He returned to the jump-board to find out. Just as he reached it, its lights flickered and went out. The time and space-dials, however, remained illumined long enough for him to see when and where the TSB had re-materialized. The year was 1428 A.D.; the locale, Warwickshire. Mallory made tracks for the generator room. The generator was smoking, and the room reeked with the stench of shorted wires. He swore. Perfidion! So that was why the man had broken with tradition and invited a common time-thief to a game of golp! If he had been anyone but Perfidion he would have gimmicked the controls of the _Yore_ so that Mallory would have wound up directly in the fifteenth century sans sojourn in the sixth. But being Perfidion, he had wanted Mallory to know how completely he was being outsmarted. The chances were, though, that if the man had anticipated the near-coincidence of the two visits to the chamber of the Sangraal he would have seen to it that Mallory had never gotten a chance to use his Sir Galahad suit. Returning to the control room, Mallory saw that the lumillusion panel had been pre-programmed to materialize the _Yore_ as a fifteenth-century English castle. Apparently it had been in the books all along for him to become a fifteenth-century knight, just as it had been in the books all along for Perfidion to become the proprietor of a misplaced hot-dog stand. Mallory laughed. He had gotten the best of the bargain after all. At least there was no smog in the fifteenth century. Who was he supposed to be? he wondered. Had his name gone down in history by any chance? Abruptly he gasped. Was _he_ the Sir Thomas Malory with estates in Northampshire and Warwickshire? Was _he_ the Sir Thomas Malory who had compiled and translated and written _Le Morte d'Arthur_? Almost nothing about the man's life was known, and probably the little that was known had been assumed. He _could_ have popped up from nowhere, made his fortune through foreknowledge, and been knighted. He _could_ have been a reformed time-thief stranded in the fifteenth century. But if he, Mallory, was Malory, how in the world was he going to get five hundred chapters of semi-historical data together and pass them off as _Le Morte d'Arthur_? Suddenly he understood everything. * * * * * Going over to where Rowena was still standing in front of the telewindow, he said, "I'll bet you know no end of stories about the doings of the knights of the Table Round." "La! Sir Thomas. Ever I saw day of my life I have heard naught else in the court of my father." "Tell me," Mallory said, "how did this Round Table business begin? Or, better yet, how did the Grail business begin? We can take up the Round Table business later on."