He picted a stack and register number and waited for coded questions to be picted. As each appeared before him, he answered precisely and correctly.

In the hollowness, there appeared a presence, fragmented, grievously incomplete, but powerful and recognizable even so.

"Ser Engineer," Olmy said aloud.

My friend. The nonvocal communication was level and strong, if toneless. Even incomplete, Konrad Korzenowski's personality and presence were commanding.

"We've come home."

Yes? How long since you last spoke to me?

"Five hundred years."

I am still dead. . . .

"Yes," Olmy said softly. "Now listen. There is much you must know. We've come home, but we are not alone. The Thistledown has been reoccupied. It is time for you to come with me now. . . .

Chapter Ten

Patricia and Lanier passed through the fence and security checks, entered the second chamber library and followed the strips of lights across the empty floor and up the stairs. On the fourth floor, they entered the reading area with its dark cubicles. Lanier sat her down in the lighted cubicle and went off into the stacks, leaving her alone to again feel the chill, the spookiness that seemed—even amid all the strangeness—reserved for the library alone. When he returned, he held four thick books in his arms.

"These are among the last books printed for mass distribution, before all information services became solid state. Not on the Stone, but on Earth. Their Earth. I suppose you've already guessed what sort of library this is."

"A quaint one. A museum," she said.

"Right. An antique library, better suited to those with antique habits, no? When you get to the third chamber library, you'll become acquainted with the Stoners' state-of-the-art systems."

He held out the first volume. It was printed in a style similar to that of the Mark Twain book, but with heavier boards and thick, even tougher plastic paper. She read the spine. “‘Brief History of the Death, by Abraham Damon Farmer.'" She opened to the printing history and read the date. "2135. Our calendar?"

"Yes."

"Are they talking about the Little Death?" she asked hopefully.

"No."

"Something else," she murmured. She read the chronology heading the first chapter. "'From December 1993 to May 2005.'" She closed the book on her thumb. "Before I read any more, I want to ask a question."

"Ask away." He waited, but it took her some time to phrase it properly in her head.

"These are history books about a future, not necessarily our own, correct?"

"Yes."

"But if this chronology is. . . right, appropriate. . . if it could possibly be our future. . . then there's going to be a catastrophe in less than a month."

He nodded.

"I'm supposed to prevent it? How? What the hell can I do?"

"I don't know what any of us can do. We're already working on that angle. If. . . a big if. . . it's going to happen at all. At any rate, it should be obvious to you, as you read these books, that the Stone's universe is not the same as ours in at least one important respect."