"Isn't it, though?" Chauncey Devlin chirped. "Well, I was a was-baby! Can you imagine? Born in London in 1945. But I don't even think about those horrid years any more. Imagine--people dropping bombs on each other!" A tiny bird of a man--three times rejuvenated, and still the mind was sharp, the eyes were sharp. The face was a strange mixture of recent youth and very great age. It stirred something deep inside Dan--almost a feeling of loathing. An uncanny feeling. "We've always known your music," he said. "We've always loved it. Just a week ago we heard the Washington Philharmonic doing--" "The eighth." Chauncey Devlin cut him off disdainfully. "They always do the eighth." "It's a great symphony," Dan protested. Devlin chuckled, and bounced about the room like a little boy. "It was only half finished when they chose me for the big plunge," he said. "Of course I was doing a lot of conducting then, too. Now I'd much rather just write." He hurried across the long, softly-lit room to the piano, came back with a sheaf of papers. "Do you read music? This is just what I've been doing recently. Can't get it quite right, but it'll come, it'll come." "Which will this be?" asked Dan. "The tenth. The ninth was under contract, of course--strictly a pot-boiler, I'm afraid. Thought it was pretty good at the time, but _this_ one--ah!" He fondled the smooth sheets of paper. "In this one I could _say_ something. Always before it was hit and run, make a stab at it, then rush on to stab at something else. Not _this_ one." He patted the manuscript happily. "With this one there will be _nothing_ wrong." "It's almost finished?" "Oh, no. Oh, my goodness no! A fairly acceptable first movement, but not what I _will_ do on it--as I go along." "I see. I--understand. How long have you worked on it now?" "Oh, I don't know--I must have it down here somewhere. Oh, yes. Started it in April of 2057. Seventy-seven years." They talked on, until it became too painful. Then Dan rose, and thanked his host, and started back for the corridor and life again. He had never even mentioned his excuse for coming, and nobody had missed it. Chauncey Devlin, a tiny, perfect wax-image of a man, so old, so wise, so excited and full of enthusiasm and energy and carefulness, working eagerly, happily-- Accomplishing nothing. Seventy-seven years. The picture of a man who had been great, and who had slowly ground to a standstill. And now Dan knew that he hadn't really been looking at Chauncey Devlin at all. He had been looking at the whole human race. VIII February 15th, 2135.