"Yes. It's only half an hour till time for dinner, and I think Conn and I ought to have a little fresh air. Besides, you know, we haven't seen each other for six years." He buckled on the heavy automatic and settled the belt over his hips. "You didn't have a gun, did you, Conn?" he asked. "Well, let's go." III It wasn't until they were down to the main level and outside in the little plaza to the east of the Airlines Building that his father broke the silence. "That was quite a talk you gave them, Conn. They believed every word of it. I even caught myself starting to believe it once or twice." Conn stopped short; his father halted beside him. "Why didn't you tell them the truth, son?" Rodney Maxwell asked. The question, which he had been throwing at himself, angered him. "Why didn't I just grab a couple of pistols and shoot the lot of them?" he retorted. "It wouldn't have killed them any deader, and it wouldn't have hurt as much." "There is no Merlin. Is that it?" He realized, suddenly, that his father had known, or suspected that all along. He started to say something, then checked himself and began again: "There never was one. I was going to tell them, but you saw them. I couldn't." "You're sure of it?" "The whole thing's a myth. I'm quoting the one man in the Galaxy who ought to know. The man who commanded the Third Force here during the War." "Foxx Travis!" His father's voice was soft with wonder. "I saw him once, when I was eight years old. I thought he'd died long ago. Why, he must be over a hundred." "A hundred and twelve. He's living on Luna; low gravity's all that keeps him alive." "And you talked to him?" "Yes." There'd been a girl in his third-year biophysics class; he'd found out that she was a great-granddaughter of Force General Travis. It had taken him until his senior midterm vacation to wangle an invitation to the dome-house on Luna. After that, it had been easy. As soon as Foxx Travis had learned that one of his great-granddaughter's guests was from Poictesme, he had insisted on talking to him. "What did he tell you?" The old man had been incredibly thin and frail. Under normal gravitation, his life would have gone out like a blown match. Even at one-sixth G, it had cost him effort to rise and greet the guest. There had been a younger man, a mere stripling of seventy-odd; he had been worried, and excused himself at once. Travis had laughed after he had gone out. "Mike Shanlee; my aide-de-camp on Poictesme. Now he thinks he's my keeper. He'll have a squad of doctors and a platoon of nurses in here as soon as you're gone, so take your time. Now, tell me how things are on Poictesme...."