Seven grinned; there was the museum—the twenty-fifth-century version of George’s house. And to Seven, the walls suddenly became transparent. In an upper room, supposed to be a replica of George’s study, a statue stood staring out the window. Seven saw all the rooms, each more or less bearing a resemblance to the twentieth-century ones he knew. But he noticed something else—a lower room, in the cellar. As soon as he wanted to examine the details, the picture zoomed in closer. A gold plaque read, “Ye old bomb shelter.” And just inside there were some glass cases. Seven peered closer. The sign read: “Replica of the Codicil microfilm, discovered in the tell of 2550.”

Seven started to cry, “Microfilm?” when he noticed another larger plaque, filled with writing and headed: “The Codicils.” “There they are,” he shouted to Cyprus. “All I have to do is—”

Cyprus shook her head. “You can’t do it for George. He has to find them himself … and sift their message back to his own version of them.”

Now what does that mean? Seven wondered, but mentally he yelled out to George: “Go down to the basement.”

George pulled his dressing robe tighter about him. “I think I’ll go downstairs first, if I ever get inside,” he thought. But his consciousness was wavering. He thought of his body with a touch of fear: had he been away from it too long? No—resolutely, he told himself that everything was all right. “It’s all all right,” he muttered for the tenth time, but something told him that it wasn’t all right at all.

George realized that he had a headache—out of his body. How was that possible? he wondered. He started to float through the museum’s front door. At the same time, he became aware of a white light, seemingly in his head. The light frightened him, and as this happened, his consciousness flashed back to his body.

But damnation! George thought. It had taken him forever to get in decent out-of-body condition; he couldn’t—wouldn’t—miss the opportunity! He had to find the Codicils! Even his sense of urgency didn’t surprise him. Since he’d first heard the words, they’d obsessed him. He concentrated as hard as he could.

Now he stood inside the museum. “Go downstairs,” he told himself; wavering. The light came again, this time much more intense than before—and his inner mental space seemed to … expand in the oddest, quite frightening fashion, and the headache returned with double strength. Such a thing had never happened to him before.

He drifted downward; stairs were beneath him. He gritted his dream teeth—if he could just make it further … After all, what could happen? At the worst, he’d just plunge back into his body. Wouldn’t he? Or had he really been gone too long?