"You said you could hide me in--in Time, I guess you said. I don't know what you mean, Doc. You could tell me about space-warps and time-continua and all that for the next ten years, and--" "Space-time is like the very fabric of your tunic, Robbin." The answer came with the hint of a new excitement. "A set of slender threads in myriad numbers running in two dimensions, and another set running at right angles in another two. If they are the fabric of space-time, they comprise four simple dimensions--length and width, depth and time. You are--how tall? Six feet three inches. And, eleven inches through the chest, perhaps. Across the shoulders you measure twenty-three inches. And--you are thirty-three years old. Is that so difficult?" "That's not a new theory, Doc. That's been in the books for a hell of awhile." "Of course, Robbin. But--I have learned to _separate the threads_!" "Doc, you old madman, talk sense! Not that I don't appreciate what you did. I do. They had a track on me before I was half way to Pluto. But you had your eye on me as always--" "I owed you and your father that, boy. No man soon forgets the colony." "I know. And I realize that somehow you were able to use this hot-water tank here to pluck me out of Space--warp me from there to here, or whatever it is you said you did. Believe me I'm grateful. But this space-time stuff I don't understand. All I know is that there's a million-credit price on my head, and everywhere I look there's the Patrol. Everywhere. In a new ship, I could cruise Deep Space for awhile until I cooled off--" "When has a Cutlass ever cooled off, Robbin? As long as they have not seen you die with their own eyes...." * * * * * Robbin put a cigarette to his lips, smoked quietly for minutes. The little man seated behind the most fantastic master-control panel he had ever seen remained silent, waiting, expectant. "You really want me to give it a try, don't you, Doc?" The old man's eyes glittered, and Robbin knew it was all the answer that he'd get. What the hell. If it worked--maybe, back sometime else-- "You're really pretty sure of this thing, ain't you, Doc?" Wordlessly, the old Martian rose from his bench, pressed a stud on the side of a bulky automatic cataloguing file. He returned with several objects that Robbin could only identify from his memory of the history tapes he'd studied as a boy. "I could say you've been capering in museums, Doc, but I guess I know better...." He turned the objects around in his hands. A 19th century Colt revolver. An ornate dagger from perhaps the scabbard of a Spanish nobleman who had lived and died a thousand years ago. A book of names and numbers--MANHATTAN TELEPHONE DIRECTORY--1967 was printed on its cover. "I warped Space to effect your rescue, Robbin. I can warp Time to hide you. The Patrol is growing in efficiency and in sheer numbers--there's no hiding place for you in Space, lad. None. Not even--here."