Elai gasped. “Ulan Dhor! I see! I see! The men in Green! Is it possible … Have they always been …”

“The brain-spell has broken,” said Ulan Dhor, “and not only for you. Below they see each other, too …”

For the first time in memory, Greens and Grays looked at each other. Their faces twisted, contorted. In the flicker of torches Ulan Dhor saw them drawing back in revulsion from each other, and heard the tumult of their cries: “Demon! … Demon! … Gray ghost! … Vile Green Demon! …”

Thousands of obsessed torch-bearers sidled past each other, glowering, reviling each other, screaming in hate and fear. They were all mad, he thought — tangled, constricted of brain …

As by a secret signal, the crowd seethed into battle, and the hateful yells curdled Ulan Dhor’s blood. Elai turned sobbing away. Terrible work was done, on men, women, children — no matter who the victim, if he wore the opposite color.

A louder snarling arose at the edge of the mob — a joyful sound, and a dozen shambling Gauns appeared, towering above the Greens and Grays. They rended, tore, ripped, and insane hate melted before insane fear. Greens and Grays separated, and ran to their homes, and the Gauns roamed the streets alone.

Ulan Dhor tore his glance away and held his forehead. “Was this my doing? … Was this a deed of mine?”

“Sooner or later it would have happened,” said Elai dully. “Unless Earth waned and died first …”

Ulan Dhor picked up the two tablets. “And here is what I sought to attain — the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors. They pulled me a thousand leagues across the Melantine; I have them in my hands now, and they are like worthless shards of glass …”

The boat floated high, and Ampridatvir became a setting of pale crystals in the starlight. In the luminescence of the instrument panel, Ulan Dhor fitted the two tablets together. The marks merged, became characters, and the characters bore the words of the ancient magician:

Faithless children — Rogol Domedonfors dies, and so lives forever in the Ampridatvir he has loved and served! When intelligence and good will restore order to the city; or when blood and steel teaches the folly of bridled credulity and passion, and all but the toughest dead: — then shall these tablets be read. And I say to him who reads it, go to the Tower of Fate with the yellow dome, ascend to the topmost floor, show red to the left eye of Rogol Domedonfors, yellow to the right eye, and then blue to both; do this, I say, and share the power of Rogol Domedonfors.

Ulan Dhor asked, “Where is the Tower of Fate?”

Elai shook her head. “There is Rodeil’s Tower, and the Red Tower and the Tower of the Screaming Ghost, and the Tower of Trumpets and the Bird’s Tower, and the Tower of Gauns — but I know of no Tower of Fate.”

“Which tower has a yellow dome?”

“I don’t know.”

“We will search in the morning.”

“In the morning,” she said leaning against him drowsily.

“The morning …” said Ulan Dhor, fondling her yellow hair.

When the old red sun rose, they drifted back over the city and found the people of Ampridatvir awake before them, intent on murder.

The fighting and the killing was not so wild as the night before. It was a craftier slaughter. Stealthy groups of men waylaid stragglers, or broke into houses to strangle women and children.

Ulan Dhor muttered, “Soon there will be none left in Ampridatvir upon whom to work Rogol Domedonfors’ power.” He turned to Elai. “Have you no father, no mother, for whom you fear?”

She shook her head. “I have lived my life with a dull and tyrannical uncle.”

Ulan Dhor turned away. He saw a yellow dome; no other was visible: The Tower of Fate.

“There.” He pointed, turned down the nose of the air-car.

Parking on a high level, they entered the dusty corridors, found an anti-gravity shaft, and rose to the topmost floor. Here they found a small chamber, decorated with vivid murals. The scene was a court of ancient Ampridatvir. Men and women in colored silks conversed and banqueted and, in the central plaque, paid homage to a patriarchal ruler with a rugged chin, burning eyes, and a white beard. He was clad in a purple and black gown and sat on a carved chair.

“Rogol Domedonfors!” murmured Elai, and the room held its breath, grew still. They felt the stir their living breath made in the long-quiet air, and the depicted eyes stared deep into their brains …

Ulan Dhor said, “‘Red to the left eye, yellow to the right; then blue to both.’ Well — there are blue tiles in the hall, and I wear a red coat.”

They found blue and yellow tiles, and Ulan Dhor cut a strip from the hem of his tunic.

Red to the left eye, yellow to the right. Blue to both. A click, a screech, a whirring like a hundred bee-hives.

The wall opened on a flight of steps. Ulan Dhor entered, and, with Elai breathing hard at his back, mounted the steps.

They came out in a flood of daylight, under the dome itself. In the center on a pedestal sat a glistening round-topped cylinder, black and vitreous.

The whirring rose to a shrill whine. The cylinder quivered, softened, became barely transparent, slumped a trifle. In the center hung a pulpy white mass — a brain?

The cylinder was alive.

It sprouted pseudopods which poised wavering in the air. Ulan Dhor and Elai watched frozen, close together. One black finger shaped itself to an eye, another formed a mouth. The eye inspected them carefully.

The mouth said cheerfully, “Greetings across time, greetings. So you have come at last to rouse old Rogol Domedonfors from his dreams? I have dreamed long and well — but it seems for an unconscionable period. How long? Twenty years? Fifty years? Let me look.”

The eye swung to a tube on the wall, a quarter full of gray powder.

The mouth gave a cry of wonder. “The energy has nearly dissipated! How long have I slept? With a half-life of 1,200 years — over five thousand years!” The eye swung back to Ulan Dhor and Elai. “Who are you then? Where are my bickering subjects, the adherents of Pansiu and Cazdal? Did they kill themselves then, so long ago?”

“No,” said Ulan Dhor with a sick grin. “They are still fighting in the streets.”

The eye-tentacle extended swiftly, thrust through a window, and looked down over the city. The central jelly twitched, became suffused with an orange glow. The voice spoke again, and it held a terrible harshness. Ulan Dhor’s neck tingled and he felt Elai’s hand clenching deep into his arm.

“Five thousand years!” cried the voice. “Five thousand years and the wretches still quarrel? Time has taught them no wisdom? Then stronger agencies must be used. Rogol Domedonfors will show them wisdom. Behold!”

A vast sound came from below, a hundred sharp reports. Ulan Dhor and Elai hastened to the window and looked down. A mind-filling sight occupied the streets.

The ten-foot vestibules leading below the city had snapped open. From each of these licked a great tentacle of black transparent jelly like the substance of the fluid roads.

The tentacles reached into the air, sprouted a hundred branches which pursued the madly fleeing Ampridatvians, caught them, stripped away their robes of gray and green, then whipping them high through the air, dropped them into the great central square. In the chill morning air the populace of Ampridatvir stood mingled naked together and no man could distinguish Green from Gray.

“Rogol Domedonfors has great long arms now,” cried a vast voice, “strong as the moon, all-seeing as the air.”

The voice came from everywhere, nowhere.

“I am Rogol Domedonfors, the last ruler of Ampridatvir. And to this state have you descended? Dwellers in hovels, eaters of filth? Watch — in a moment I repair the neglect of five thousand years!”

The tentacles sprouted a thousand appendages — hard horny cutters, nozzles that spouted blue flame, tremendous scoops, and each appendage sprouted an eye-stalk. These ranged the city, and wherever there was crumbling or mark of age the tentacles dug, tore, blasted, burnt; then spewed new materials into place, and when they passed, new and gleaming structures remained behind.

Many-armed tentacles gathered the litter of ages; when loaded they snapped high through the air, a monstrous catapult, flinging the rubbish far out over the sea. And wherever was gray paint or green paint a tentacle ground off the color, sprayed new various pigments.

Down every street ran the tremendous root-things and off-shoots plunged into every tower, every dwelling, every park and square — demolishing, stripping, building, clearing, repairing. Ampridatvir was gripped and permeated by Rogol Domedonfors as a tree’s roots clench the ground.

In a time measured by breaths, a new Ampridatvir had replaced the ruins, a gleaming, glistening city — proud, intrepid, challenging the red sun.