"How did you know?" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion asked the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been. "When I saw your ad," said not-Smith, "I said to myself, 'now here must be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to study a series of photographs readily obtainable--I have a fine memory for that, Mr. Arkalion--and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet King." "What will you do with the ten million dollars?" demanded Arkalion, not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his fortune. "Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it. Invest it. Spend it." "I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my--" Arkalion bit his tongue. "Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third. Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty when I studied their family ties?" "Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young--" "Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said something about the flower of our young manhood?" "Shakespeare?" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting importance came from the bard. "Sophocles," said Smith. "But no matter. I will take young Alaric's place for ten million dollars." Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might have been a dangerous conversation. "You'll never get a chance to spend it on the Nowhere Journey." "Let me worry about that." "No one ever returns." "My worry, not yours." "It is forever--as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so young." "I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to me. Is that clear?" "Yes." "I'll want it in writing, of course." "Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr. Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how can I put it in writing?" Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly legal. My name is John X. Smith--now!" "That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III--_now_." The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with the casual expertness that comes with experience. "Have to shorten the cheek bones." "For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things out altogether and hang them on your wall." * * * * * Sophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed her _ersatz_ cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.