He lay relaxed for a moment, as though life had to return from some place far away. Then he raised his head. His face was hollow and lined. His white hair was thin. A coarse-woven shirt hung loose across wide shoulders that had been Herculean once. But now Hercules was old, old. He looked at me expectantly. "Who are you?" I said. "Why did you follow me? What happened to the house? Where's my family? Who owns the bully-boys in green?" My jaw hurt when I spoke. I put my hand up and felt it gingerly. "You fell," the old man said, in a voice that rumbled like a subterranean volcano. "The understatement of the year, Pop." I tried to get up. Nausea knotted my stomach. "You have to rest," the old man said, looking concerned. "Before the Baron's men come...." He paused, looking at me as though he expected me to say something profound. "I want to know where the people are that live here!" My yell came out as weak as church-social punch. "A woman and a boy...." He was shaking his head. "You have to do something quick. The soldiers will come back, search every house--" I sat up, ignoring the little men driving spikes into my skull. "I don't give a damn about soldiers! Where's my family? What's happened?" I reached out and gripped his arm. "How long was I down there? What year is this?" * * * * * He only shook his head. "Come, eat some food. Then I can help you with your plan." It was no use talking to the old man; he was senile. I got off the cot. Except for the dizziness and a feeling that my knees were made of papier-mache, I was all right. I picked up the hand-formed candle, stumbled into the hall. It was a jumble of rubbish. I climbed through, pushed open the door to my study. There was my desk, the tall bookcase with the glass doors, the gray rug, the easy chair. Aside from a layer of dust and some peeling wall paper, it looked normal. I flipped the switch. Nothing happened. "What is that charm?" the old man said behind me. He pointed to the light switch. "The power's off," I said. "Just habit." He reached out and flipped the switch up, then down again. "It makes a pleasing sound." "Yeah." I picked up a book from the desk; it fell apart in my hands. I went back into the hall, tried the bedroom door, looked in at heaped leaves, the remains of broken furniture, an empty window frame. I went on to the end of the hall and opened the door to the bedroom. Cold night wind blew through a barricade of broken timbers. The roof had fallen in, and a sixteen-inch tree trunk slanted through the wreckage. The old man stood behind me, watching. "Where is she, damn you?" I leaned against the door frame to swear and fight off the faintness. "Where's my wife?" The old man looked troubled. "Come, eat now...." "Where is she? Where's the woman who lived here?"