."

* * * * *

Mr. Dawes came home an hour later, looking tired. Mom pecked him lightly
on the forehead. He glanced at the evening paper, and then spoke to Sol.

"Hear you been asking questions, Mr. Becker."

Sol nodded, embarrassed. "Guess I have. I'm awfully curious about this
Armagon place. Never heard of anything like it before."

Dawes grunted. "You ain't a reporter?"

"Oh, no. I'm an engineer. I was just satisfying my own curiosity."

"Uh-huh." Dawes looked reflective. "You wouldn't be thinkin' about
writing us up or anything. I mean, this is a pretty private affair."

"Writing it up?" Sol blinked. "I hadn't thought of it. But you'll have
to admit--it's sure interesting."

"Yeah," Dawes said narrowly. "I guess it would be."

"Supper!" Mom called.

After the meal, they spent a quiet evening at home. Sally went to bed,
screaming her reluctance, at eight-thirty. Mom, dozing in the big chair
near the fireplace, padded upstairs at nine. Then Dawes yawned widely,
stood up, and said goodnight at quarter-of-ten.

He paused in the doorway before leaving.

"I'd think about that," he said. "Writing it up, I mean. A lot of folks
would think you were just plum crazy."

Sol laughed feebly. "I guess they would at that."

"Goodnight," Dawes said.

"Goodnight."

He read Sally's copy of _Treasure Island_ for about half an hour. Then
he undressed, made himself comfortable on the sofa, snuggled under the
soft blanket that Mom had provided, and shut his eyes.

He reviewed the events of the day before dropping off to sleep. The
troublesome Sally. The strange dream world of Armagon. The visit to the
barber shop. The removal of Brundage's body. The conversations with the
townspeople. Dawes' suspicious attitude ...

Then sleep came.

* * * * *

He was flanked by marble pillars, thrusting towards a high-domed
ceiling.

The room stretched long and wide before him, the walls bedecked in
stunning purple draperies.

He whirled at the sound of footsteps, echoing stridently on the stone
floor. Someone was running towards him.

It was Sally, pigtails streaming out behind her, the small body wearing
a flowing white toga. She was shrieking, laughing as she skittered past
him, clutching a gleaming gold helmet.

He called out to her, but she was too busy outdistancing her pursuer. It
was Sheriff Coogan, puffing and huffing, the metal-and-gold cloth
uniform