Dr. George Brainbridge (the Third) was thirty-nine, slightly stouter than he should be for his unimposing five feet, 6½”. In fact, Seven thought he was a trifle jowly, and his brown hair was nondescript. His moustache and eyebrows were both rather shaggy, but extremely expressive; both were moving, it seemed, all the while. And George Brainbridge’s eyes, though small and a bit sunken, were—well, dynamic. People probably didn’t notice George’s eyes much, Seven mused, because he kept them half closed a good deal of the time. But then, whammo; they opened wide, all the way, usually to express an amazed appraisal of the person to whom he’d been talking so mildly. And sometimes the eyes grinned all by themselves.

Right now, George’s eyes did their grinning act as he looked at the newly minted Seven. “Super,” George said. “You must be my new assistant.”

Young Dr. Seven smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand in the accepted Earth fashion.

“Super. Super, super,” George Brainbridge said again, squeezing Seven’s new hand so tightly and with such force that Seven almost felt like whimpering. “Tonight’s garbage time, though. I have to stack the garbage cans outside. It’ll only take a minute. And drive to the corner store for some pickles. Whole trip will only take two minutes. Then you and I can relax, have a few drinks and eat dinner. Make yourself at home. Be right back.”

And before Seven could even answer, George bounded toward the rear of the house, leaving Seven flabbergasted—and a bit annoyed: All that rushing on his part just so George could pile the garbage!

And here he was alone in the house again. A house that just wasn’t trustworthy, he thought. Then almost without thinking about it, he went into George’s twentieth-century waiting room.

“I never should have called the house untrustworthy,” he said later to Cyprus. “But of course I did. And it was.”

Chapter Four

Up and Down the Time Staircase