seemed more and more the truth to him—until van Alen came.

Now he was ready to believe anything. The barriers were down.

"Antarctica?" he repeated.

Van Alen nodded. "You've been the subject of the most intensive manhunt in the history of humanity." That seemed to amuse him; he stopped, chuckled. "A history, to be sure, that stretches back all of four hundred years—but a history, nevertheless. Dale, we've searched through every one of the Twelve Empires for you. You were finally located here, in Iowa Province. The search is over; it took four years."

"I'm happy for you," Kesley said. "You must be pleased to have found me." His voice was restrained, matter-of-fact. "So the search is over?"

"Partially," van Alen said. "We have the treasure, now; we lack only the key to the box. Daveen the Singer, the blind man. The search for him continues."

Kesley frowned impatiently. "What the hell is this all about, van Alen?"

Van Alen smiled warmly. "I'm sorry, Dale. I can't tell you anything, not until Daveen has been found. But that can't take long, now that we've located you."

"Who's this Daveen?"

"A poet," van Alen said. "Also a remarkably skilled hypnotist. We'll find him soon, and then the search will really be over." The Antarctican seemed to be gazing through Kesley, as if he were staring all the way to his distant homeland. His eyes had turned cold again; his face had hardened.

"Suppose I tell you you're a lunatic?" Kesley asked.

"Suppose you do," van Alen said animatedly. "You'd have every right to the opinion. Care to join me in lunacy?"

"Eh?"

"Will you come with me—to Antarctica?"

"I'm not that crazy," Kesley said. He laughed. "You want me to drop everything—the farm, my whole life, just to go off with you to—to Antarctica?"

"This is not your life," van Alen said. "Antarctica is. Will you come?"

Kesley laughed contemptuously, but said nothing.

There was a knock on the door.

 Prev. P 13/113 next