sped his.

And a small part of him clung desperately to the awareness of that clasp
as an anchorage against what might come, a tie between the world of
reality and the place into which he was passing.

How did one find words to describe this? Ross wondered with that part of
him which remained stubbornly Ross Murdock, Terran Time Agent. He
thought that he did not see with his eyes, hear with his ears but used
other senses his own kind did not recognize nor acknowledge.

Space ... not a room ... a cave-anything made by normal nature. Space
which held something.

Pure energy? His Terran mind strove to give name to that which was
nameless. Perhaps it was that spark of memory and consciousness which
gave him that instant of "Seeing." Was it a throne? And on it a
shimmering figure? He was regarded intently, measured, and--set aside.

There were questions or a question he could not hear, and perhaps an
answer he would never be able to understand. Or had any of this happened
at all?

Ross crouched on a cold floor, his head hanging, drained of energy, of
all that feeling of power and well-being he had had when they had begun
their dance across the symbols. About him those designs still glowed
dully. When he looked at them too intently his head ached. He could
almost understand, but the struggle was so exhausting he winced at the
effort.

"Gordon--?"

There was no clasp on his hand; he was alone, alone between two glowing
arabesques. That loneliness struck at him with the sharpness of a blow.
His head came up; frantically he stared about him in search of his
companions. "Gordon!" His plea and demand in one was answered:

"Ross?"

On his hands and knees, Ross used the rags of his strength to crawl in
that direction, stopping now and then to shade his eyes with his hands,
to peer through the cracks between his fingers for some sight of Ashe.

There he was, sitting quietly, his head up as if he were listening, or
striving to listen. His cheeks were sunken; he had the drained, worn
look of a man strained to the limit of physical energy. Yet there was a
quiet peace in his face. Ross crawled on, put out a hand to Ashe's arm
as if only by touching the other could he be sure he was not an
illusion. And Ashe's fingers came up to cover the younger man's in a
grasp as tight as the Foanna's hold had been.

"We did it; together we did it," Ashe said. "But where--why--?"

Those questions were not aimed at him, Ross knew. And at