"Hey, look over there," I yelped suddenly, pointing. An empty-eyed skull stared past me from the shadows at the base of a column. Foster went over to the skull, stood looking down at it. "There was a disaster here," he said. "That much is plain." "It's creepy," I said. "Let's go back; I forgot to get film for my Brownie." "The long-dead pose no threat," said Foster. He was kneeling, looking at the white bones. He picked up something, stared at it. "Look, Legion." I went over. Foster held up a ring. "We're onto something hot, pal," I said. "It's the twin to yours." "I wonder ... who he was." I shook my head. "If we knew that--and who killed him--or what--" "Let's go on. The answers must be here somewhere." Foster moved off toward a corridor that reminded me of a sunny avenue lined with chestnut trees--though there were no trees, and no sun. I followed, gaping. For hours we wandered, looking, touching, not saying much but saturated in wonder, like kids in a toy factory. We came across another skeleton, lying among towering engines. Finally we paused in a giant storeroom stacked high with supplies. "Have you stopped to think, Foster," I said, fingering a length of rose-violet cloth as thin as woven spider webs. "This boat's a treasure-house of marketable items. Talk about the wealth of the Indies--" "I seek only one thing here, my friend," Foster said; "my past." "Sure," I said. "But just in case you don't find it, you might consider the business angle. We can set up a regular shuttle run, hauling stuff down--" "You Earthmen," sighed Foster. "For you, every new experience is immediately assessed in terms of its merchandising possibilities. Well, I leave that to you." "Okay okay," I said. "You go on ahead and scout around down that way, if you want--where the technical-looking stuff is. I want to browse around here for a while." "As you wish." "We'll meet at this end of the big hall we passed back there. Okay?" Foster nodded and went on. I turned to a bin filled with what looked like unset emeralds the size of walnuts. I picked up a handful, juggled them lovingly. "Anyone for marbles?" I murmured to myself. * * * * * Hours later I came along a corridor that was like a path through a garden that was a forest, crossed a ballroom like a meadow floored in fine-grained rust-red wood and shaded by giant ferns, and went under an arch into the hall where Foster sat at a long table cut from yellow marble. A light the color of sunrise gleamed through tall pseudo-windows. I dumped an armful of books on the table. "Look at these," I said. "All made from the same stuff as the Journal. And the pictures...."