"Large is right," I said. "It would take years to find a stone cairn on that. We're getting excited about nothing. We're looking for a hole in the ground, hundreds of years old--if this lousy notebook means anything--maybe marked with a few stones--in the middle of miles of plain. And it's all guesswork anyway...." I took the atlas, turned the page. "I don't know what I expected to get out of decoding those pages," I said. "But I was hoping for more than this." "I think we should try, Legion," Foster said. "We can go there, search over the ground. It would be costly, but not impossible. We can start by gathering capital--" "Wait a minute, Foster," I said. I was staring at a larger-scale map showing southern England. Suddenly my heart was thudding. I put a finger on a tiny dot in the center of Salisbury Plain. "Six, two and even," I said. "There's your Pit of the Hunters...." Foster leaned over, read the fine print. "Stonehenge." * * * * * I read from the encyclopedia page: "--this great stone structure, lying on the Plain of Salisbury, Wiltshire, England, is pre-eminent among megalithic monuments of the ancient world. "Within a circular ditch 300' in diameter, stones up to 22' in height are arranged in concentric circles. The central altar stone, over 16' long, is approached from the north-east by a broad roadway called the Avenue--" "It is not an altar," Foster said. "How do you know?" "Because--" Foster frowned. "I know, that's all." "The journal said the stones were arranged in the sign of the Two Worlds," I said. "That means the concentric circles, I suppose; the same thing that's stamped on the cover of the notebook." "And the ring," Foster said. "Let me read the rest," I said. "A great sarsen stone stands upright in the Avenue; the axis through the two stones, when erected, pointed directly to the rising of the sun on Midsummer day. Calculations based on this observation indicate a date of approximately 1600 B.C." Foster took the book and I sat on the window sill and looked out at a big Florida moon. I lit a cigarette, dragged on it, and thought about a man who long ago had crossed the North Atlantic in a dragon boat to be a god among the Indians. I wondered where he came from, and what it was he was looking for, and what kept him going in spite of the hell that showed in the spare lines of the journal he kept. If, I reminded myself, he had ever existed.... * * * * * Foster was poring over the book. "Look," I said. "Let's get back to earth. We have things to think about, plans to make. The fairy tales can wait until later." "What do you suggest?" Foster said. "That we forget the things you've told me, and the things we've read here, discard the journal, and abandon the attempt to find the answers?"