When the great doors finally swung shut and the alarms hadbeen set she heaved a sigh and sprang to the floor.

"Not yet," he cautioned, "the watchman will pass throughin ninety-three seconds."

She had presence of mind sufficient to stifle her scream,a delicate hand with which to do it, and eighty-seven secondsin which to become Hecuba Lamenting once more. This she did,and he admired her delicate hand and her presence of mind forthe next eighty-seven seconds.The watch man came, was nigh, was gone, flashlight and beard bobbingin musty will o' the-wispfulness through the gloom.

"Goodness!" she expelled her breath. "I had thought I wasalone!"

"And correctly so," he replied. "'Naked and alone we comeinto exile...Among bright stars on this most weary unbrightcinder, lost...Oh, lost--'"

"Thomas Wolfe," she stated.

"Yes," he sulked. "Let's go have supper."

"Supper?" she inquired, arching her eyebrows. "Where? Ihad brought some K-Rations, which I purchased at an ArmySurplus Store--"

"Obviously," he retorted, "you have a short-timer'sattitude. I believe that chicken figured prominently on themenu for today. Follow me!"

They made their way through the Tang Dynasty, to thestairs.

"Others might find it chilly in here after hours," hebegan, "but I daresay you have thoroughly mastered thetechniques of breath control?"

"Indeed," she replied, "my fiancee was no mere Zenfaddist. He followed the more rugged path of Lhasa. Once hewrote a modern version of the Ramayana, full of topicalallusions and advice to modern society."

"And what did modern society think of it?"

"Alas! Modern society never saw it. My parents bought hima one-way ticket to Rome, first-class, and several hundreddollars worth of Travelers' Checks. He has been gone eversince. That is why I have retired from the world."

"I take it your parents do not approve of Art?"

"No, and I believe they must have threatened him also."

He nodded.

"Such is the way of society with genius. I, too, in mysmall way, have worked for its betterment and received butscorn for my labors."

"Really?"

"Yes. If we stop in the Modern Period on the way back, youcan see my Achilles Fallen."

A very dry chuckle halted them.

"Who is there?" he inquired, cautiously.

No reply. They stood in the Glory of Rome, and the stonesenators were still.

"Someone laughed," she observed.

"We are not alone," he stated, shrugging. "There've beenother indications of such, but whoever they are, they're astalkative as Trappists--which is good.

Remember, though art but stone," he called gaily, and theycontinued on to the cafeteria.One night they sat together at dinner in the Modern Period.

"Had you a name, in life?" he asked.

"Gloria," she whispered. "And yours?"

"Smith, Jay."

"What prompted you to become a statue, Smith--if it is nottoo bold of me to ask?"

"Not at all," he smiled, invisibly. "Some are born toobscurity and others only achieve it through diligent effort. Iam one of the latter. Being an artistic failure, and broke, Idecided to become my own monument. It's warm in here, andthere's food below. The environment is congenial, and I'llnever be found out because no one ever looks at anythingstanding around museums."

"No one?"

"Not a soul, as you must have noticed. Children come hereagainst their wills, young people come to flirt with oneanother, and when one develops sufficient sensibility to lookat anything," he lectured bitterly, "he is either myopic orsubject to hallucinations. In the former case he would notnotice, in the latter he would not talk. The parade passes."

"Then what good are museums?"

"My dear girl! That the former affianced of a true artistshould speak in such a manner indicates that your relationshipwas but brief--"

"Really!" she interrupted. "The proper word is'companionship'."

"Very well," he amended, "'companionship'. But museumsmirror the past, which is dead, the present, which nevernotices, and transmit the race's cultural heritage to thefuture, which is not yet born. In this, they are near to beingtemples of religion."

"I never thought of it that way," she mused. "Rather abeautiful thought, too. You should really be a teacher."

"It doesn't pay well enough, but the thought consoles me.Come, let us raid the icebox again."

They nibbled their final ice cream bars and discussedAchilles Fallen, seated beneath the great mobile whichresembled a starved octopus. He told her of his other greatprojects and of the nasty reviewers, crabbed and bloodless, wholurked in Sunday editions and hated life. She, in turn, toldhim of her parents, who knew Art and also knew why sheshouldn't like him, and of her parents' vast fortunes, equallydistributed in timber, real estate, and petroleum. He, in turn,patted her arm and she, in turn, blinked heavily and smiledHellenically.

"You know," he said, finally, "as I sat upon my pedestal,day after day, I often thought to myself: Perhaps I shouldreturn and make one more effort to pierce the cataract in theeye of the public--perhaps if I were as secure and at ease inall things material--perhaps if I could find the properwoman--but nay! There is no such a one!"

"Continue! Pray continue!" cried she. "I, too, have, overthe past days, thought that, perhaps, another artist couldremove the sting. Perhaps the poison of loneliness could bedrawn by a creator of beauty--If we--"At this point a small and ugly man in a toga cleared his throat.

"It is as I feared," he announced.

Lean, wrinkled, and grubby was he; a man of ulcerous boweland much spleen. He pointed an accusing finger.

"It is as I feared," he repeated.

"Wh-who are you?" asked Gloria.

"Cassius," he replied, "Cassius Fitzmullen--art critic,retired, for the Dalton Times. You are planning to defect."

"And what concern is it of yours if we leave?" askedSmith, flexing his Beaten Gladiator halfback muscles.

Cassius shook his head.

"Concern? It would threaten a way of life for you to leavenow. If you go, you will doubtless become an artist or ateacher of art--and sooner or later, by word or by gesture, bysign of by unconscious indication, you will communicate whatyou have suspected all along. I have listened to yourconversations over the past weeks. You know, for certain now,that this is where all art critics finally come, to spend theirremaining days mocking the things they have hated. It accountsfor the increase of Roman Senators in recent years."

"I have often suspected it, but never was certain."

"The suspicion is enough. It is lethal. You must bejudged."

He clapped his hands.

"Judgment!" he called.

Other ancient Romans entered slowly, a procession of bentcandles. They encircled the two lovers. Smelling of dust andyellow newsprint and bile and time, the old reviewers hovered.

"They wish to return to humanity," announced Cassius."They wish to leave and take their knowledge with them."

"We would not tell," said Gloria, tearfully.

"It is too late," replied one dark figure. "You arealready entered into the Catalog. See here!" He produced a copyand read: "'Number 28, Hecuba Lamenting. Number 32, The BeatenGladiator.' No! It is too late. There would be aninvestigation."

"Judgment!" repeated Cassius.

Slowly, the Senators turned their thumbs down.

"You cannot leave."

Smith chuckled and seized Cassius' tunic in a powerfulsculptor's grip.