But what if the transtime invasion did not come in three days? The hoax might be uncovered at any moment now--Firemoor was already regretting the whole business, on the verge of a funk--and during the period of angry reaction no invasion reports of any sort would be believed. Then he would be in the position of having cried wolf to the world. Or what if the transtime invasion did not come at all? All his actions had been based on such insubstantial evidence--Thorn's dream-studies, certain suggestive psychological aberrations, the drugged Conjerly's murmur of "... invasion ... three days...." He was becoming increasingly convinced that he would soon wake, as if from a nightmare, and find himself accused as a madman or charlatan. Certainly his nerves were getting out of hand. He needed Thorn. Never before had he realized the degree to which he and Thorn were each other's balance wheel. But Thorn was still missing, and the inquiry agencies had no progress to report. Despite the larger anxieties in which his mind was engulfed, Thorn's absence preyed upon it to such a degree that he had twice fancied he spotted Thorn among the swirling crowd outside the Blue Lorraine. But even more than he needed Thorn, he needed Oktav. Now that the crisis had come, he could see to what an extent the seer's advice had determined all his actions, from his first serious belief in the possibility of transtime invasion to his engineering of the Martian hoax. Call it superstition, ignorant credulity, hypnotism, the fact remained that he believed in Oktav, was convinced that Oktav had access to fields of knowledge undreamed of by ordinary men. And now that Oktav was gone, he felt an increasing helplessness and desperation, so that he could not resist the impulse driving him back once more to the cryptically empty office. As he raised his hand to activate the door, memories came stealing eerily back--of former sessions in the room beyond, of the last session, of Oktav's strange summoner clad in the garments of Dawn Civilization, of the inexplicable disappearance of summoner and summoned in the exitless inner chamber. But before his hand could activate the door, it opened. Clad in his customary black robe, Oktav was sitting at his desk. As if into a dream within a dream, Clawly entered. * * * * * Although the seer had always seemed supernaturally ancient, Clawly's first impression was that Oktav had vastly aged in the past three days. Something had happened to drain his small remaining store of life forces almost to the last drop. The hands were folded white claws. The face was wrinkle-puckered skin drawn tight over a fragile skull. But in the sunken, droopingly lidded eyes, knowledge burned more fiercely than ever. And not knowledge alone, but also something new--a reckless determination to use that knowledge. It was a look that made Clawly shiver--and thrill.