While they sat as usual, reminiscing, Nat wondered aloud if Anton Bor still lived. He scarcely had uttered the question before the grass on the lawn seemed to shimmer slightly, and a time machine materialized before their startled eyes. Its door burst open and three men sprang out with weapons ready. After them came the halting, decrepit figure of an ancient Anton Bor, a paralysis gun wavering unsteadily in his shriveled hands. The shock was so great that Nat and Abby sat completely unmoving and the full power of Bor's weapon caught them where they sat. * * * * * Nat and Abby stood before the Judgement Tribunal in the 25th century. Mere punishment had long since passed out of existence. A law breaker had his case reviewed by a board of psychiatrists, lawyers, sociologists, even historians. A person's past was laid bare, in an effort to find out _why_ aberrant action had been taken. The board recommended remedial action that varied greatly from case to case. "We find you guilty," the spokesman finally stated, "of Time Meddling, an offence that can have the gravest consequences. In this case, our problem is two-fold. First, we must correct the original action. Second, we must do all in our power to discourage actions such as you have taken. "With this in mind, you, personally, will see corrective measures carried out. Anton Bor, who worked so self-sacrificingly over so many years to bring this case to a close, will supervise the correction." This time Nat was prepared. The scene was exactly as he remembered it. But now the gallows was empty, the spectators frozen statues. "The paralysis ray's effects last for a little more than five minutes," Bor said with the coldness of a machine. "We have that much time to accomplish our job." Bound and helpless, Nat heard Bor bark a command. He saw an assistant pick up the paralysed form of his wife, dressed again in 17th century style, and walk out across the valley. He placed Abby on the gallows, put the rope around her neck and moved quickly back to the woods. "Now we'll watch it," Bor said with cold finality. "I think my ancestor out there, Jonathan Borden would be proud of me," he added with a trace of smugness. * * * * * "_... as we watched, it seemed suddenly our vision blurred and there was the smell of brimstone in the aire and when we could see againe, there in the place of comely young Abigaile Goodyeare, was a wrinkled gruesome crone, more like unto a spectre, with gray hair and wrinkled visage, whose true age could only be guessed at._" --WITCHCRAFT IN EARLY AMERICA VOLUME II, CHAPTER 4