowed to multiply for a few generations, might become dominant. They are located and deported to A-type worlds.

It had been an anonymous tip that had brought Wellesley to Ophir, but in all the inhabited universe, he knew, the Bureau was the sole guardian of the classic blood strain, and it took no chances.

"What's 'inbreeding,' pa?" said Joseph, tugging solemnly at his father's sleeve.

"A naughty word of the middle ages," said Sealilly thickly. "A bugaboo of the mighty sky-chiefs. If we do not co-operate we bring their lightning upon our heads. Yet, what must we do?"

Wellesley did not smile. "You must inform the colonists that I wish to interview each member of every family and clan briefly, beginning tomorrow morning at seven. I do not mind in the least being persona non grata, but if any person fails to show up, or if there is any trouble, you will be held personally responsible. Moreover, I do not think you are as drunk as you would like me to believe."

Amos Sealilly bowed, took a flask from his pocket and drained it.

"One other thing. I shall need a place to sleep."

Sealilly smiled. "There is an abandoned native daub-hut behind my house. You are welcome to it."

"It will serve," answered Wellesley coldly. "There are natives in the area then?"

"Yes. Bipeds, though not mammalian, you will find. In fact, quite low in the scale of evolution. They are nearsighted and harmless by day, but you will be wise to keep to your hut after dark."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'll show you the place," Joseph offered. "I can carry your space kit, too."

"Over there is my ship," Joseph said, pointing. "We are making ready to put out for Arcturus."

There was a bright constancy about Joseph that clutched at the heart. Not Lieutenant Wellesley's heart, of course, he reminded himself. The "ship" was indeed the rusty, peaked foretank from some ancient freighter, complete with hatch. It was set on end at the edge of the swamp. To any boy it would have been a starship.

It was already dusk. The Ophirian daub-hut was not so bad as he expected. It was massive. The orifice had been enlarged into a door. Windows had been added. The only furnishing was the rude couch. It was a measure of Sealilly's hostility.

Joseph spied the ferrax-thing scuttling across the lawn and dived at it. The two of them rolled over and over, Joseph laughing, the animal growling and spitting.

Wellesley went in, closed the door and removed his official log from its case. The next two hours were spent in a carefully worded account—for space logs are part of the permanent records of the Galactic Court, among others—of the events of the day, including a bleak and perhaps prejudiced account of the character of Aidennsport and of Amos Sealilly.

Afterwards he lay back on the couch and smoked several cigarettes in lieu of the food capsules that he did not crave. He was far from imaginative; nevertheless, the character of the place crept at last into his consciousness. He was used to cramped, machinery-filled spaces and the sterile smells of hot metal and ozone; here was an aura of decaying organic matter—and of something else. A faint, but unmistakable reptilian odor, attesting to the nature of past inhabitants.

The vault of darkness was absolute, unabated by the dim patches of light that were the fenestrations above where he lay.

And presently someone very stealthily opened the door and entered.

Only for an instant was the figure silhouetted there before the door closed and darkness reigned supreme once more. Yet that instant was long enough to tell him that it had been a woman. And though her features had not been discernible, he had gotten the impression of exceptional beauty.

For a time there was no movement; no sound save her faint breathing. "Who's there?" he said. "What do you want?"

And then she came nearer and stood so close to him that the perfume of her breath was upon his face. Suddenly he groped, caught her arm and pulled her to him. The warmth of her body was against him. He felt her tremble. But she did not try to pull away.

He laughed. "Perhaps I may revise my opinion of Ophir," he said.

"No light!" she whispered. Her voice was low and vibrant.

"Why not?"

"I must not be seen here. But I had to warn you. It would not have been right not to warn you about Aidennsport."

"What of Aidennsport?"

"It is a dreadful—an evil place. There are forces here which you would not understand. Leave at once while you are still able to go!"

"You forget that I am a policeman. To leave without completing the census would be dereliction. I remind you that the Empire is inexorable in these things. And who are you, anyway?"

She did not answer, but drew away so quickly that he could not grasp her. In a moment, from across the room her voice came. It was less intimate, even matter-of-fact.

"If you will not leave," she said, "lock this door behind me and do not, as you value your life, step outside this hut until daylight."

She was suddenly gone and he was alone in mystification and wonder, and a dull, stirring anger that he could not account for.

But he could make nothing of it and after a time he put the incident resolutely out of his mind and tried to sleep. This was not accomplished at once. Curious sounds had begun to filter in through the fenestrations. Some were the night sounds of birds or insects. Other sounds, faint hissings and gruntings, were unidentifiable. Once he thought he heard the slap-slap of bare feet running past his door.

At last he was forced to employ a mild form of auto-suggestion, learned long ago and employed often during those first lonely years in space. He slept.

But once, in the early hours of morning, he was awakened by a tumult. There was much loud hissing and the scampering of many feet outside the daub-hut, as though some intricate and riotous game might be in progress out there, the nature of the game—or for that matter, the players—unguessed at. But he was half asleep, and thought little of it until he awoke again at daybreak.

The Authority of the Rift constabulary is acknowledged universally, though sometimes grudgingly. The men of Aidennsport, therefore, sullenly reported to Wellesley, and brought their families.

It is a singular thing, but almost every birth and death in the galaxy is recorded by the Empire. The laws concerning this are old and stringently enforced. Therefore Wellesley already had a fairly accurate estimate of the true population of Aidennsport, and it came close to the number offered by Amos Sealilly.

Following the seldom-used manual of the Bureau, he received vital statistics, made micro-photos and dermal prints, and endeavored a minute scrutiny of every man, woman and child that passed before him. He was finished by mid-afternoon.

Evidence of ingeneration he found in plenty, in the marked similarity of features among certain families, but nothing which could be called deviation or mutation. Not even polydactylism, which is one of the earlier manifestations. Still, he knew that the physical impress of the mutant was often subtle, and that he might have overlooked something.

In none of the females could he identify the girl of last evening. If she had failed to appear—was hiding in the village—might not others be hiding too?

The only recourse was to study the natives and try again. In many cases deviation among homo sapiens, who had colonized the Rim planets, simulated the natural characteristics of native races. The relationship between mutation and environment was obvious.

The chief magistrate, factor, or leader of any colony with an official grant was required by law to assist and obey any member of the Rift police in the capacity of a deputy.

Wellesley called Amos Sealilly, who had been avoiding him all day. "Is there a tribe of the dominant native species near here?" he asked.

Sealilly was still drinking, and saluted stiffly. "In the swamp, Lieutenant."

"Guide me there."

"You can go to hell," Sealilly said, "and I will guide you there."

"You refuse?"

"I do. It's too dangerous for a spaceman. Full of bog-fever. You've no natural resistance. Besides, I'm busy inventorying."

"Very well," Wellesley said, struggling to hold his temper in check, "I'll find them alone."

"In which case," said Sealilly, "you will not come back, and that will be an irreparable loss to the Empire."

Wellesley left him and made his way toward the swamp. Joseph was playing near his ship, and calling orders to an imaginary crew inside. When he saw Wellesley he came running.

"We were just blasting off for Earth," he said, "but I heard you and Pa talking. If you want to go in the swamp, I'll show you the way. I've been there lots. The Ophirians hang out on the shores of the black lake, where the organ pipes are." He pointed to the towering pinnacles in the distance. "They catch shellfish there."

"You know them?"

"Everybody has seen them. They are kind of green and slimy, but they won't hurt you. They can't see in the day-time. Only smell. Anyway, I'm not afraid of them."

"Done," said Wellesley, "and in return for the favor I promise to put in a word for you at the nearest spaceman's hiring hall."

"You won't have to do that," Joseph said. "My crew and I are going to be space pirates."

Then Wellesley laughed aloud, and felt better afterward than he had felt in many a long month.

The trail through the swamp was damp and primitive. Everywhere the cycads, giant ferns and reeds overhung the path. There were great, blood-colored flowers which snapped at twigs that Joseph put into their corollas.

Meanwhile, the ferrax-beast labored behind them, following with its proboscis to the ground, until the boy, taking pity, picked it up and carried it. Wellesley asked its name.

"His name is Omur," Joseph said. "I caught him in the mountains when he was little and raised him. But now Omur is too fat to walk."

Eventually they emerged into an open swale, with a stretch of dark water before them. On the other side of the slough lay a sight well worth a day's march. Dozens of giant pipes, some two hundred feet or more in height, stood braced against the sky, pastel blue, pink, and gold in the mists.

But Wellesley was less interested in these than the creatures which moved like grubs about their base, at the edge of the lake—squat, grotesque forms that waded the shallow water, scavenging for shellfish and crustaceans, and took no notice of the humans.

On coming nearer, however, Wellesley observed a very curious fact. The Ophirians were of two varieties. The ones in the mud were gross and toadlike in appearance. Whenever they found an especial delicacy they would run, with their webbed feet making smacking sounds in the shoal water, and lay it at the feet of an Ophirian who sat in a wallow of peat moss and mud, and did nothing. He was a much smaller variety, but, Wellesley noted, with considerably greater frontal development to his skull. Also his thin body bore a long, green tail. The tails of the workers were vestigial.

"The chief?" Wellesley asked.

"No," Joseph said. "It's something else."

"Are they a clan, then, or brothers?"

"Closer than brothers," Joseph said, scratching Omur's head.

"I have it—avatars! I should have guessed!" He had heard of this odd genetic arrangement before, but never witnessed it. In such cases a dozen or more individuals were born of a single nucleus in a single egg. Of these, one developed more fully than the rest and controlled his mentally-stunted avatars with a mental vinculum far more fundamental and powerful than mere telepathic union. On the other hand, the avatars were his hands and feet, and had larger bodies.

The large-headed Ophirian sat in his wallow and accepted the food offered him with long, leathery fingers. He crunched noisily. Once he turned to stare at them briefly with great, owl eyes. Eleven avatars turned simultaneously to stare. It was like looking into a multiple mirror.

"They sense us," Joseph said, "but they can't see us. Come on."

From nearby, the pipes were even more awe-inspiring. Besides the massive old towers there were smaller ones in every stage of development. It was incredible to think that they were actually growing; pushing up out of the lake.

In one of them a jagged hole, five or six feet in circumference, had been broken at the base. Joseph, with his furry pet under his arm, went to investigate it.

A moment later there came a shout from him that brought Wellesley running. "What's the matter?"

"Omur went up the pipe," Joseph said, "but you can get him." There were tears in his eyes. Beseeching tears.

"We'll see," said Lieutenant Wellesley brusquely. He put his head inside the pipe. A tiny circle of light far above him showed at what an awesome height was the upper rim. The inner surface, however, was very rough, and there were plenty of holds for hands and feet. He could not see Omur; only the circle of light, and around it, blackness. Suppose the damned thing bit him when he tried to rescue it! A faint, moaning sound emanated from the vast funnel, doubtless from the updraft.

He found a place for his foot; drew himself up a step; then another. Joseph's white face was staring up at him from below. And suddenly the circle of light was blotted out!

There was a rustling sound like dry leaves in the wind, and a sudden, sharp pain in his temple. Then another at the base of his neck. He fell back and sprang out into the open. The aperture, in an instant, was full of small, needle-like fluttering things.

"Stingbats!" Joseph screamed. "Run!"

Wellesley fled after him, but he was already beginning to feel a sick, draining weakness. Within a few steps his legs had become rubbery. Joseph was out of sight. Perhaps gone for help. But then Joseph did not know that he had been stung.

After a while he came to a small, black pond in his path. He had gotten off the trail. He sank down, there, beneath a fern tree, cursing.

He was sure that he was dying, for a numbness, an absence of feeling, had stolen up from his feet and possessed his legs. He essayed a bitter smile. He was more chagrined than afraid, for this was an ignominious way to pass, here in a nameless swamp, alone, not even beset by one worthy enemy. And perhaps when he thought he smiled, he was merely baring his teeth in that manner that certain neurotoxins leave their corpses always....

Someone was shaking him brutally and insistently, and someone was repeating his name, over and over. He knew the voice at once, for it had been lately in his thoughts.

"Get up!" she said.

"I can't."

"You must—or die. Get up now and try to walk. Come, I'll help you."

She did help him, and with her support he managed to get to his knees and then to his feet. He walked.

Afterward, there was a kind of delirium. He remembered bitter tasting capsules which she made him swallow later on in the daub-hut, but he did not recall having arrived there. He only knew that it was pleasant to have her cool hands on his forehead. The hands seemed to fill a vast, fundamental need. And this was out-of-character for Lieutenant Wellesley.

After a while he was lucid, and was surprised to note that, as at their other meeting, the darkness was absolute. "It's night," he said. "Very dark."

"Yes."

"Give me your hand."

He held it for a time in both his own. It was a firm, capable hand with long, tapering fingers. "Believe that I am grateful," Wellesley said, "even though I must be grateful to a benefactor whom I have yet to see for the first time. Let me look at you. I cannot command you to tell me who you are, as an officer of the Rift constabulary, but I ask it as your friend."

"You ask the impossible," she said. "The worst is over for you, but there may be still another shock to come. You must stay here until you are stronger, and then I will help you escape. Now I had better go, before—before I am missed."

He heard her retreating footsteps and the closing of the door.

Escape from what? he wondered vaguely. The poison, or the antidote seemed to have brought about some curious psychological change in him. He could not think with the old, clear incisiveness. The drive was gone, the purposefulness of his mission to Ophir. He was like Samson shorn—or a man taken with void amentia whose mind becomes as a child's.

And it was so dark. A horrible suspicion arose in his mind. He searched for, and found the torch that was in his kit. He turned it on. Nothing happened. No beam of light shot out to illuminate the ceiling. He clicked the switch several times, then held the lens against his cheek. It was warm, all right.

He was stone blind.

Wellesley was not unlearned in the physiological sciences. He guessed that the blindness might be temporary—a result of neural shock, but that was scant consolation.

Now it seemed to him that since his arrival an invisible pattern of ill-will had been forming up around him. An ugly something lurking beneath the sullen surface of this strange village. A malignant force, beyond doubt, that well knew his true mission on Ophir.

Now he was helpless, incapable of concerted action. He could not even retreat, but only lie and listen and wait. Now it was their move. The terrors of the blind were apt to be blind terrors indeed.

The sounds were not long in beginning. At first an indistinct murmur. Then something—or someone—scampered swiftly past his door. He got up and locked it; then lay back, spent by the exertion. Presently the running and scampering began in earnest. And a hissing and squealing such as might have emanated from all the fiends in Hell. Once there came a scratching at the door.

An hour passed like a century. The sounds had gradually died away into an absolute silence that was much worse. He waited.

There came a knock at the door.

He sat up quickly. "Who is it?"

"It's me—Joseph."

He unlocked the door and the boy came in with light, eager tread. "You all right?" he said.

"Yes—yes, I'm all right. But I can't see. Tell me, what time is it?"

"It's nearly morning."

"Thank God! Now listen carefully. Do you know what a strategic withdrawal is?"

"Sure, everybody knows that. Every spaceman, I mean."

"Good. It is time for me to withdraw to my patrol monitor in space and make a radio report. Will you guide me to the rocket? There may be danger."

"I'm not afraid," Joseph said. "Come on, I know a short cut."

Wellesley slung his space kit over his shoulder and followed, with his hand on Joseph's collar. They went out into the night air which smelled fresh and clean after the daub-hut, and revived him a little.

At first he walked easily, for the ground was level, but after a minute or two the growth became heavy underfoot, causing him to stumble, and reeds were whipping against his face.

Presently they halted.

"Why have we stopped?" Wellesley asked.

"Here we are," Joseph said.

"We couldn't have gotten there in such a short time. Not even by a short cut."

"Put your hand out before you," Joseph commanded. "You'll see. I guess we can blast off any time." There was a sound of feet, scrambling up a steel ladder. A moment later he could hear Joseph's voice from inside, echoing hollowly.

He put his hand out and touched the ladder. The rungs were flaked with heavy rust beneath his finger. "This is not my rocket!"

"It's my rocket," said Joseph's disembodied voice, from somewhere above his head.

Wellesley cursed him.

"It's the fastest ship in the universe," Joseph said. "Where you going?"

Black anger possessed him, but the keen instinct of orientation common to men who have lived in interstellar space worked for his salvation. He might have blundered into the swamp, but he did not. Instead he came up, after a terrible half-hour, against the wall of a building which, by its immense extent, could only have been the warehouse. He moved along its sheer, featureless side until he came to a door, which reoriented him, then struck out in the direction that he guessed the daub-hut to be.

He bumped against it at last, located its door, flung himself in and thankfully bolted it behind him.

But he was not alone. She was there, waiting for him. He started when she spoke.

"Where have you been?" she breathed. "I have been terrified. I found the hut empty and I was sure that you were dead."

"Like a bad penny," he said, "I return. But your being here is good fortune. I am certain that you will consent to leading a blind man to his ship without resorting to childish trickery. In fact, I shall make sure of it."

"Not now," she said. "It is too dangerous. We could never get through the swamp. Besides, you must still be weak from the effects of the poison. Let us wait until morning."

He seized her wrists and squeezed.

"You're hurting me!" she cried.

"Then waste no time. And if you try to break way, or lead me into a trap, I'll snap your wrist like a straw!" He dragged her to the door.

"Through the village is best," she said. "They are sure to see us, but in the open we may be able to outrun them."

"Who is sure to see us?"

"Never mind that now. Follow me!"

Their flight had a rather dream-like quality because nothing impeded them, even beyond the village. Miraculously she seemed to guide him where no underbrush or tangling grasses caught his feet, so that not once did he fall.

"There it is, just ahead," she said. "The rocket tubes appear to have sunk into the mud two or three feet, though. Do you think you will be able to take off?"

"It will not matter in the least," he said. "But tell me, is it still dark?"

"Yes."

"Quite dark?"

"Very dark," she said.

"That's all I wanted to know. Open the airlock and climb up. I'll follow."

Once aboard, he found the controls and set them for take-off. Then he pressed a small button. The port began to swing shut. He heard her run toward it, but he caught her and held her until the heavy hatch had banged shut with a hiss of escaping air.

"Let me go," she whimpered. "What are you going to do to me?"

"You are under civil arrest," he said harshly.

"But I haven't done anything. I have helped you."

"Of course. But you forget that I represent law—not justice. Once I told you that I could be ruthless. You see, whoever you are, you are what I came here to find. I have suspected all along; now I am certain."

"What do you mean?"

"You brought me here without losing the way. Then, from a hundred feet away you saw that this rocket tender had settled two feet into mud. All this in absolute darkness. That must mean that you have night sight—like the natives, a sure sign of abnormality. Besides that, you have consistently avoided me in daylight. Meaning that I must not get a glimpse of you, even though you were able to see me quite well. You were the reason for Sealilly's hostility. He wanted to get rid of me before I found out about you. Joseph, the normal child, was used as a decoy to mislead me. But Joseph's sister was a mutant."

She fell to the deck, sobbing, as he throttled full power for the blast-off.

Wellesley left Ophir a small, grey-green globe in the vastness of black space and set an automatic course for the mother ship, where he intended to submit a detailed report by radio to Regional Headquarters on Rigel Twelve.

So far as he was concerned, the case was closed, once they were aboard the patrol ship, but it was three weeks to the vicinity of Rigel, and in that time a curious sequel had developed.

The girl (her name turned out to be Laura) had stopped crying, and had begun to take an interest in life once more. In fact, he sensed that she was studying him a great deal of late.

They were standing before the viewport, she looking at the great angry mass of Rigel, magnified in the glass, but actually still two days ahead, he listening to every sound aboard the huge ship as he had learned to listen since the darkness closed in on Ophir.

She spoke. "How will it be on Rigel Twelve? Will I ever see you again?"

"Will you care?" he said.

"Perhaps I ought to hate you, but it is only because you are blind that you can not understand. On Ophir I was not happy, but at least it was home. Out there they may laugh at me. It is exciting and wonderful, but terrifying."

"They will not laugh at you. You will be allowed to live on any approved planet that you wish, and choose your own profession. You will be trained at the expense of the Empire. And in a few years you may be allowed to visit your father and brother on Ophir. Only visit, I mean. Does that sound so bad?"

"But if they laugh—"

"I am not laughing," said Wellesley, with a strange lump in his throat.

"You might if you could see me. I'm too dark. My eyes are too big. My ears are too small."

"I can see you," he said.

"Is it true!" She clasped his shoulders. "But when—how long?"

"Since this morning, a little. The effect of the venom is passing. Now I can see you perfectly, and you are beautiful. Strange, and—and beautiful."

And she was.

"Do not go to Rigel Twelve. Stay with me," he said. (It was Wellesley's misfortune that he always sounded like a policeman making an arrest, but she kissed him anyway.)

And he thought what a fool Amos Sealilly had been.

But Amos Sealilly had had troubles of his own. It was the evening after Wellesley had taken leave of Ophir forever. Sealilly dreaded the coming night, as he always did, and had fortified himself against it. He was drunk, but not drunk enough.

The warehouse was locked for the day. He was walking toward the house, lurching a little, and mumbling curses as he did so. Then he spied Joseph.

Joseph, a small figure in the dusk, had just climbed out of the rusty old peak-tank at the edge of the swamp. He had furnished it with a bunk, as befit a well-found spaceship, and often slept there.

The fact was that he had been sleeping there all day, having been up all night. Joseph did not go to school. He yawned and stretched.

Amos Sealilly went on to the house, and started to shut the door behind him, but Joseph, coming up behind him, pushed it open and came in. He was breathing hard, having hurried to catch up with his father. He asked:

"What about the spaceman?"

"What about him?"

"Was he lost in the swamp?"

"Where did you get that idea?" Sealilly said. "He made it. Took off before you were up this morning, just before dawn."

"I was up," Joseph said. "I thought it was a meteorite. Damn!" He stamped his small foot.

Sealilly grinned thinly. "Laura went with him."

Joseph's face whitened. "Laura? Damn him! Damn her too."

"You always hated her," said Sealilly, taking the bottle out of his pocket and sucking it. "She was too normal for you to stomach, I guess."

"I would've got him if he hadn't run away like a yellow dog," Joseph said. "The stingbats would have done it if she hadn't interfered. And then this morning I had him, too." He was thoughtful for a moment. "Who do you suppose tipped him off?"

And he watched his father's pasty face.

"Who?"

Sealilly laughed.

"All right," Joseph hissed. "I'll get you for that. You wanted to get rid of me, I'll bet. But you got rid of her instead."

But Sealilly continued to laugh, inside, because this was almost as good as getting rid of Joseph, having Laura out of his clutches at last.

"Me and my crew will fix you for that," Joseph said bitterly.

And with that, his avatars came crowding in behind him, squat, powerful and ugly, their saucer eyes intent upon Sealilly.

He had been through it several times before, but this time he screamed a little bit before it was over. He could not get away from Joseph, of course. There was too many of him.