Hart leaned on the man’s arm—a big, solid fellow, which was somehow reassuring—and let the soft, lilting words slide over the surface of his mind. Almost, they were familiar. For a moment he couldn’t follow the speech at all, then he caught words and recognized the changes in accent. Except for the foreign terms and the slang, he could follow the language. Certainly he could get the drift of it.

Only—how long would it take to modify the tongue so much?

He almost croaked the question. The doctor said slowly, “Dis are yaar 2837, du would say. But bay chronomizing nos, are yaar 2841.”

“What on earth—?” The sheer incongruity of it jerked Hart from his daze. He might have accepted a wholly different chronology, but—four years’ difference! “How the hell did that ever happen?”

“Hell?” For a moment, the doctor was puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, medyaeval belief.” He smiled. “Skood du raaly ask huw de Heaven. See du, in su-named Second Dark Ages Americas waar under rule of de Kyirk of de Second Coming. Dey waar religio-fanatics whuw held dat chronomizing skood be set up four yaars since dey claimed Christ waar rally borned in 4 b.c. bay uwld chronomizing. Bay time yoke of de Kyirk waar overthruwn, everybody waar used to new style.”

Hart nodded, a little overwhelmed. “I…see…”

It didn’t matter, though. It didn’t matter. The…the Church of the Second Coming was in the past now, the dusty buried past which had still been in the future—ten minutes ago!

Almost nine hundred years. Nine hundred years!

“Here.” The doctor gave him a little flask. “Drink du dis.”

He gulped the liquid. It was tasteless, but it seemed to lay a great calm hand on him; his mind steadied and the trembling went out of his knees. He looked around him.

The chamber was different. The Crypt was not nearly so full, and it bore signs of extensive repair work. Many must have been released, many…But lymphatic cancer was really a tough disease, it would have taken time to work out the cure and if ages of barbarism had intervened—

His eyes swung to the men. There were, as before, two technicians and a doctor. (And the three men of his time were dust these many centuries.) They were large, well-shaped fellows, with dark hair and skin, eyes with a hint of obliquity, high cheekbones—but, clearly, the Caucasoid strain still predominated, however great an admixture there had been. They looked curiously alike, as if they were brothers, and were dressed almost identically—sandals, kilt, and tunic of some faintly iridescent material, with a curious involved pattern reminiscent of Scottish tartans on the left breast. There must have been immense folk wanderings during the dark ages, thought Hart vaguely, fantastic interbreeding and a rise of composite types of man.

He said aloud, slowly, “You have a cure for my case?”

“Of cuwrse, Tov Hart. De uwld records did not survive, but de Crypt and traditions abuwt it did. Su alsuw did de case histories engraved on de metal. We are ready for du no. De meditechnics have bee-an perfected uwnly in de last fifty yaars, and of cuwrse we wanted to be shoor we waar right before waking any of de ‘sleepers.’ ”