“Historically makeup would have been an anachronism,” Mr. Scanlon pointed out. “The women of that age had to get along as best they could. Remember Calamity Jane? She was as ugly as a warthog, but her lovers were legion.” There was a brief dimming of the radiance. And then, into the Black Hills on a pulsing shape of darkness rode-- “It’s Humpty Dumpty!” someone gasped. “No.” “No, it’s got tentacles. Can’t you see? They must have been shooting one of those science fiction pictures on another set. One of the extras must have strayed by accident--” “And he’s waving them. Look!” “Good grief, how did that bomb crater get there?” “It’s unbelievable! She’s changing into a seal!” The divine Stella was indeed changing. But no seal--or mermaid--had ever gone flapping over the Western hills on eight dangling appendages, blue-green in hue. Of course the hills were no longer the Black Hills of the Dakotas. But no one could ask Mr. Scanlon about that because he had disappeared. One moment he had been leaning forward in his seat, alert and smiling. Then he was gone. He had simply vanished--dwindled and faded into nothingness like an unstable isotope assailed by some invisible energy source. No narrative is complete if it does not terminate with some sort of explanation. But how could there be one when no man or woman on Earth would ever know where Mr. Scanlon went, or why he had insisted on a preview in the first place? How could there be one when there was no one to remember--no one to recall how _They_ landed in numbers from their flat, saucer-like ships exactly one week later, and took care to strip from the minds of men all proudly treasured knowledge of the many-splendored things of Earth? Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, January 1956 (Vol. 4, No. 6). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this version, while spelling and hyphenation have been kept as is.