Ildefonse was not to be deterred. “Here the pragmatic Hurtiancz and I, the man of many parts, are at variance. I was about to carry my argument a step farther, and in fact I will do so, stimulated as I am by this elixir of a vanished race. I therefore suggest that in the style of the previous examples, a natural scientist, examining a single atom, might well be able to asseverate the structure and history of the entire universe!”

“Bah!” muttered Hurtiancz. “By the same token, a sensible man need listen to but a single word in order to recognize the whole for egregious nonsense.”

Ildefonse, absorbed in his theories, paid no heed. Herark took occasion to state that in his opinion not one, but at least two, even better, three of any class of objects was essential to understanding. “I cite the discipline of mathematics, where a series may not be determined by less than three terms.”

“I willingly grant the scientist his three atoms,” said Ildefonse, “though in the strictest sense, two of these are supererogatory.”

Rhialto, rising from his slab, went to look into a dirt-choked aperture, to discover a passage descending by broad steps into the ground. He caused an illumination to proceed before him and descended the steps. The passage turned once, turned twice, then opened into a large chamber paved with brown stone. The walls held a number of niches, six feet long, two feet high, three feet deep; peering into one of these Rhialto discovered a skeleton of most curious structure, so fragile that the impact of Rhialto’s gaze caused it to collapse into dust.

Rhialto rubbed his chin. He looked into a second niche to discover a similar skeleton. He backed away, and stood musing a moment or two. Then he returned up the steps, the drone of Ildefonse’s voice growing progressively louder: “— in the same manner to the question: Why does the universe end here and not a mile farther? Of all questions, why? is the least pertinent. It begs the question: it assumes the larger part of its own response; to wit, that a sensible response exists.” Ildefonse paused to refresh himself, and Rhialto took occasion to relate his discoveries in the chamber below.

“It appears to be a crypt,” said Rhialto. “The walls are lined with niches, and each contains the veriest wraith of a dead corpse.”

“Indeed, indeed!” muttered Hurtiancz. He lifted the brown glass bottle and at once put it down.

“Perhaps we are mistaken in assuming this place a tavern,” Rhialto continued. “The liquid in the bottles, rather than tipple, I believe to be embalming fluid.”

Ildefonse was not so easily diverted. “I now propound the basic and elemental verity: What is IS. Here you have heard the basic proposition of magic. What magician asks Why? He asks How? Why leads to stultification; each response generates at least one other question, in this fashion:

“Question: Why does Rhialto wear a black hat with gold tassels and a scarlet plume?

“Answer: Because he hopes to improve his semblance.

“Question: Why does he want to improve his semblance?

“Answer: Because he craves the admiration and envy of his fellows.

“Question: Why does he crave admiration?

“Answer: Because, as a man, he is a social animal.

“Question: Why is Man a social animal?

“So go the questions and responses, expanding to infinity. Therefore —”

In a passion Hurtiancz leapt to his feet. Raising the brown glass pot above his head he dashed it to the floor. “Enough of this intolerable inanity! I propose that such loquacity passes beyond the scope of nuisance and over the verge of turpitude.”

“It is a fine point,” said Herark. “Ildefonse, what have you to say on this score?”

“I am more inclined to punish Hurtiancz for his crassness,” said Ildefonse. “But now he simulates a swinish stupidity to escape my anger.”

“Absolute falsity!” roared Hurtiancz. “I simulate nothing!”

Ildefonse shrugged. “For all his deficiencies as polemicist and magician, Hurtiancz at least is candid.”

Hurtiancz controlled his fury. He said, “Who could defeat your volubility? As a magician, however, I outmatch your bumbling skills as Rhialto the Marvellous exceeds your rheumy decrepitude.”

Ildefonse in his turn became angry. “A test!” He flung up his hand; the massive blocks scattered in all directions; they stood on a vacant floor in the full glare of sunlight. “What of that?”

“Trivial,” said Hurtiancz. “Match this!” He held up his two hands; from each finger issued a jet of vivid smoke in ten different colors.

“The pretty prank of a charlatan,” declared Ildefonse. “Now watch! I utter a word: ‘Roof!’” The word leaving his lips hesitated in the air, in the form of symbol, then moved out in a wide circle, to impinge upon the roof of one of the strangely styled structures still extant. The symbol disappeared; the roof glowed a vivid orange and melted to spawn a thousand symbols like the word Ildefonse had sent forth. These darted high in the sky, stopped short, disappeared. From above, like a great clap of thunder, came Ildefonse’s voice: “ROOF!”

“No great matter,” stated Hurtiancz. “Now —”

“Hist!” said Mune the Mage. “Cease your drunken quarrel. Look yonder!”

From the structure whose roof Ildefonse had demolished came a man.

9

The man stood in the doorway. He was impressively tall. A long white beard hung down his chest; white hair covered his ears; his eyes glittered black. He wore an elegant caftan woven in patterns of dark red, brown, black and blue. Now he stepped forward, and it could be seen that he trailed a cloud of glowing objects. Gilgad, who had returned from the plaza, instantly set up a shout: “The IOUN stones!”

The man came forward. His face showed an expression of calm inquiry. Ildefonse muttered, “It is Morreion! Of this there can be no doubt. The stature, the stance — they are unmistakable!”

“It is Morreion,” Rhialto agreed. “But why is he so calm, as if each week he received visitors who took off his roof, as if ‘Nothing’ loomed over someone else?”

“His perceptions may have become somewhat dulled,” Herark suggested. “Notice: he evinces no signal of human recognition.”

Morreion came slowly forward, the IOUN stones swirling in his wake. The magicians gathered before the marble steps of the palace. Vermoulian stepped forth and raised his hand. “Hail, Morreion! We have come to take you from this intolerable isolation!”

Morreion looked from one face to the other. He made a guttural sound, then a rasping croak, as if trying organs whose use he had long forgotten.

Ildefonse now presented himself. “Morreion, my comrade! It is I, Ildefonse; do you not remember the old days at Kammerbrand? Speak then!”

“I hear,” croaked Morreion. “I speak, but I do not remember.”

Vermoulian indicated the marble stairs. “Step aboard, if you will; we depart this dreary world at once.”

Morreion made no move. He examined the palace with a frown of vexation. “You have placed your flying hut upon the area where I dry my skeins.”

Ildefonse pointed toward the black wall, which through the haze of the atmosphere showed only as a portentous shadow. “‘Nothing’ looms close. It is about to impinge upon this world, whereupon you will be no more; in short, you will be dead.”

“I am not clear as to your meaning,” said Morreion. “If you will excuse me, I must be away and about my affairs.”

“A quick question before you go,” spoke Gilgad. “Where does one find IOUN stones?”

Morreion looked at him without comprehension. At last he gave his attention to the stones, which swirled with a swifter motion. In comparison, those of the archveult Xexamedes were listless and dull. These danced and curveted, and sparkled with different colors. Closest to Morreion’s head moved the lavender and the pale green stones, as if they thought themselves the most loved and most privileged. Somewhat more wayward were the stones glowing pink and green together; then came stones of a proud pure pink, then the royal carmine stones, then the red and blue; and finally, at the outer periphery, a number of stones glittering with intense blue lights.

As Morreion cogitated, the magicians noted a peculiar circumstance: certain of the innermost lavender stones lost their glow and became as dull as the stones of Xexamedes.

Morreion gave a slow thoughtful nod. “Curious! So much which I seem to have forgotten … I did not always live here,” he said in a voice of surprise. “There was at one time another place. The memory is dim and remote.”

Vermoulian said, “That place is Earth! It is where we will take you.”

Morreion smilingly shook his head. “I am just about to start on an important journey.”

“Is the trip absolutely necessary?” inquired Mune the Mage. “Our time is limited, and even more to the point, we do not care to be engulfed in ‘Nothing’.”