So the artist spent two noisy hours filing before he carried his crating stock to the studio. * * * * * Lucy was there. She had brought some things to eat. He dumped the lumber with a bang and demanded: "Why aren't you at work?" "We get days off," she said vaguely. "Austin thought he'd give me the cash for the terra-cotta and I could give it to you." She held out an envelope while he studied her silently. The farce was beginning again. But this time he dreaded it. It would not be the first time that a lonesome, discontented girl chose to see him as a combination of romantic rebel and lost pup, with the consequences you'd expect. He knew from books, experience and Labuerre's conversation in the old days that there was nothing novel about the comedy--that there had even been artists, lots of them, who had counted on endless repetitions of it for their livelihood. The girl drops in with groceries and the artist is pleasantly surprised; the girl admires this little thing or that after payday and buys it and the artist is pleasantly surprised; the girl brings her friends to take lessons or make little purchases and the artist is pleasantly surprised. The girl may be seduced by the artist or vice versa, which shortens the comedy, or they get married, which lengthens it somewhat. It had been three years since Halvorsen had last played out the farce with a manic-depressive divorcee from Elmira: three years during which he had crossed the mid-point between thirty and forty; three more years to get beaten down by being unwanted and working too much and eating too little. Also, he knew, he was in love with this girl. He took the envelope, counted three hundred and twenty dollars and crammed it into his pocket. "That was your idea," he said. "Thanks. Now get out, will you? I've got work to do." She stood there, shocked. "_I said get out. I have work to do._" "Austin was right," she told him miserably. "You don't care how people feel. You just want to get things out of them." She ran from the studio, and Halvorsen fought with himself not to run after her. He walked slowly into his workshop and studied his array of tools, though he paid little attention to his finished pieces. It would be nice to spend about half of this money on open-hearth steel rod and bar stock to forge into chisels; he thought he knew where he could get some--but she would be back, or he would break and go to her and be forgiven and the comedy would be played out, after all. He couldn't let that happen. V Aalesund, on the Atlantic side of the Dourefeld mountains of Norway, was in the lee of the blasted continent. One more archeologist there made no difference, as long as he had the sense to recognize the propellor-like international signposts that said with their three blades, _Radiation Hazard_, and knew what every schoolboy knew about protective clothing and reading a personal Geiger counter.