Jenny didn't seem to be insulted by his abruptness. "I just wondered why you'd speak to me," she said. "Because if you want to marry me you have to wait. I've promised to marry him first." She gestured to the man on the bench with her. The man looked at Staghorn for the first time. "Yeah," he said. * * * * * "I see," said Staghorn. "And when is this ... merry event to take place?" "Some day," Jenny said indifferently. "When we both feel like it. There's no use rushing things. I don't want to use up all the men too soon." "Use them up?" "He'll be my twenty-fifth husband." "Yeah," said the man. "She'll be my thirty-second wife." "Your marriages can't last very long," said Staghorn. Despite the physical attractiveness of both Jenny and her escort, Staghorn began to feel clammy in their presence. He had an impression of deep ill health, a sense of unclean, almost reptilian lassitude. "They get shorter all the time," said Jenny, and turned away as though the conversation bored her. The man too had lost interest. Staghorn stood ignored for a moment and then spoke bluntly. "Who are the Atavars?" The word produced the first genuine reaction. Jenny leaped to her feet. The man turned red. "Don't say that word!" Jenny said. "I'm sorry. I'm a stranger." "No one can be that much of a stranger!" "It's indecent," the man said. He stood up and touched Jenny's arm. "I feel my blood pounding. Let's go get married." Jenny nodded and, with a cold glance at Staghorn, moved away with her companion. Staghorn was tempted to follow and demand an answer to his question when he saw Miss Terry approaching. Miss Terry was more likely to have the information he needed, and in any case--since she was only in her fifties--she was less than half of Jenny Cheever's age. He hoped this would make a difference in her attitude. That she was capable of emotion he already knew. Her expression, as she approached, was disconsolate. Staghorn bowed low before her and introduced himself. "Good afternoon, Miss Terry. I'm a stranger to you but since you're a teacher by profession, you may have heard of me. I'm Dr. Roger Staghorn." He straightened, twisted his lips into a smile and waited for Miss Terry to associate his name with those scientific achievements that had so startled the world a hundred years earlier. To his chagrin Miss Terry only gazed at him blankly and shook her head. * * * * * "No," she murmured. Then tears formed in her eyes and she tried to move on. Staghorn stopped her. "Forgive me," he said. "I'm aware of your recent loss. Your pupil, Paul." Her tears dropped more freely. "Sooner or later I knew they'd get him. The only child in town. And now I have nothing to do. Nothing at all!" "They? Just who are they--the Atavars?" Miss Terry turned pale. "Don't say it," she pleaded. "In time I'll forget." "But where have they taken Paul? And what will they do with him?"