I shouldn’t have run like that.

  He stopped, gulping with the terrible inner effort to regain self-control. And grew aware that a girl - she looked only about twenty - was standing a few feet away, gazing at him, wide-eyed. She said simply, ‘You’re the man they’re looking for. Wouldn’t you like help?’

  Caxton stared at her, his mind trying to grasp the horrifying idea that he had evidently been made the object of a general alarm.

  He stammered, ‘Tell me the date, and what city this is.’

  ‘Why, of course.’ Her tone humored him. ‘This is Lakeside, and it’s June third, 2083 A.D. Does that help?’

  Just like that, he had his information. And his luck continued. For even as she spoke, Caxton’s glazed eyes accidentally stared past her over the low structure across the street - to a small shop. And there, just beyond, he could see a hill with some houses on it.

  ‘Tell them I don’t need help,’ Caxton said to the girl. ‘Thank you.’

  And he ran. Around a corner, a hundred feet away up a steeply climbing street, he raced, puffing. As he arrived at the gate of the house, his destination - he stood there, gasping for breath. And he glanced back. And up.

  Several Fly-O’s were bearing slantingly down toward him… . Caxton fumbled with the gate catch, and when it wouldn’t give, he vaulted over the fence and so up the steep outside stairway. It was as he reached the glass (?) door that he paused again, and looked back. Seven Fly-O’s - all men - had stopped outside the line of the yard, and were hovering about a hundred feet above him and an equal distance away.

  ‘Are you all right?’ one of them called.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is your home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Caxton didn’t wait. He was trembling at the fineness of the timing that had brought him to safety on such a narrow margin. And, since he wasn’t quite safe yet, he flung the door open, and he was inside before the thought struck him that suppose the door had been locked - what then?

  By the time the repercussion of that had trembled its way through him, he was up the stairway. At the top he saw that there were several doorways, evidently leading to different rooms, and that brought its own brief disorientation. Yet in the end he headed unerringly to the correct one. The next second, die door closed behind him. And he was in the room.

  Now, for the first time, he saw that from this side there was no fog. Simply, in one corner, was a kind of ragged tear in the wall. Beyond the opening thus created, he could see the great white steps that led to the vast building from which he had emerged earlier.

  Mission accomplished! he thought jubilantly.

  He felt no shame at the way it had been accomplished. No sense of having repeatedly disgraced himself by his out-of-control, almost totally unthinking behavior. He had always accepted his own madnesses. His big task - always - had been to keep other people from finding out how unstable he was. And for a long time, now, he’d felt pretty smug about his success at that. Just imagine, little idiot Petie Caxton was now an M. A. in physics, and rapidly heading for the top of the heap. Proving, he had often thought, that you really could fool most of the people most of the time.

  A variation of that self-reassuring thought was in his mind, as he edged his way through the jagged opening and on to the lower step beyond. Far from being anxious about how solid it or the other might be, he put his weight on it without pausing and ran all the way up to the huge door.

  The door itself opened at his touch in the same easy, balanced fashion as when he had come out. He could almost have moved it with one finger.

  Seconds later, he was inside the great building, safe, momentarily, at least - and with his next purpose already fully formed in his mind.

  IX

  It was time he explored the fantastic building. First, one of the offices. Examine every cabinet. Break open the desk drawers and search them.

  It wasn’t necessary to break anything. The drawers opened at the slightest tug. The cabinet doors were unlocked. Inside were journals, ledgers, curious-looking files. Absorbed, Caxton glanced through several that he had spread out on the great desk. Finally, he pushed everything aside but one of the journals. This he opened at random, and read the words printed there:

  SYNOPSIS OF REPORT OF POSSESSOR

  KINGSTON CRAIG IN THE MATTER

  OF THE EMPIRE OF LYCEUS II

  A.D. 7,346-7,378

  Frowning, Caxton stared at the date; then he read on:

  The normal history of the period is a tale of cunning usurpation of power by a ruthless ruler. A careful study of the man revealed an unnatural urge to protect himself at the expense of others.

  TEMPORARY SOLUTION: A warning to the Emperor, who nearly collapsed when he realised that he was confronted by an immortal Possessor. His instinct for self-preservation impelled him to give guarantees as to future conduct.

  COMMENT: This solution produced a probability world type five, and must be considered temporary because of the very involved permanent work that Possessor Link is doing on the fringes of the entire seventy-third century.

  CONCLUSION: Returned to the Palace of Immortality after an absence of three days.

  Caxton sat there, stiffly at first, then he leaned back in his chair; but the same blank impression remained in his mind. There seemed to be nothing to think about the report. At last he turned a leaf, and read:

  SYNOPSIS OF REPORT OF POSSESSOR

  KINGSTON CRAIG

  This is the case of Laird Graynon, Police Inspector, 900th Sector Station, New York City, who on July 7, A.D. 2830, was falsely convicted of accepting bribes, and de-energised.

  SOLUTION: Obtained the retirement of Inspector Graynon two months before the date given in the charge. He retired to his farm, and henceforth exerted the very minimum of influence on the larger scene of existence. He lived in this probability world of his own until his death in 2874, and thus provided an almost perfect 290A.

  CONCLUSION: Returned to the Palace of Immortality after one hour.

  There were more entries, hundreds - thousands altogether in the several journals. Each one was a Report of Possessor Kingston Craig, and always he returned to the ‘Palace of Immortality’ after so many days, or hours, or weeks. Once it was three months, and that was an obscure, impersonal affair that dealt with the establishment of the time of demarcation between the ninety-eighth and ninety-ninth centuries and involved the resurrection into active, personal probability worlds of their own of three murdered men, named…

  What finally - progressively - bothered Caxton was, if these… Possessors (Possessors of what, for heaven’s sake?) … returned to the Palace of Immortality that often, where were they?

  On impulse, he walked out into the hallway, and stared along its silent distances. The utter stillness that fed back to him was startling. And he noticed something. It seemed to him that the place was dimmer. It was harder to see. Was it possible that night was falling? Suddenly, he pictured himself alone in this tomb-like building in pitch darkness, and the calm of the past several hours vanished. Anxiously, he made his way along the first side corridor that he could find, and, to his great relief, found a stairway going up.

  Caxton bounded up the stairs and tried the first door he came to. It opened into the living room on a magnificent apartment. There were seven rooms, including a kitchen that gleamed in the dimming light, with built-in cupboards that were packed with transparent containers. The contents were foods that were both familiar and strange.

  Caxton felt without emotion. Nor was he surprised as he manipulated a tiny lever at the top of a can of pears to have the fruit spill out on to the table, although the can had not opened in any way. He saw to it that he had a dish ready for the next attempt; that was all. Later, after he had eaten, he sought for light switches. But it was becoming too dark to see clearly.

  The main bedroom had a canopied bed that loomed in the darkness, and there were pajamas in a drawer. Lying between the cool sheets, his body heavy with approaching sleep, Caxton thought vaguely of the girl Selanie and her fear of the old man, why had she been so afraid? And what could have happened in the trailer that had irrevocably precipitated Peter Caxton into this?

  He slept uneasily, with the thoughts still in his mind.

  The light was far away at first. It came nearer, grew brighter, and at first it was like any awakening. Then, just as Caxton opened his eyes, memories flooded into his mind. He was lying, he saw tensely, on his left side. It was broad daylight. From the corners of his eyes he could see, above him, the silvery-blue canopy of the bed. Beyond it, far above, was the high ceiling.

  In the shadows of the previous evening he had scarcely noticed how big and roomy and luxurious his quarters were. There were thick-piled rugs and paneled walls and rose-colored furniture that glowed with costly beauty. The bed was of king-size, four-poster construction.

  Caxton’s thought suffered a dreadful pause because, in turning his head away from the left part of the room toward the right, his gaze fell for the first time on the other half of the bed. A young woman lay there, fast asleep. She had dark brown hair, a snowy-white throat, and, even in repose, her face looked fine and intelligent. She appeared to be about thirty years old. She bore a startling resemblance to Selanie, but was older.

  Caxton’s examination got no further. Like a thief in the night, he slid from under the quilt. He reached the floor and crouched there. He held his breath in desperate dismay as the steady breathing from the bed stopped. There was the sound of a woman sighing, and finally doom!

  ‘My dear,’ said a rich contralto voice, lazily, ‘what on earth are you doing on the floor?’

  There was movement on the bed, and Caxton cringed in anticipation of the scream that would greet the discovery that he was not the ‘my dear’. But nothing happened. The lovely head came over the edge of the bed. Gray eyes stared at him tranquilly. The young woman seemed to have forgotten her first question, for now she said, ‘Darling, are you scheduled to go Earthside today?’

  That got him. The question itself was so stupendous that his personal relation to everything seemed secondary. Besides, he was beginning to understand in a dim way.

  This was one of those worlds of probability that he had read about in the journals of Possessor Kingston Craig. Here was something that could happen to Peter Caxton. And somewhere behind the scenes someone was making it happen. All because he had gone in search of - among other things - his memory.

  Caxton stood up. He was perspiring. His heart was beating like a trip hammer. His knees trembled. But he stood up, and he said, ‘Yes, I’m going Earthside.’

  It gave him purpose, he thought tensely, reason to get out of here as fast as he possibly could. He was heading for the chair on which his clothes hung when the import of his own words provided the second and greater shock to his badly shaken system.

  Going Earthside! He felt his brain sag before the weight of a fact that transcended every reality of his existence. Going Earthside from where? The answer was a crazy thing that sighed at last wearily through his mind: from the Palace of Immortality, of course, the palace in the mists, where the immortal Possessors lived.

  He reached the bathroom. The night before, he had discovered in its darkening interior a transparent jar of salve, the label of which said: BEARD REMOVER - RUB ON, THEN WASH OFF. It took half a minute; the rest, five minutes longer. He came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. His mind was like a stone in his head, and like a stone sinking through water he started for the door near the bed.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘Yes?’ Cold and stiff, Caxton turned. In relief, he saw that she was not looking at him. Instead, pen in hand, she was frowning over some figures in a big ledger. Without looking up, she said, ‘Our time-relation to each other is becoming worse. I’ll have to stay more at the palace, reversing my age, while you go to Earth and add a few years to yours. Will you make the arrangements for that, dear? Nineteen for me; you older by twice? Still true?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caxton, ‘yes.’

  He walked into the little hallway, then into the living room. Out in the corridor at last, he leaned against the cool, smooth, marble wall, and thought hopelessly: Reverse her age! So that was what this incredible building did! Every day here you were a day younger, and it was necessary to go to Earth to strike a balance.

  The shock grew. Because what had happened to him in the trailer was so important that a superhuman organisation was striving to prevent him from learning the truth. Somehow, today, he would really have to find out what all this was about, explore every floor, and try to locate some kind of central office. He was relaxing slowly, withdrawing out of that intense inward concentration of his mind when, for die first time, he grew conscious of sounds. Voices, movements, people below him.

  Even as he leaped for the balcony balustrade, Caxton realised that he should have known. The woman there in the bed, where she hadn’t been before had implied a world complete in every detail of life. But he felt shocked anyway. Bewildered, he stared down at the great main corridor of the building, along the silent, deserted reaches of which he had wandered for so many hours the day before. Now men and women swarmed along it in a steady stream. It was like a city street, with people moving in both directions, all in a hurry, all bent on some private errand.

  ‘Hello, Caxton,’ said a young man’s voice behind him.

  Caxton had no emotion left for that. He turned slowly, like a tired man. The stranger who stood there regarding him was tall and well-proportioned. He had dark hair and a full, strong face. He wore a shapely one-piece suit, pleasingly form-fitting above the waist. The trouser part puffed out like breeches. He was smiling in a friendly, quizzical fashion. He said finally, coolly:

  ‘So you’d like to know what it’s all about? Don’t worry, you will. Come with me. My name is Price, by the way.’

  Caxton held back. ‘What - ‘ he began blankly. He stopped. His mind narrowed around the conviction that he was being rushed along too fast for understanding. This man waiting for him here at the door was no accident. He saw Price was putting a glove on, and that he seemed to be having difficulty with it.

  Caxton, watching him, relaxed a little, and said, ‘You stated that you wanted me to come with you. Where to?’

  ‘I’m going to take you Earthside - your own era.’

  ‘You mean out of that big door, down those steps?’

  ‘No, the other door,’ was the reply. ‘We’ll ride there in one of the tubes below the main floor.’

  As he spoke, he finished pulling on the glove. He seemed a little breathless from the effort. Caxton noticed only vaguely. He was chagrined. The possibility of a basement transportation system had not occurred to him.

  Nonetheless, he ceased his resistance. As Caxton walked beside the other, heading for the stairway, he realised that he was being extended a kind of friendliness. It bothered him, for he was a loner and did not have male friendships. He thought warily: I won’t leave this building, I won’t go Earthside, or anywhere, until I understand everything.

  The biggest mystery to be explained, it seemed to him, was the condition of unoccupancy yesterday, and occupancy today.

  They had reached the main corridor level; and now they started down another set of steps that Caxton hadn’t noticed the evening before. He did not allow himself more than a moment’s distraction, however, but asked his question.

  The man replied, ‘We tried a couple of probability worlds on you, Caxton, to see how they fitted.’

  It seemed a meaningless concept. ‘You mean this?’ Caxton asked. ‘Like my waking up beside an older Selanie as if I were married to her?’

  ‘You are married to her in this probability world,’ said Price.

  Caxton strove to visualise being married to the delightful girl he had seen on the train. He felt enthralled. Then, ‘But where was I yesterday? If that was yesterday.’

  ‘That was another probability time. Neither of them “took,” I’m sorry to say.’

  The comment seemed threatening. ‘How do you mean?’ Caxton spoke quickly.

  ‘Well, in each one you remained yourself, and this last time we even worked it so it would be a probability for you about ten years younger. But the same rigid personality woke up. You’ll agree, I’m sure, that you have no feeling of change. You are not involved, nor were you in what seemed to be yesterday.’

  ‘Seemed to be yesterday?’ echoed Caxton.

  ‘Well-’

  Caxton interrupted, because he had another, bigger thought. ‘You mean I’m ten years younger?’ His excited remembrance flashed back to the bathroom upstairs, where he had dressed. He had been in a disturbed state, but come to think of it-’Hey!’ he said. ‘I remember when I looked in the mirror. I guess I did look younger.’

  ‘By ten years,’ said Price. ‘But it failed to change that tight personality structure.’ He broke off. ‘In here,’ he said.

  They had come to an opening in a smooth, gray wall. It was an oval-shaped opening, and neatly fitted inside was a circular door, which was open. Caxton could see a row of seats in the lighted interior, and he deduced that this was the tube car that would transport them to an exit at the far end of this colossal building.

  As he peered in, undecided about entering, Caxton hedged, ‘I’m sure I don’t understand this probability stuff.’

  ‘It’s not something that anyone understands,’ said Price. ‘Selanie’s father - Claudan Johns - who found the Palace of Immortality and this whole backfold in time, knows more about it than anyone else. But, like a scientist, what he has discovered are the laws, and undoubtedly not all of those, by which it operates. As a physicist you may be interested to know how extensive the phenomenon is.’

  He glanced questioningly at Caxton, who hesitated. Of all the things he didn’t need at this moment was scientific information. He was trying to make up his mind where all this was leading. … While I’m thinking, I’d better listen.