"True, your Mightiness," the Negro said to the boy. "You possess the power to arbitrate in this case, having to do with this gentleman's manuscript." Squatting on his lank haunches the bodyguard sought to engage the boy's wandering attention. "Your Mightiness, this man is the inventor of the swabble."

"What's that?" The boy glanced from one to the other of them, scowling with suspicion. "How much does a swabble cost? I only have fifty cents; I got it as my allowance. Anyhow I don't think I want a swabble. I want some gum, and I'm going to the show." His expression became fixed, rigidly in place. "Who cares about a swabble?" he said with disdain.

"You have lived one hundred and sixty years," the bodyguard Plaut told him. "Because of this man's invention. From the swabble the Hobart Phase was inferred and finally established experimentally. I know that means nothing to you, but -" The bodyguard clasped his hands together earnestly, rocking on his hocks as he tried to keep the boy's constantly dwindling attention focussed. "Pay attention to me, Sebastian; this is important. If you could sign a decree… while you can still write. That's all. A public notice for people to -"

"Aw, go on; beat it." The boy glared at him with hostility. "I don't believe you; something's the matter."

Something is wrong, all right, Eng thought to himself as he rose stiffly to his feet. And there appears to be next to nothing that we can do about it. At least without your help. He felt defeated.

"Try him again later," the bodyguard said, also rising; he looked decidedly sympathetic.

"He'll be even younger," Eng said bitterly. And anyhow there was no time; no later existed. He walked a few steps away, then, overcome with gloom.

On a tree branch a butterfly had begun the intricate, mysterious process of squeezing itself into a dull brown cocoon, and Eng paused to inspect its slow, labored efforts. It had its task, too, but that task, unlike his, was not hopeless. However the butterfly did not know that; it continued mindlessly, a reflex machine obeying the urgings programmed into it from the remote future. The sight of the insect at work gave Eng something to ponder; he perceived the moral in it, and, turning, walked back to confront the child who squatted on the grass with his circle of gaily-colored luminous marbles.

"Look at it this way," he said to the Anarch Peak; this was probably his last try, and he meant to bring in everything available. "Even if you can't remember what a swabble is or what the Hobart Phase does, all you need to do is sign; I have the document here." Reaching into his inside coat pocket he brought the envelope out, opened it. "When you've signed this, it will appear on world-wide TV, at the six P.M. news in each time zone. I tell you what I'll do. If you'll sign this, I'll triple what you've got in the way of money. You say you have fifty cents? I'll give you an additional dollar, a genuine paper one. What do you say? And I'll pay your way to the movies once a week, at the Saturday matinee for the balance of the year. Is it a deal?"

The boy studied him acutely. He seemed almost convinced. But something – Eng could not fathom what – held him back.

"I think," the bodyguard said softly, "he wants to ask his dad's permission. The old gentleman is now alive; his components migrated into a birth-container about six weeks ago, and he is currently in the Kansas City General Hospital's birth ward undergoing revivification. He is already conscious, and His Mightiness has spoken with him several times. Is that not so, Sebastian?" He smiled gently at the boy, then grimaced as the boy nodded. "So that is it," he said to Eng, then. "I was right. He's afraid to take any initiative, now that his father's alive. It's very bad luck as far as you're concerned, Mr. Eng; he's just plain dwindled too much to perform his job. And everybody knows it as a fact."

"I refuse to give up," Eng said. But the truth of the matter was that purely and simply he had already given up; he could see that the bodyguard, who spent all his waking time with the Anarch, was correct. It had become a waste of time. Had this meeting taken place two years from now, however…

To the bodyguard he said heavily, "I'll go away and let him play with his marbles." He placed the envelope back in his pocket, started off; then, pausing, he added, "I'll make one final try yesterday morning. Before I'm due at the library. If the boy's schedule permits it."

"It surely does," the bodyguard said. He explained, "Hardly anybody consults him any more, in view of his – condition." His tone was sympathetic, and for that Eng felt appreciation.

Turning wearily he trudged off, leaving the one-time Anarch of half the civilized world to play mindlessly in the grass.

The previous morning, he realized. My last chance. Long time to wait and do nothing.

In his hotel room he placed a phone call to the West Coast, to the People's Topical Library. Presently he found himself facing one of the bureaucrats with whom, of late, he had had to deal so much. "Let me talk directly to Mr. Lehrer," he grunted. Might as well go directly to the source, he decided; Lehrer had final authority in the matter of his book – now decayed to a mere typewritten manuscript.

"Sorry," the functionary told him, with a faint trace of disdain. "It is too early; Mr. Lehrer has already left the building."

"Could I catch him at home, do you think?"

"He is probably having breakfast. I suggest you wait until late yesterday. After all, Mr. Lehrer needs some time for seclusive recreation; he has many heavy and difficult responsibilities to weigh him down." Clearly, the minor functionary had no intention of cooperating.

Dully depressed, Eng hung up without even saying hello. Well, perhaps it was for the better; undoubtedly Lehrer would refuse to grant him additional time. After all, as the library bureaucrat had said, Lehrer had pressures at work on him, too: in particular the Erads of the syndicate… those mysterious entities who saw to it that destruction of human inventions be painstakingly carried out. As witness his own book. Well, time to give up and head back west.

As he started from his hotel room, he paused at the mirror of the vanity table to see whether his face had, during the day, absorbed the packet of whiskers which he had foam-glued onto it. Peering at his reflection, he rubbed his jowls…

And screamed.

All along his jaw-line the dark stubble of newly-grown facial hair could be seen. He was growing a beard; stubble was coming in – not being absorbed.

What this meant he did not know. But it terrified him; he stood gaping, appalled now by the fright collected within his reflected features. The man in the mirror did look even vaguely familiar; some ominous underlying deformity of change had attacked it. But why? And – how?

Instinct told him not to leave the hotel room.

He seated himself. And waited. For what, he did not know. But one thing he did know. There would be no meeting with Niehls Lehrer of the People's Topical Library at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. Because -

He scented it, grasped it intuitively from the one single glance in the mirror of his hotel room's vanity table. There would be no yesterday; not for him, anyhow.

Would there be for anyone else?

"I've got to see the Anarch again," he said haltingly to himself. The hell with Lehrer; I don't have any intention of trying to make that or any other appointment with him now. All that matters is seeing Sebastian Peak once more; in fact as soon as it's possible. Perhaps earlier today.

Because once he saw the Anarch he would know whether what he guessed were true. And if it were true, then his book, all at once, lay outside jeopardy. The syndicate with their inflexible program of eradication no longer menaced him – possibly. At least he hoped so.