The Collector led the way down a narrow aisle that to the untrained eye looked exactly like all the others, and Suzie and I followed after him, pulling faces behind his back. We stuck close; the hundreds of interconnecting passageways made up a maze it would clearly be only too easy to get thoroughly lost in. I let my eyes drift over the many crates and cases we passed; a few were labelled as well as numbered. One label said Antarctic Expedition 1936; Do not open till the Elder Ones return. The exterior of the crate was covered in frost, despite the uncomfortable warmth of the warehouse. A much larger crate was labelled simply Roswell 1947. It had air holes. Something inside the crate was growling, in a thoroughly pissed off way. And one crate standing on its own levitated proudly a few inches off the floor. I don't know what was inside that crate, but it smelled awful. Suzie drew my attention to a smaller box that was juddering fiercely, almost shaking itself apart. I tapped the Collector politely on the shoulder, and indicated the box.

"What the hell have you got in there?"

"Perpetual motion machine," said the Collector. "Can't figure out how to turn the damned thing off."

"You have so much amazing stuff here," I said. "Who do you share it with? Who else gets to see all the marvels and wonders you've acquired?"

"No-one, of course," he said, looking at me as though I was crazy.

"But... doesn't half the fun of collecting lie in showing off your treasures to someone else?"

"No," said the Collector firmly. "It's all to do with ownership. With knowing it's mine, all mine. I do like to rub my rivals' noses in it, now and again; show them proof that I have some hotly contested item that we've all been after. I drive them crazy with jealousy, then laugh in their faces. But in the end it wouldn't matter to me if no-one knew what I had but me. It's enough to know that I've won. That I'm the best."

"That's all this is?" said Suzie. "Whoever dies with the most toys wins?"

The Collector shrugged. "I don't give a damn what happens to any of this stuff once I'm dead and gone. Let it rot, for all I care. I collect because ... it's what I'm good at. The only thing I've ever been good at. And things ... possessions ... can't hurt you. Can't leave you."

For a moment there, he actually looked human, and vulnerable. It didn't suit him.

"Do you want us to keep quiet about the things we've seen here?" I asked.

"Hell no!" he said immediately, all his usual ob-noxiousness returning in a moment. 'Tell everyone! Drive them mad with curiosity and envy! My problem has always been that I can't prove how big my collection is without bringing people here to see it, and, of course, I can't do that. They'd only betray me and try to steal something. There are people who've spent their whole lives plotting how to get in here..."