"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center City is naturally obligated...." "No one ever said it isn't our duty," Stephanie argued, as if the announcer could indeed hear her. "We only wish we knew something about it--and we wish it weren't forever." "It isn't forever," Temple reminded her. "Not officially." "Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever." "... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time...." "No one would want to sponsor _that_," Temple whispered cheerfully. "Kit," said Stephanie, "I--I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time, too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free." "He's starting," Temple told her. A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald. Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black horror for Adams. The drum rotated. "They're up to F, Kit." Fabian, Gregory G.... Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless, unless you happened to know them. "Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany." N, O, P.... "It's hot in here." "I thought you were cold." "I'm suffocating now." R, S.... "T!" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the bottom of the drum. Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley.... Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed nervously. Now--or never. Never? Now. Stephanie whimpered despairingly. TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER. * * * * * "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones." "Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late." "I've come in response to your ad." "I know. You look old." "I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?" "Not if you don't, Mr. Smith. Let me look at you. Umm, you seem the right height, the right build." "I meet the specifications exactly." "Good, Mr. Smith. And your price." "No haggling," said Smith. "I have a price which must be met." "Your price, Mr. Smith?" "Ten million dollars." The man called Jones coughed nervously. "That's high." "Very. Take it or leave it." "In cash?" "Definitely. Small unmarked bills." "You'd need a moving van!" "Then I'll get one." "Ten million dollars," said Jones, "is quite a price. Admittedly, I haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but--" "But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might ask less." "Sir?" "You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith." "Sir?" Jones gasped again. Smith coughed discreetly. "But I have one advantage. I know you. You don't know me, Mr. Arkalion." "Eh? Eh?" "Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?"