And it was nothing new, for he had seen those faces before. Pictures of them in old books and in magazines that published tales of soul-shaking horror, tales of things that come from beyond, of entities that broke in from outside. [Illustration: He had seen those faces before ... things that came from beyond, entities that broke in from the outside....] Just tales to send one shivering to bed. Just stories that should not be read at midnight. Stories that made one a little nervous when a tree squeaked in the wind outside the window or the rain walked along the shingles. It had taken the wizardry of the Solar System's best band of scientists to open the door that led into the world beyond. And yet people in unknown, savage ages had talked of things like these ... of goblin and incubus and imp. Perhaps men in Atlantis might have found the way, even as Nevin and Cartwright had found the way. In that long-gone day letting loose upon the world a flood of things that for ages after had lived in chimney-corner stories to chill one to the marrow. And the pictures he had seen? Ancestral memory, perhaps. Or a weird imaging that happened to be true. Or had the writers of those stories, the painters of those pictures.... West shuddered from the thought. What was it Cartwright had said? _The work is started on the other planets._ The work of passing along the knowledge, the principles, the psychology of the alien things of _otherwhere_. Education by remote control ... involuntary education. Stella, the telepathic Stella, singing back on Earth, darling of the airways. And she was an agent for these things ... she passed along the knowledge and a man would think it was his own. That was it, of course, the thing that Nevin and Cartwright had planned. Remake the world, they'd said. Sitting out on Pluto and pulling strings that would remake the world. Superstitions once. Hard facts now. Stories once to make the blood run cold. And now-- With the source dried up, with the screen empty, with the Pluto gang wiped out, the cults would die and Stella would sing on, but there would come a time when the listeners would turn away from Stella, when her novelty wore off, when the strangeness and the alienness of her had lost their appeal. The Solar System would go on thinking imp and incubus were no more than shuddery imagery from the days when men crouched in caves and saw a supernatural threat in every moving shadow. But it had been a narrow squeak. From a dark corner a thing mouthed at West in a shrill sing-song of hate. * * * * * So this was it, thought West. Here he was, at the end of the Solar System's trail, in an empty house. And it was, finally, as he had hoped it would be. No one around. A storehouse full of food. Adequate shelter. A shop where he could work. A place guarded by the patrol against unwelcome callers. Just the place for a man who might be hiding. Just the place for a fugitive from the human race.