"That's why they mix you in with us old fogies." Jose was thirty-two. "Now—you get to guess which model you're supposed to load."

Bob's head came up; he stared, taken aback. "What… ? How the hell can I… ?"

"It's right here." Jose pointed to the fine print in the lower right-hand corner of Bob's duty sheet.

Bob frowned. "I thought that was supposed to be the final code in the routine."

"Looks that way, doesn't it? But it's really the suffix you're supposed to enter after RB-34h-Z."

"Then why don't they…No. Cancel that." Bob sighed. "They assume every programmer who works here knows that, don't they?"

Jose nodded. "The duty sheets are boilerplate. They just add the suffix and route it to you."

Bob spread his hands and shook his head. "Well, now I know. Thanks, Jose."

"Anytime." Jose suppressed a smile again. "Call me the next time they foul you up."

Bob's grin followed him back to his own station. He smiled at the blank screen—nothing to clear your own funk, like helping somebody else. He gave a contented sigh and typed in "RUN COPY BRAIN."

The screen responded, "LOAD BRAINPAN," and Jose was off again. Now he zipped through the program and had it all set up in ten minutes. He pressed "execute" and sat back to smile and monitor the copying, making sure nothing went wrong.

Nothing did. It ran without a flaw. An hour later, the screen lit up the "END COPY" light, then the query "ENGRAVE?" Jose nodded with satisfaction. The program had run flawlessly; he entered "YES" and the computer cued the final changes in electrical charges in the huge crystal below him, making the electronic matrix it had just copied a permanent characteristic of the brain. The program was now impervious to flood, fire, earthquake—and electromagnetic fields of all sizes and strengths. The only thing that could erase that program now would be an electrical charge so strong that it would fuse the whole brain into a lump of slag. The screen lit up with "ENGRAVING COMPLETE," and Jose smiled and typed in "REMOVE BRAIN," cuing the production lab below to take the sphere out of its clamps.

Then he remembered the Declaration.

It had still been on his board when he started the copying procedure.

It was now part of the robot's basic operating program.

Jose stared at the screen with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had already routed the end-of-program through to Production; the program was indelibly encoded into the brain. He couldn't remove the Declaration.

The new brain was wasted.

So, Jose thought, was his job. He stared at the screen, feeling numb.

"All right, I'll bite—why do we have to take six packs? We could just leave the clothes in the drawers and teleport clean outfits to us every morning."

" 'Tis not right to misuse our powers thus," Gwen said primly. " 'Twould be wrong of us to set so poor an example for the children—and 'twould make us, too, slothful."

"And, Papa," said Magnus, "it doth take some effort. Wouldst thou wish to labor so, when thou art but newly waked, every morn?"

"Frankly, I was planning to," Rod said, "and I'd rather do that than carry a pack twenty miles. Still, your mother is right—we should save magic for the things we can't do by ordinary means. Oh, I can see making the pots vibrate at a supersonic frequency to shake off the dirt, because we didn't want to wash them." He swung about to glare at Geoffrey. "Get that gleam out of your eye! It's bad enough watching you clear the table by telekinesis!"

Geoffrey tried to glower, but he was feeling too ebullient, and had to make do with a mischievous grin. " 'Tis far more fun, Papa, and faster too, though 'tis as much work. Where is the harm in it?"

"It's like bragging," Rod explained. "You're showing off—and if a non-esper was around to see it, it would make him furiously jealous. Of such things are witch-hunts born."

"Then wherefore dost thou allow it, Papa?" Geoffrey asked.

"Because the non-espers aren't around, and it's good practice for you—you're each increasing the number of things you can lift at one time, every day."

"Let us hear some words of sympathy for the poor woman who must needs watch thee, and catch the one-too-many thou dost ever let slip," Gwen reminded.

Cordelia flung her arms around her mother. "Ah, poor dame, who must ever ward us from our own foolishness! Yet 'tis good of thee, Mama, to aid us in our play!"

"Aptly said." Gwen smiled, amused. "I thank thee, daughter." She looked up at Rod. "Yet they have each proved their ability to whisk things to themselves by thought."

"I suppose they have," Rod sighed, "so there's no point in not packing the clothes. But it always makes such turmoil at the last minute."

" 'Always'?" Magnus grinned wickedly. "When have we e're gone on holiday aforetime, Papa?"

"Well, there was the trip up into Romanov…"

"To spy out an evil sorcerer, as it eventuated," Gwen reminded him.

"And there was that ocean cruise, where we were teaching you kids how to make a ship sail…"

"… And a storm came up, and blew us to that isle where the wicked magician did seek to brew magics that would enslave the beastmen," Gregory reminded him.

"Well, then, there was that little educational trip south, to check on the source of those funny stones you kids had found…"

"Which ended in the discovery of evil magic worked unwittingly," Cordelia reminded him.

"It was only the peasant who was unwitting of it, dear, not the futurians behind him."

"Yet 'twas scarcely restful," Geoffrey pointed out. Then he grinned. "Though we did take some pleasure in it."

Cordelia's eyes lighted, and she began to dance, remembering.

"Enough," Rod commanded. "I'll never trust music again."

"In that case," Fess's voice murmured in his ear, "you should be all the more willing to take your clothes in packs."

Rod frowned. "Any particular reason for eavesdropping? You're supposed to be chomping your oats in the stable, like a good horse! Or a real one, at least."

"No non-espers are watching inside the stable, Rod—though I am tempted to think you are being rather mulish when it comes to bearing your pack."

Rod winced. "All right for you, steel steed—just for that, you get to carry them when we get tired!"

"Then 'tis agreed we are to bear packs?" Cordelia asked.

Rod stilled, his mouth open.

"Well, 'tis done." Gwen buckled the last strap, hefted the pack, and tossed it to him. "Let us away, husband."

Rod reined in just before they went into the trees and turned to look back at their house. It had been a cottage once, but you couldn't call it that any more—they'd added on too many rooms. Or the elves had, for them.

" 'Tis secure, husband," Gwen said softly.

"Come, Papa! Away!" Cordelia tugged at his arm.

"You need not worry about a national emergency occurring in your absence, Rod," Fess's voice murmured inside his ear. "The Royal Coven will find you in seconds, if anything is amiss."

"I know, I know. But I didn't check to make sure the fire was out…"

"I did, Papa," Magnus said quickly.

"… And the doors were locked…"

Cordelia closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up and smiled. "They are, Papa."

"… And the cupboards were closed…"

Gregory gazed off into space, then said, "One was open, Papa. It is closed now."

"And if there is aught else amiss, the elves will set it to rights," Gwen said firmly, taking him by the arm.

"None will seek to enter, sin the whole countryside do know a legion of elves doth keep watch o'er it," Gregory assured him.

Gwen nodded and said softly, "Come away, husband. Our home will be safe the whiles we are gone."