The Chief really blushed and choked. “What could I do? Besides, they had me. I got good terms, though. Two hundred and twenty credits for processing each robot into a master thief. We can live well on that for a while.”

For a long time there was dead silence.

At last one of the oldest Thieves on the Council began to sob: “I’m old. I can’t stand it. The horror of it! Us — us, doing honest work!”

“We’re at least teaching the robots how to be thieves,” said the Chief of Thieves, starkly.

No one commented on that.

Even the herald had to step aside and blow his nose.

Roderick Henry McBan, the former Eleanor, had become only imperceptibly older with the years. He had sent away his favorite, the little dancer, and he wondered why the Instrumentality, not even the Earth government, had sent him official warning to “stay peacably in the dwelling of the said stated person, there to await an empowered envoy of this Instrumentality and to comply with orders subsequently to be issued by the envoy hereinbefore indicated.

Roderick Henry McBan remembered the long years of virtue, independence and drudgery on Norstrilia with unconcealed loathing. He liked being a rich, wild young man on Earth ever so much better than being a respectable spinster under the grey skies of Old North Australia. When he dreamed, he was sometimes Eleanor again, and he sometimes had long morbid periods in which he was neither Eleanor nor Rod, but a nameless being cast out from some world or time of irrecoverable enchantments. In these gloomy periods, which were few but very intense, and usually cured by getting drunk and staying drunk for a few days, he found himself wondering who he was. What could he be? Was he Eleanor, the honest workwoman from the Station of Doom? Was he an adoptive cousin of Rod McBan, the man who had bought Old Earth itself? What was this self — this Roderick Henry Mc-Ban? He maundered about it so much to one of his girl-friends, a calypso singer, that she set his own words, better arranged, to an ancient time and sang them back to him:

Rod/Eleanor had moments of desperation, and sometimes wondered if the Earth authorities or the Instrumentality would take him/her away from reconditioning.

The warning today was formal, fierce, serene in its implacable self-assurance.

Against his/her better judgment, Roderick Henry McBan poured out a stiff drink and waited for the inevitable.

Destiny came as three men, all of them strangers, but one wearing the uniform of an Old North Australia consul. When they got close, she recognized the consul as Lord William Not-from-here, with whose daughter Ruth he/she had disported on these very sands many years before.

The greetings were wearisomely long, but Rod/ Eleanor had learned, both on Old North Australia and here on Manhome Earth, never to discount ceremony as the salvager of difficult or painful occasions. It was the Lord William Not-from-here who spoke.

“Hear now, Lord Roderick Eleanor, the message of a plenum of the Instrumentality, lawfully and formally assembled, to wit—

“That you, the Lord Roderick Eleanor be known to be and be indeed a Chief of the Instrumentality until the day of your death—

“That you have earned this status by survival capacity, and that the strange and difficult lives which you have already led with no thought of suicide have earned you a place in our terrible and dutiful ranks—

“That in being and becoming the Lord Roderick Eleanor, you shall be man or woman, young or old, as the Instrumentality may order—

“That you take power to serve, that you serve to take power, that you come with us, that you look not backward, that you remember to forget, that you forget old remembering, that within the Instrumentality you are not a person but a part of a person—

“That you be made welcome to the oldest servant of mankind, the Instrumentality itself.”

Roderick Eleanor had not a word to say.

Newly appointed Lords of the Instrumentality rarely had anything to say. It was the custom of the Instrumentality to take new appointees by surprise, after minute examination of their records for intelligence, will, vitality, and again, vitality.

The Lord William was smiling as he held out his hand and speaking in offworldly honest Norstrilian talk:

“Welcome, cousin from the grey rich clouds. Not many of our people have ever been chosen. Let me welcome you.”

Roderick/Eleanor took his hand. There was still nothing to say.

“I turned off the human voice hours ago, Lavinia. Turned it off. We always get a sharper reading with the numbers. It doesn’t have a clue on our boys. I’ve been across this console a hundred times. Come along, old girl. It’s no use predicting the future. The future is already here. Our boys will be out of the van, one way or the other, by the time we walk over the hill and down to them.” He spoke with his voice, as a little sign of tenderness between them.

Lavinia asked nervously, “Shouldn’t we take an ornithopter and fly?”

“No, girl,” said Rod tenderly. “What would our neighbors and kinsmen think if they saw the parents flying in like wild offworlders or a pair of crimson pommies who can’t keep a steady head when there’s a bit of blow-up? After all, our big girl Casheba made it two years ago, and her eyes weren’t so good.”

“She’s a howler, that one,” said Lavinia warmly. “She could fight off a space pirate even better than you could before you could spiek.”