"A somewhat egotistical way of putting it, but that is the general idea. The magicians of many ages have used this method of disposing of their enemies; for unless the transportee can find his Atavars--the symbols, as it were, of his error--and return them to their proper places, he must remain Outside forever. This last many have done by choice, since none ever dies Outside." "I'd just as soon not," Hugh said with a groan. "What are my Atavars?" "To turn a capstan there must be a lever; and to pivot a man Outside means that two other living beings must act as the ends of this lever, and exchange places in time. Your Atavars changed places in time, while you stood still in time and space, but were pivoted to face Outside." At this point he reached over to the boy and gave an experimental tug on the protruding stick of the lollipop. It slipped out easily; all the pink candy had dissolved. "Ah," he said. "We are about ready." He made a few passes with his hands and began to sing: "Jet propulsion, Dirac hole, Trochilminthes, Musterole, Plenum, bolide, Ding an sich, Shoot the savvy to me, Great White Which!" The tune was one more commonly associated with Pepsi-Cola. After a moment the boy's mouth opened, and, licking the remains of the lollipop from its corners, he said clearly, "Two hundred. Night-prowlers." "Is that all?" Hugh said, not much surprised. "That's quite enough. Well, maybe not quite enough, but it's about all I ever get." "But what does it mean?" "Why, simply this: that your Atavars are two hundred years apart from each other; and that they are night-prowlers." "Two hundred years! And I have to find them?" "They are represented by simulacra in Outside. You must identify these simulacra and touch each one; this done, they will exchange again, and you will be rotated Inside. Have you seen any here?" A light burst in Hugh's brain. "I saw a man from my own age who looked like a bona-fide night-prowler, all right." "You see?" The magician spread his hands expressively. "Half the work is over. Simply search for another night-prowler whose costume is two hundred years older--or, of course, younger--than the first. It's very simple. Now, young sir--" The hands began to wash each other suggestively. * * * * * Hugh produced a handful of coins. "That's no good," said the little man with a sniff. "I can make that myself. It's the city's principle industry. I don't suppose you have any sugar on you? Or rubber bands? No? Hmm. How about that?" He prodded Hugh's vest. "That" was Hugh's Sigma Chi key, dangling from his watch chain. He had been elected to the honorary society by virtue of a closely reasoned paper on the deficiencies of current stellar evolution hypotheses. With a grin he passed it across the counter. "Thanks," the thaumaturgist said, "I collect fetishes. Totem fixation, I guess."