tisfaction, his
hands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to the
beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of
snow.

Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here the
authorities would take him.

Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he even
spoke.

Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door and
stepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the bolt
into place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment he
considered. Should he have it with him?

No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone
approached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming toward
the field, then he could go and get the gun.

Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. He
took it down and unwrapped it.

He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, a
cold feeling rushed through him. This was the man's skull, the skull of
the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, who
would stand on the field not fifty yards away.

What if _he_ could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Two
centuries old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it,
the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tell
the people? What message could he bring?

What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his own
aged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives,
while they still had them to enjoy.

A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in few
causes, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite--

A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun.
Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heart
beating. Was it _he_? Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in the
cold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words,
choosing his sentences?

What if he could see what Conger had held!

He pushed the door open, the gun raised.

Lora!

He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her hands
in her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Her
breast was rising and falling.

Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.

"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He