Conjerly and Tempelmar had risen, and were standing there as solidly as two obelisks--and indeed there was something unpleasantly monumental in their intensified, self-satisfied composure. Before anyone realized it, the center of attention of the meeting had shifted from Clawly and Firemoor to these new figures--or rather to these old and familiar figures suddenly seen in a new and formidable guise. Shielding blinked at them a moment, as if he didn't know who they were. Then, with a haste that was almost that of fear, he swung around and flipped a beam on the board behind him. Halfway up the terraced banks of gray squares, a panel came to life. A man in black uniform looked down from it. "Communications Center 1 seized for the Servants," he announced crisply in a queerly accented though perfectly intelligible voice. Shielding stood stock-still for a moment, then flipped another beam. "The soldiers of the Servants are in control at this point," said the second black-uniformed individual, speaking with equal crispness. With a stifled, incredulous gasp, Shielding ran his hand down the board, flipping on all the panels in the Opal Cross sector. Most of them showed black-uniformed figures. Of the remainder, the majority were empty. And then it became apparent that not all the black-uniformed figures were merely televised images. Some of them were standing between the panels, in the Sky Room itself, holding weapons trained. By a psychological illusion, the figures of Conjerly and Tempelmar seemed to grow taller. "Yes," Conjerly said, soberly, almost kindly, "your government--or, rather, that absence of all sane control which you call a government--is now in the capable hands of the Servants of the People. Clawly's assertions were all quite correct, though fortunately we were able to keep you from believing them--a necessary deception. There is an invasion going on--an invasion that is in the best interests of all worlds, and one from which yours will benefit greatly. It is being made across time, through a region that has become common to both our worlds. That region is our transtime bridgehead. And, as is plain to see, our bridgehead coincides with your headquarters." * * * * * Clawly was not listening. He was watching a figure that was striding down the paneled terraces, its smilingly curious eyes fixed upon him. And as he watched, Firemoor and Shielding and some others began to watch too, slack-faced, dully amazed at this secondary impossibility. The approaching figure was clad in black military flying togs whose sleek cut and suavely gleaming texture marked them as those of an individual of rank. But so far as physique and appearance were concerned, down to the last detail of facial structure, including even a similarity of expression--a certain latent sardonic mockery--he was Clawly's duplicate.