A faint sound cut into the stillness--a descending whine. The cage moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped, crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly switches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouth was dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that it was here-- Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had prepared for the occasion: _Greeting, visitors from the Future...._ Hopelessly corny. What about: _Welcome to the Twentieth Century...._ No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now looked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, with a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves looked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender and balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked at the stacked shelves. "Looks like the old boy's been doing all right," the shorter man said. "Fathead's gonna be pleased." "A very gratifying consignment," his companion said. "However, we'd best hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge?" "Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway." The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. "Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period." Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. "Like always," he grumbled. "No nood dames. I like nood dames." "Look at this, Manny! The textures alone--" Manny looked. "Yeah, nice use of values," he conceded. "But I still prefer nood dames, Fiorello." "And this!" Fiorello lifted the next painting. "Look at that gay play of rich browns!" "I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street," Manny said. "They was popular with the sparrows." "Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations--" "Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on." Manny, turning to place a painting in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The painting clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. "Uh...." "Oh-oh," Manny said. "A double-cross." "I've--ah--been expecting you gentlemen," Dan said. "I--" "I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand," Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. "Let's blow, Fiorello." "Wait a minute," Dan said. "Before you do anything hasty--" "Don't start nothing, Buster," Manny said cautiously. "We're plenty tough guys when aroused." "I want to talk to you," Dan insisted. "You see, these paintings--" "Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was the gent's room--" "Never mind, Manny," Fiorello cut in. "It appears there's been a leak." Dan shook his head. "No leak. I simply deduced--"