Rather pleased with himself for dispatching George so cleverly, Seven started very quietly and somewhat cockily down the stairs toward the first floor. Surely he could take care of the culprit in some ingenious fashion. Then suddenly Seven stood still with dismay and foreboding. For one thing, a suspicious shifting was taking place in the air; innocuous paintings lined the staircase and they were … dissolving at the edges or trying to; and the old nineteenth-century oils were peeking through. While Seven was thinking, “What an awful time for time to start shifting again,” he remembered something vital that he’d forgotten in his desire to protect George’s mortal frame. He, Seven, had a physical body now, too, which meant that dealing with the unknown culprit wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped.

That thought came to mind just as Seven came to the entryway and saw a young man hastily going through George’s desk in the office. The door was open; and the thief worked with a flashlight that he turned off as soon as he heard Seven’s now-hesitant footsteps.

Again, the house’s contents seemed to shimmer. The young man crouched down and Seven saw him clearly in the glare of the streetlight—before it turned into a dimmer gaslight; and Seven made an inaudible moan. He was about to advance in any case when he heard new footsteps pounding down the stairway behind him. “Zounds. Who’s here?” thundered George the First, descending the stairs with a hunting rifle.

As quickly as he could, Seven turned on the light switch, and the gaslights lit up the room. In the office, Gregory Diggs stared, mouth open, too astounded to move or speak. The room looked like a movie set, and the man who stood at the bottom of the stairs was completely unbelievable. He wore a dressing robe with tasseled belt, pince-nez glasses that looked a hundred years old—and he had a rifle.

“Oh wow, this is screwy,” said Gregory, shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t want no trouble….”

“You blackguard,” George shouted, advancing. “What’s in that bag?” He rushed over, yanked Gregory aside, and pulled out the bottles and vials that stuffed the bag to the brim.

Dazed, Oversoul Seven watched; how could George the First see the thief in the twentieth century? How could the thief see George? And why didn’t either of them see him?

“Sit right down, there,” George Brainbridge demanded, pointing to the dentist’s chair.

Gregory was shaking. “I came to the wrong place, I guess. I was trying to get even with a guy.”

“Even with a guy, huh. What kind of talk is that?” George thundered.