"Look at the symbols on the machines," Foster said. "They're identical with those in the first section of the Journal." "All pot-hooks look alike to me," I said. "It's this screen that's got me worried. If I've got it doped out correctly, that blip is either a mighty slow airplane--or it's at one hell of an altitude." "Modern aircraft operate at great heights," Foster said. "Not at this height," I said. "Give me a few more minutes to study these scales...." "There are a number of controls here," Foster said. "Obviously intended to activate mechanisms--" "Don't touch 'em," I said. "Unless you want to start World War III." "I hardly think the results would be so drastic," Foster said. "Surely this installation has a simple purpose, unconnected with modern wars--but very possibly connected with the mystery of the Journal--and of my own past." * * * * * "The less we know about this, the better," I said. "At least, if we don't mess with anything, we can always claim we just stepped in here to get out of the rain--" "You're forgetting the Hunters," Foster said. "Some new anti-personnel gimmick," I said. "They came out of this shaft, Legion. It was opened by the pressure of the Hunters, bursting out." "Why did they pick that precise moment--just as we arrived?" I asked. "I think they were aroused," Foster said. "I think they sensed the presence of their ancient foe." I swung around to look at him. "I see the way your thoughts are running," I said. "You're their Ancient Foe, now, huh? Just let me get this straight: that means that umpteen hundred years ago, you personally, had a fight with the Hunters--here at Stonehenge. You killed a batch of them and ran. You hired some kind of Viking ship and crossed the Atlantic. Later on, you lost your memory, and started being a guy named Foster. A few weeks ago you lost it again. Is that the picture?" "More or less." "And now we're a couple of hundred feet under Stonehenge--after a brush with a crowd of luminous stinkbombs--and you're telling me you'll be nine hundred on your next birthday." "Remember the entry in the journal, Legion? 'I came to the place of the Hunters, and it was a place I knew of old, and there was no hive, but a Pit built by men of the Two worlds....'" "Okay," I said. "So you're pushing a thousand." I glanced at the screen, got out a scrap of paper, and scribbled a rapid calculation. "Here's another big number for you. That object on the screen is at an altitude--give or take a few percent--of thirty thousand miles." * * * * * I tossed the pencil aside, swung around to frown at Foster. "What are we mixed up in, Foster? Not that I really want to know. I'm ready to go to a nice clean jail now, and pay my debt to society--" "Calm down, Legion," Foster said. "You're raving."