When they were done with the shells, they found some cardboard boxes containing quantities of old, old magazines: fashion magazines of the early 1900's adorned with many pictures of strangely shaped young ladies wearing hairdo's that jutted forward from their heads, and large upturned hats that shot forward from the hairdo's, so that each young lady looked something like a water pitcher. Julian soon tired of these, but Portia was entranced. There were other sorts of magazines, too, even older: in one, Portia found a story called _Peter Ibbetson_. She liked the illustrations, and there were children in them, so she began to read.... When Foster started calling Julian at the top of his lungs, she hardly heard him, and when Julian told her he was going downstairs, she did not hear him, either. Sometimes a story can open a world for you: you step into it and forget the real one that you live in. Evidently this was such a story. * * * * * Foster was waiting on the downstairs landing by the suit of armor. He had a monkey wrench, a pair of pliers, and a can opener. "I thought maybe you'd need these." Julian looked at the suit of armor, then at Foster. "Listen, Fang, it's still too big for you. No use even trying." "I was afraid so. I suppose I'll just have to wait to grow into it, then, won't I?" said Foster philosophically. "Perhaps we can try the helmet on you, though. If I can ever get it off; it probably hasn't _been_ off in hundreds of years." Julian gave a mighty tug, and the helmet flew up in his hands with no effort at all. "Why, it's not even fastened down! O.K., Foss, stand still; let's try this bonnet on you." Julian lowered the helmet gently down over Foster's head. "There you go, Sir Launcelot! Can you see all right?" "Yes, through the eye windows, but it isn't very comfortable in here," Foster complained. His voice inside the helmet had a clangorous twang: a robot's voice. "I don't like it very much. Something keeps tickling my nose. Ow." "Wait a minute." Julian lifted the sharp-snouted visor without any trouble. Foster's eyes and nose looked out, and a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. "Was that what was bothering my nose?" But Julian didn't answer him. He had stooped to retrieve the piece of paper and was studying it. "Now what the--" he muttered, perplexed. Then all at once he jumped straight up in the air as though he had stepped on a bee barefoot. "Oh, man! Oh man, oh _brother_! PORSH!" And he went thundering up the stairs in a one-boy stampede to the attic. "Hey, wait!" cried Foster in his robot voice: the steel visor had dropped down again. "Let me out of this thing!"