it before, she reached out and touched
his cheek. George had grown used to the emotions that reflected on her
face, and he knew she was suddenly very sad. "Yes, George," she said. "I
will go with you to meet your family." And she said it as though she
were telling him good-by.

* * * * *

It was no better than he had expected. It was worse. Much worse. And he
was growing angrier by the moment. They were all seated in the
rock-walled patio behind the large white house. Gistla sat beside him,
looking very small and frightened and very different. And it was that
obvious difference that George had hoped everyone might ignore. But
instead, each of them, his father, his mother, his sister, appeared to
be trying to make it even more obvious.

The first strain, when everyone had sat there staring at Gistla as
though she were something behind a cage, had passed. But now his parents
and sister were moving in a new direction. They had relaxed, having
found control of the situation, and they were cutting her to pieces.

"Tell me," his sister was saying, her eyes dancing slyly, "don't you
people have some very strange tricks you can do?"

George tightened his fingers against his palms. He heard Gistla answer,
"Tricks?"

"Yes." His sister's white smile shined. "You know, like making things
disappear, things like that."

"My father," Gistla said seriously, "can do very wonderful things. He is
a musician."

George's father leaned forward, blinking amusedly. "Really? What does he
play?"

"Play?" asked Gistla.

"Yes. He's a musician. He must play something, some kind of instrument."

Gistla looked at George, but George did not know what to say. He wished
he had never tried to do this. He wished he had just ignored his family
and gone on loving Gistla in the privacy of his own emotions.

"Well, now," Mr. Kenington was saying rather impatiently. "Does he play
something like our violin or clarinet or oboe, or what?" His father,
George had noticed, was becoming impatient more frequently since he had
become Secretary. The Secretarial post was very important.

"He does not play anything," Gistla said carefully. "He just ... makes
the music and I hear it."

"But how?" Mr. Kenington insisted. "What does he play the music _on_? He
certainly can't make the music without using something to make it on."

Gistla glanced again at George and he said quickly, "It's pretty hard to
understand, Father. I do