She left him standing alone in front of the fire.... Coulter filled his pipe and lit it. His mother had said _we_ when she talked of her plans, as if her son were merely an object to be moved about at her whim. _Pick up my lighter at MacAuliffe's ... going to take a trip abroad this summer ... not going to be foolish about her...._ He could see the phrases as vividly as if they were written on a video teleprompter. And then he saw another set of phrases--different in content, yet strangely alike in meaning. _Nonsense, we'll have a yacht ... lord it over ordinary mortals ... a long wait._ He thought of the voodoo and the fingernail parings, of the savage materialism of the woman who was even now preparing herself to receive him upstairs, who was planning to relive his life with him in _her_ image. He thought of his wife, foolish perhaps, but true to him and never domineering. He thought of the Scarborough house and the good friends he had there, hundreds of miles and twenty years away. He wondered if he could go back if he got beyond the five-mile radius of the strange machine in the basement. He looked down with regret at his slim young body, so unexpectedly regained--and thought of the heavier, older less vibrant body that lay waiting for him five miles away. Then swiftly, silently, he tiptoed into the hall, donned coat and hat and gloves, slipped through the front door and bolted for the Pontiac. He drove like a madman over the icy roads through the dark. Somehow he sensed he would have to get beyond the reach of the machine before Eve grew impatient and came downstairs and found him gone. She might, in her anger, send him back to some other Time--or perhaps the machine worked both ways. He didn't know. He could only flee in fear ... and hope.... At times, in the years that had passed since his abrupt breaking-off of his romance with Eve Lawton, he had wondered a little about why he had dropped her so quickly, just when his mother's death seemed to open the path for their marriage. Now he knew that youthful instinct had served him better than he knew. Somehow, beneath the charm and wit and beauty of the girl, he had sensed the domineering woman. Perhaps a lifetime with his mother had made him extra-aware of Eve's desire to dominate without its reaching his conscious mind. But to have exchanged the velvet glove of his mother for the velvet glove of Eve would have meant a lifetime of bondage. He would never have been his own man, never....