open, and a tiny old man blinked out.

"Mr. Chauncey Devlin?"

"Senator Fowler!" The little old man beamed. "Come in, come in--my
dear fellow, if I'd realized it was you, I'd never have dreamed of
keeping you so long--" He smiled, obviously distressed. "Retreat has
its disadvantages, too, you see. Nothing is perfect but life, as they
say. When _you've_ lived for a hundred and ninety years, you'll be
glad to get away from people, and to be able to keep them out, from
time to time."

In better light Dan stared openly at the man. A hundred and ninety
years. It was incredible. He told the man so.

"Isn't it, though?" Chauncey Devlin chirped. "Well, I was a was-baby!
Can you imagine? Born in London in 1945. But I don't even think about
those horrid years any more. Imagine--people dropping bombs on each
other!"

A tiny bird of a man--three times rejuvenated, and still the mind was
sharp, the eyes were sharp. The face was a strange mixture of recent
youth and very great age. It stirred something deep inside Dan--almost
a feeling of loathing. An uncanny feeling.

"We've always known your music," he said. "We've always loved it. Just
a week ago we heard the Washington Philharmonic doing--"

"The eighth." Chauncey Devlin cut him off disdainfully. "They always
do the eighth."

"It's a great symphony," Dan protested.

Devlin chuckled, and bounced about the room like a little boy. "It was
only half finished when they chose me for the big plunge," he said.
"Of course I was doing a lot of conducting then, too. Now I'd much
rather just write." He hurried across the long, softly-lit room to the
piano, came back with a sheaf of papers. "Do you read music? This is
just what I've been doing recently. Can't get it quite right, but
it'll come, it'll come."

"Which will this be?" asked Dan.

"The tenth. The ninth was under contract, of course--strictly a
pot-boiler, I'm afraid. Thought it was pretty good at the time, but
_this_ one--ah!" He fondled the smooth sheets of paper. "In this one I
could _say_ something. Always before it was hit and run, make a stab
at it, then rush on to stab at something else. Not _this_ one." He
patted the manuscript happily. "With this one there will be _nothing_
wrong."

"It's almost finished?"

"Oh, no. Oh, my goodness no! A fairly acceptable first movement, but
not what I _will_ do on it--as I go along."

"I see. I--understand. How long have you worked on it now?"

"Oh, I don't know--I mu