The psychophone clattered out the man’s hail: “Who comes?”

“Friends,” said Saunders. “We wish only shelter and a little information.”

“Where are you from?” There was a harsh, peremptory note in the man’s voice. His face-straight, thin-boned, the countenance of a highly bred aristocrat—was gaunt with strain. “What do you want? What sort of spaceship is that you’ve got down there?”

“Easy, Vargor,” rumbled the alien’s bass. “That’s no spaceship, you can see that.”

“No,” said Saunders. “It’s a time projector.”

“Time travelers!” Vargor’s intense blue eyes widened. “I heard of such things once, but—time travelers!” Suddenly: “When are you from? Can you help us?”

“We’re from very long ago,” said Saunders pityingly. “And I’m afraid we’re alone and helpless.”

Vargor’s erect carriage sagged a little. He looked away. But the other being stepped forward with an eagerness in him. “How far back?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to hell, most likely. But can you get us inside? We’re freezing.”

“Of course. Come with us. You’ll not take it amiss if I send a squad to inspect your machine? We have to be careful, you know.”

The four squeezed into the aircraft and it lifted with a groan of ancient engines. Vargor gestured at the fortress ahead and his tone was a little wild. “Welcome to the hold of Brontothor! Welcome to the Galactic Empire!”

“The Empire?”

“Aye, this is the Empire, or what’s left of it. A haunted fortress on a frozen ghost world, last fragment of the old Imperium and still trying to pretend that the Galaxy is not dying—that it didn’t die millennia ago, that there is something left besides wild beasts howling among the ruins.” Vargor’s throat caught in a dry sob. “Welcome!”

The alien laid a huge hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t get hysterical, Vargor,” he reproved gently. “As long as brave beings hope, the Empire is still alive—whatever they say.”

He looked over his shoulder at the others.

“You really are welcome,” he said. “It’s a hard and dreary life we lead here. Taury and the Dreamer will both welcome you gladly.” He paused. Then, unsurely, “But best you don’t say too much about the ancient time, if you’ve really seen it. We can’t bear too sharp a reminder, you know.”

The machine slipped down beyond the wall, over a gigantic flagged courtyard to the monster bulk of the—the donjon, Saunders supposed one could call it. It rose up in several tiers, with pathetic little gardens on the terraces, toward a dome of clear plastic.

The walls, he saw, were immensely thick, with weapons mounted on them which he could see clearly through the drifting snow. Behind the donjon stood several long, barracks-like buildings, and a couple of spaceships which must have been held together by pure faith rested near what looked like an arsenal. There were guards on duty, helmeted men with energy rifles, their cloaks wrapped tightly against the wind, and other folk scurried around under the monstrous walls, men and women and children.