ou do with it if you are going in place of my--"
Arkalion bit his tongue.

"Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third.
Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty
when I studied their family ties?"

"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young--"

"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said
something about the flower of our young manhood?"

"Shakespeare?" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting
importance came from the bard.

"Sophocles," said Smith. "But, no matter. I will take young Alaric's
place for ten million dollars."

Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might
have been a dangerous conversation. "You'll never get a chance to
spend it on the Nowhere Journey."

"Let me worry about that."

"No one ever returns."

"My worry, not yours."

"It is forever--as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so
young."

"I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five
years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated
individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come
back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to
me. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"I'll want it in writing, of course."

"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr.
Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how
can I put it in writing?"

Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly
legal. My name is John X. Smith--now."

"That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon
entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III--_now_."

The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely
with the casual expertness that comes with experience.

"Have to shorten the cheek bones."

"For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things
out altogether and hang them on your wall."

* * * * *

Sophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of
tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed
her _ersatz_ cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused
for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.

"What do you want?" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.

Sophia showed her party card.

"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman."

"You're terribly observ