"Little man," he said, "how do you propose stopping us?One scream by Gloria would bring the watchman, who would soundan alarm. One blow by me would render you unconscious for aweek."

"We shut off the guard's hearing aid as he slept," smiledCassius. "Critics are not without imagination, I assure you.Release me, or you will suffer."

Smith tightened his grip.

"Try anything."

"Judgment," smiled Cassius.

"He is modern," said one.

"Therefore, his tastes are catholic," said another.

"To the lions with the Christians!" announced a third,clapping his hands.

And Smith sprang back in panic at what he thought he sawmoving in the shadows. Cassius pulled free.

"You cannot do this!" cried Gloria, covering her face. "Weare from the Greek Period!"

"When in Greece, do as the Romans do," chuckled Cassius.

The odor of cats came to their nostrils.

"How could you--here...? A lion?" asked Smith.

"A form of hypnosis privy to the profession," observedCassius. "We keep the beast paralyzed most of the time. Haveyou not wondered why there has never been a theft from thismuseum? Oh, it has been tried, all right! We protect ourinterests."

The lean, albino lion which generally slept beside the main entrancepadded slowly from the shadows and growled--once, and loudly.

Smith pushed Gloria behind him as the cat began itsstalking. He glanced towards the Forum, which proved to bevacant. A sound, like the flapping of wings by a flock ofleather pigeons, diminished in the distance.

"We are alone," noted Gloria.

"Run," ordered Smith, "and I'll try to delay him. Get out,if you can."

"And desert you? Never, my dear! Together! Now, andalways!"

"Gloria!"

"Jay Smith!"

At that moment the beast conceived the notion to launchinto a spring, which it promptly did.

"Good-bye, my lovely."

"Farewell. One kiss before dying, pray."

The lion was high in the air, uttering healthy coughs,eyes greenly aglow.

"Very well."

They embraced.

Moon hacked in the shape of cat, that palest of beastshung overhead--hung high, hung menacingly, hung long...

It began to writhe and claw about wildly in that middlespace between floor and ceiling for which architecturepossesses no specific noun.

"Mm! Another kiss?"

"Why not? Life is sweet."

A minute ran by on noiseless feet; another pursued it.

"I say, what's holding up that lion?"

"I am," answered the mobile. "You humans aren't the onlyones to seek umbrage amidst the relics of your dead past."

The voice was thin, fragile, like that of a particularlybusy Aeolian Harp.

"I do not wish to seem inquisitive," said Smith, "but whoare you?"

"I am an alien life form," it tinkled back, digesting thelion. "My ship suffered an accident on the way to Arcturus. Isoon discovered that my appearance was against me on yourplanet, except in the museums, where I am greatly admired.Being a member of a rather delicate and, if I do say it,somewhat narcissistic race--" He paused to belch daintily, andcontinued, "--I rather enjoy it here--'among bright stars onthis most weary unbright cinder [belch], lost'"

"I see," said Smith. "Thanks for eating the lion."

"Don't mention it--but it wasn't wholly advisable. Yousee, I'm going to have to divide now. Can the other me go withyou?"

"Of course. You saved our lives, and we're going to needsomething to hang in the living room, when we have one."

"Good."

He divided, in a flurry of hemidemisemiquavers, anddropped to the floor beside them.

"Good-bye, me," he called upward.

"Good-bye," from above.

They walked proudly from the Modern, through the Greek,and past the Roman Period, with much hauteur and a wholly quietdignity. Beaten Gladiator, Hecuba Lamenting, and Xena exMachina no longer, they lifted the sleeping watchman's key andwalked out the door, down the stairs, and into the night, onyouthful legs and drop-lines.

"... I IS THIS hearers wounded-wonder like stand them makes andstars wandering the conjures sorrow of phrase Whose..."

He blew smoke through the cigarette and it grew longer.

He glanced at the clock and realized that its hands were movingbackwards.

The clock told him it was 10:33, going on 10:32 in the P.M.

Then came the thing like despair, for he knew there was not a thing hecould do about it. He was trapped, moving in reverse through the sequence ofactions past. Somehow, he had missed the warning.

Usually, there was a prism-effect, a flash of pink static, adrowsiness, then a moment of heightened perception...

He turned the pages, from left to right, his eyes retracing their pathback along the lines.

"emphasis an such bears grief whose he is What"

Helpless, there behind his eyes, he watched his body perform.

The cigarette had reached its full length. He clicked on the lighter,which sucked away its glowing point, and then he shook the cigarette backinto the pack.

He yawned in reverse: first an exhalation, then an inhalation.

It wasn't real--the doctor had told him. It was grief and epilepsy,meeting to form an unusual syndrome.

He'd already had the seizure. The dialantin wasn't helping. This was apost-traumatic locomotor hallucination, elicited by anxiety, precipitated bythe attack.

But he did not believe it, could not believe it--not after twentyminutes had gone by, in the other direction--not after he had placed thebook upon the reading stand, stood, walked backward across the room to hiscloset, hung up his robe, redressed himself in the same shirts and slacks hehad worn all day, backed over to the bar and regurgitated a Martini, sip bycooling sip, until the glass was filled to the brim and not a drop spilled.

There was an impending taste of olive, and then everything was changedagain.

The second-hand was sweeping around his wristwatch in the properdirection.

The time was 10:07.

He felt free to move as he wished.

He redrank his Martini.

Now, if he would be true to the pattern, he would change into his robeand try to read. Instead, he mixed another drink.

Now the sequence would not occur.

Now the things would not happen as he thought they had happened, andun-happened.

Now everything was different.

All of which went to prove it had all been an hallucination.

Even the notion that it had taken twenty-six minutes each way was anattempted rationalization.

Nothing had happened.

...Shouldn't be drinking, he decided. It might bring on a seizure.

He laughed.

Crazy, though, the whole thing...

Remembering, he drank.

In the morning he skipped breakfast, as usual, noted that it would soonstop being morning, took two aspirins, a lukewarm shower, a cup of coffee,and a walk.

The park, the fountain, the children with their boats, the grass, thepond, he hated them; and the morning, and the sunlight, and the blue moatsaround the towering clouds.

Hating, he sat there. And remembering.

If he was on the verge of a crackup, he decided, then the thing hewanted most was to plunge ahead into it, not to totter halfway out, halfwayin.

He remembered why.

But it was clear, so clear, the morning, and everything crisp anddistinct and burning with the green fires of spring, there in the sign ofthe Ram, April.

He watched the winds pile up the remains of winter against the far grayfence, and he saw them push the boats across the pond, to come to rest inshallow mud the children tracked.