Then he became aware of another faint, rhythmic sound, which the humming of the bees had masked. It came from inside the house. Throaty breathing. The intervals between breaths seemed abnormally long. Clawly hesitated. Then he smoothly ducked under the beam. He walked softly down a dark, cool corridor. The breathing grew steadily louder, though there was no change in its labored, sighing monotony. Opposite the third opened doorway the increase in volume was abrupt. As his eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness, he made out a low couch and the figure of a man sprawled on it, on his back, arms dropped to either side, pale blob of bald head thrown limply back. At intervals the vague face quivered with the slow-paced breathing. Clawly fumbled sideways, switched on a window, went over to the couch. On the floor, under Conjerly's hand, was a deflated elastoid bag. Clawly picked it up, sniffed, quickly averted his head from the faintly pungent soporific odor. He shook the bulky sleeper, less gently after a moment. It did not interrupt the measured snores. The first impression of Conjerly's face was one of utter emptiness, the deep-grooved wrinkles of character and emotion a network of disused roads. But on closer examination, hints of personality became dimly apparent, as if glimpsed at the bottom of a smudgy pool. The longer Clawly studied them, the surer he became that the suspicions he had clutched at so eagerly in Oktav's office were groundless. This was the Conjerly he had known. Unimaginative perhaps, stubborn and blunt, a little too inclined to conservatism, a little too fond of curling down those deep furrows at the corners of the mouth--but nothing alien, nothing malign. The rhythm of the breathing changed. The sleeper stirred. One hand came slowly up, brushed blindly at the chest. Clawly watched motionlessly. From all sides the heavy summery silence pressed in. The rhythm of the breathing continued to change. The sleeper tossed. The hand fumbled restlessly at the neck of the loose house robe. And something else changed. It seemed to Clawly as if the face of the Conjerly he knew were sinking downward into a narrow bottomless pit, becoming tiny as a cameo, vanishing utterly, leaving only a hollow mask. And then, as if another face were rising to fill the mask--and in this second face, if not malignity, at least grim and unswervingly hostile purpose. The sleeper mumbled, murmured. Clawly bent low, caught words. Words with a shuddery, unplacable quality of distance to them, as if they came from another cosmos. "... transtime machine ... invasion ... three days ... we ... prevent action ... until--" Then, from the silence behind him, a different sound--a faint crunch. Clawly whirled. Standing in the doorway, filling half its width and all its height, was Tempelmar. And in Tempelmar's lean, horse-like face the vanishing flicker of a look in which suspicion, alarm, and a more active emotion were blended--a lethal look.