Now nothing would stop the Fireclown. He rose from the table, his birdlike movements even more exaggerated than usual. He strutted the length of the table. He strutted back again. "A pox on nuance! Seize the substance, beak and claws, and leave the chitterlings for the carrion! Let crows and storks squabble over the scraps, these subtleties — the eagle takes the main carcass, as much or as little as he needs!" He fixed his gaze upon Miss Ming. "Forget your quibbling scruples, madonna! Come with me now. Together we'll leave the planet to its fate. Their souls gutter like dying candles. The whole world reeks of inertia. If they will not have my Ideals, then I shall bestow all my gifts on you!"

Mavis Ming said in strangled tones: "You are very kind, Mr Bloom, but…"

"Perhaps that particular matter can be discussed later," proposed Doctor Volospion tightening his cap about his head and face. "Now, sir, if you will come?"

"Miss Ming, too?"

"Miss Ming."

The trio left the hall, with Miss Ming reluctantly trailing behind. She desperately hoped that Doctor Volospion was not playing one of his games at her expense. He had been so nice to her lately, she thought, that he was evidently mellowing her, yet she hated in herself that slight lingering suspicion of him, that voice which had told her, on more than one occasion, that if someone liked her then that someone could have no taste at all and was therefore not worth knowing.

They descended and they descended, for it was Doctor Volospion's pleasure to bury his collection in the bowels of his castle. Murky corridor followed murky corridor, lit by flambeaux, candles, rush torches, oil-lamps, anything that would give the minimum of heat and cast the maximum number of shadows.

"You have," said Mr Bloom after some while of this tramping, "an unexceptional imagination, Doctor Volospion."

"I do not concern myself with the lust for variation enjoyed by most of my fellows at the End of Time," remarked the lean man. "I follow but a few simple obsessions. And in that, I think, we share something, Mr Bloom."

"Well —" began the Fireclown.

But then Doctor Volospion had stopped at an iron-bound door. "Here we are!" He flung the door wide. The light from within seemed intense.

The Fireclown strutted, stiff-limbed as ever, into the high vaulted hall. He blinked in the light. He sniffed the warm, heavy air. For almost as far as the eye could see there were rows and rows of cabinets, pedestals, display domes; Doctor Volospion's museum.

"What's this?" inquired Mr Bloom.

"My collection of devotional objects, culled from all ages. From all the planets of the universe." Doctor Volospion was proud.

It was difficult to see if Mr Bloom was impressed, for his clown's paint hid most expression.

Doctor Volospion paused beside a little table. "Only the best have been preserved. I have discarded or destroyed the rest. Here is a history of folly!" He looked down at the table. On it lay a dusty scrap of skin to which clung a few faded feathers. Doctor Volospion plucked it up. "Do you recognize that, Mr Bloom, with all your experience of Time and Space?"

The long neck came forwards to inspect the thing. "The remains of a fowl?" suggested Mr Bloom. "A chicken, perhaps?"

Miss Ming wrinkled her nose and backed away from them. "I never liked this part of the castle. It's creepy. I don't know how —" She pulled herself together.

"Eh?" said Mr Bloom.

Doctor Volospion permitted himself a dark smile. "It is all that remains of Yawk, Saviour of Shakah, founder of a religion which spread through fourteen star-systems and eighty planets and lasted some seven thousand years until it became the subject of a jehad."

"Hm," said Mr Bloom non-committally.

"I had this," confided Doctor Volospion, "from the last living being to retain his faith in Yawk. He regarded himself as the only guardian of the relic, carried it across countless light-years, preaching the gospel of Yawk (and a fine, poetic tale it is), until he reached Earth."

"And then?" Bloom reverently replaced the piece of skin.

"He is now a guest of mine. You will meet him later."

A smile appeared momentarily on Miss Ming's lips. She believed that she had guessed what her host had in mind.

"Aha," murmured the Fireclown. "And what would this be?" He moved on through the hall, pausing beside a cabinet containing an oddly wrought artefact made of something resembling green marble.

"A weapon," said Volospion. "The very gun which slew Marchbanks, the Martyr of Mars, during the revival, in the 25th century (A.D., of course), of the famous Kangaroo Cult which had swept the solar system about a hundred years previously, before it was superseded by some atheistic political doctrine. You know how one is prone to follow the other. Nothing, Mr Bloom, changes very much, either in the fundamentals or the rhetoric of religions and political creeds. I hope I am not depressing you?"

Bloom snorted. "How could you? None of these others has experienced what I have experienced. None has had the knowledge I have gained and, admittedly, half-forgotten. Do not confuse me with these, I warn you, Doctor Volospion, if you wish to continue to converse with me. I could destroy all this in a moment, if I wished, and it would make no difference…"

"You threaten?"

"What?" The little man removed his clown's cap and ran his fingers through the tangles of his auburn hair. "Eh? Threaten? Don't be foolish. I gave my word. I was merely lending emphasis to my statement."

"Besides," said Doctor Volospion smoothly, "you could do little now, I suspect, for there are several force-fields lying between you and your ship now — they protect my museum — and I suspect that your ship is the main source of your power, for all you claim it derives entirely from your mind."

Emmanuel Bloom chuckled. "You have found me out, Doctor Volospion, I see." He seemed undisturbed. "Now, then, what other pathetic monuments to the nobility of the human spirit have you locked up here?"

Doctor Volospion extended his arms. "What would you see?" He pointed in one direction. "A wheel from Krishna's chariot?" He pointed in another. "A tooth said to belong to the Buddha? One of the original tablets of Moses? Bunter's bottle? The sacred crown of the Kennedys? Hitler's nail? There," he tapped a dome, "you'll find them all in that case. Or over here," a sweep of a green and black arm, "the finger-bones of Karl Marx, the knee-cap of Mao Tse-tung, a mummified testicle belonging to Heffner, the skeleton of Maluk Khan, the tongue of Suhulu. Or what of these? Filp's loin-cloth, Xiombarg's napkin, Teglardin's peach rag. Then there are the coins of Bibb-Nardrop, the silver wands of Er and Er, the towels of Ich — all the way from a world within the Crab Nebula. And most of these, in this section here, are only from the Dawn Age. Farther along are relics from all other ages of this world and the universe. Rags and bones, Mr Bloom. Rags and bones."

"I am moved," said Emmanuel Bloom.

"All that is left," said Doctor Volospion, "of a million mighty causes. And all, at core, that those causes ever were!"

The clown's face was grave as he moved among the cases.

Mavis Ming was shivering. "This place really does depress me," she whispered to her guardian. "I know it's my fault, but I've always hated places like this. They seem ghoulish. Not that I'm criticising, Doctor Volospion, but I've never been able to understand why a man like you could indulge in such a strange hobby. It's all research material, of course. We have to do research, don't we? Well, at least, you do. It's nice that someone does. I mean this is your area of research, isn't it, this particular aspect of the galaxy's past? It's why I'll never make a first-rank historian, I suppose. It's the same, you know, when I lived with Donny Stevens. It was the cold-blooded killing of those sweet little rabbits and monkeys at the lab. I'd simply refuse, you know, to let him or anyone else talk about it when I was around. And with the time machine, too, they sent so many to God knows where before they'd got it working properly. When can I stop this charade, Doctor…?"