The wind had an unusual murmuring sound as if voices were hidden in it somewhere—a hypnotizing, compelling, yet distant sound. Seven listened, knowing that whatever he was “hearing” wasn’t sound as he was used to thinking of it; but an inner molecular rustling as if the atoms of the rocks and trees and grass were all trying to speak, or manufacture tongues, at once. The “sounds” changed several times until Seven finally made out their message: The Codicils. But what did that mean? The inner sounds were more like vibrations that he translated into words, so that the very ground beneath Seven’s feet vibrated; and so did the misty trees; until from everywhere those inner words, The Codicils, came rushing into Seven’s mind.

“What are they?” Seven asked mentally. But the moment he asked, the vibrations ceased. And Cyprus stood beside him.

Cyprus looked more radiant than he’d ever seen her. Besides this, she seemed to have a kaleidoscope of images at her command, so that as she appeared, other images of herself cascaded from the main one; images of men and women of all ages and countries and times sparked out onto the landscape and then exploded like firecrackers. Seven was almost abashed at Cyprus’ abilities. He felt quite powerless in the midst of such a display, as he stood there in his polyester permanent-press suit, now more than slightly damp in the night mists that had returned.

In fact, by the time Cyprus settled upon one image—the ancient woman with young appearance, or the young woman with ancient knowledge—Seven felt quite dejected.

“I certainly am glad to see you,” he said. “But I haven’t the slightest idea of what’s been happening. Even with a body, I can’t seem to stay in the right time. And you saw the world vision I just saw?”

“I saw it,” Cyprus said gently. “You perceived more of it than I thought you would. Part of it you’ll interpret as you go along.”

“But none of my experiences seem orderly lately,” Seven cried. “There’s order there, I know! But I keep losing it….”

“You don’t lose it,” Cyprus said softly. “It’s there. You put off perceiving it, for reasons you’ll remember later. But I have some important clues to help you.

“There’s an important dilemma, or rather, an important period of change approaching … Now on the one hand, this change has happened, of course, and on the other hand, from the standpoint of George Brainbridge in the twentieth century, it hasn’t. He’s approaching a vital intersection of probabilities, and you must learn to help your personalities in the probable areas of their lives as well as with the problems they’re aware of….”

But Seven was truly dismayed. “You don’t mean I have to handle a group of probable Georges?” he cried.