He’d been thinking how spectacular The George’s achievement truly was, considering the background of his times; the fact that few if any people then embarked in any serious mental travel, and the fact that all of The George’s previous training and belief systems must have been directly contrary to his own intuitive discoveries.

And, as always, standing in the museum’s front hallway, Monarch felt the familiar thrilling sensations that indicated he was picking up information through an alternate neurological sequence. He could almost sense the presence of The George; still learning the inner mechanics of mental locomotion, wandering in a world none of his compatriots could find, until finally he came upon the Codicils. But how? That question had never been answered. It was a vital question, Monarch mused, because if the Codicils hadn’t appeared in that ancient past, then surely he, Monarch, and all of the earth people, would have known an entirely different world. If mankind had even been able to survive at all without the Codicils, which didn’t seem too likely.

Monarch shivered suddenly. The museum seemed almost eerie in the silence. Waiting. The workers had all left, after cleaning the place from top to bottom, touching up, washing the windows. Fresh flowers stood in vases on all of the tables. Only now, the vacuum cleaner turned itself off after soundlessly going over all of the floors. The place was supposed to represent The George’s twentieth-century house—its ancient domestic arrangements, its stationary windows instead of moving window-walls, its boxed-in yet cozy interior. Monarch noted the fresh flowers, native species that, had perhaps once grown in The George’s back yard.

Yet there was no doubt about it, Monarch thought uneasily, the flowers themselves had a different air than the house itself; they seemed … strangely modern. It was almost as if faded flowers would be more appropriate. Monarch smiled to himself, and at the same time he felt a stronger surge of … alienness enter the immaculate hall in which he stood.

His prominent narrow nose wiggled. He shivered again with mild surprise. “Is there anyone here?” he asked mentally.

At the same time he felt around inside his own consciousness for any patterns of sensation, however faint; for any information that seemed to be coming through those neural passageways with which he did not usually identify his consciousness. Faint whisperings. Strange—for he began to hear words, which then mentally appeared as letters that took the shape of a man. So! Monarch speculated: A man with that shape must be speaking the words.