Still pondering and uneasy, he walked up the front stairs, taking some comfort in his own muscular activity, automatically checking to see if everything was in readiness. How perfect it all looked; The George’s house—preserved, as if he might return to it at any time. At any time! In another frame of reference, The George was here, Monarch thought suddenly. The idea had come to him many times before, but as a pleasant theoretical fantasy. It now occurred to him that fantasy or no, according to the principles laid down by the Codicils themselves, The George lived in this house or its facsimile in the twentieth century even as he, Monarch, climbed the steps in the twenty-fifth. Then, what was The George doing now? And who was worried about the Codicils, and why? Surely they were safe enough, but what would anyone possibly gain by stealing them? The people would lose a vital artifact, a beloved symbol….

Astonished with himself, Monarch broke off his line of thought and, almost dazed, reached the top of the stairs. His thoughts had actually been paranoid! He’d actually, seriously, been considering the possibility that someone would really steal the Codicils—and in a world where such social diseases had been completely eliminated for over a century! Whatever possessed him? To his knowledge, not one act of thievery had been committed in his lifetime; the causes had been eradicated almost naturally, as the Codicils taught man about his own potentials and abilities. The resentments and hatreds that had caused individual crimes no longer existed in the same way. Not that men were saints, but they were at least acting like members of a dignified species. They respected themselves and others.

Then how could he have seriously considered the possibility that the Codicils would be stolen, and felt such an intense anxiety? Of course, Monarch thought: The ideas hadn’t been his own. When would he really learn to recognize the messages that rose up through his own familiar consciousness? That paranoia wasn’t of his own time. Perplexed, Monarch sat down on the Victorian period chair at the top of the stairs. He knew that there were psychic correlations between himself and his “other” selves—invisible psychological intersections. And that fear about the Codicils had come from just such a channel. But why had he picked up that particular message now, just before the celebration of the finding of the microfilm at the dig? In two hours, the entire area would be mobbed with visitors from all over the world.

In two hours, the Codicils would be on view, of course.

The Holograph Players would perform the ceremonial drama—the history of the finding of the Codicils—and depict the life of The George.