s snapped into place.

"Eight. And I laughed at Clancey!"

"I know--I heard. You were getting too close for comfort so I distracted
you by giving you a headache."

"Stop--let me get my breath!" His voice rose until it threatened to
crack. What am I talking to! A _dog_?"

"Yes."

"_Homer_? I don't believe it!"

"Watch." The boy slipped from the log and sat beside it on the ground,
his back braced. "Timmy would simply fall on his face," he explained,
and with the words the face became empty and the mouth hung foolishly
open. Control had been relinquished. The corner of Phil's eye caught
an answering movement that his senses wanted to reject, but he turned.
Homer had raised his head painfully and was looking directly at him,
unmistakable intelligence in the exhaustion-glazed eyes. The fringed
lips curled back, the throat worked. Strange sounds were forced out,
growling but not doglike.

"Ar-ro ... ar-rik." It was a barely recognizable distortion of
"Hello-Warwick." "Ok-all ... orr ... ron." Vocal-cords-wrong?
"Im ... ork." Tim-talk?

The gray-muzzled head sank back wearily. A scuffling sound drew Phil's
dazed eyes and he turned back in time to see Tim sit up again briskly,
ignoring the old dog.

* * * * *

"I hate that mangled speech, don't you, Uncle Phil? I'll still call you
that, if you don't mind. You're still as much my uncle as you ever were,
and I'm the only Tim you've known." He watched Phil anxiously. "Knocks
the wind out of you, doesn't it? But ordinary speech is painfully
limited to begin with, without trying to force it from poor old Homer."
He chattered on nervously, giving Phil time to collect himself. "You
see, Timmy is as mindless now as when he was born, three years before
'my' ship crashed in the swamp over there. Look back through your
newspaper files and you'll find a brief mention of a mysterious
explosion reported during a night of heavy rain. That was us." He wet
his lips, watching the silent white face. "Look, I had nothing at all to
do with Timmy being born an imbecile. He's like a car that functions
well enough if a driver takes over the physical controls that Timmy is
incapable of handling for himself. Lacking a driver, the controls and
the car stand idle. It is only the body that I manipulate, not the
dormant, disconnected mind. For myself, although I can't help
identifying myself emotionally and subjectively as the Challon,
Objective reason assures m