sheet of parchment with fresh writing upon it. The writing was the same cursive hand as the memo mentioning "frigid Beyond" and "adepts" and "Appolonius" in the old, old book with Coghlan's fingerprints. There was a leather belt with a beautifully worked buckle. There was a dagger with an ivory handle. There were three books. All were quite new, but they were not modern printed books: they were manuscript books, written in graceless Middle Greek with no spaces between words or punctuation or paragraphing. In binding and make-up they were exactly like the _Alexiad_ of seven-hundred years ago. Only--they were spanking new.

Coghlan picked up one of them. It was the _Alexiad_. It was an exact duplicate of the one containing his prints, to the minutest detail of carving in the ivory medallions with which the leather cover was inset. It was the specifically same volume--But it was seven-hundred years younger--And it was bitterly, bitterly cold.

Duval was more than asleep. He was unconscious. In the physician's opinion he had been so near madness that he had had to be quieted. And he was quieted. Definitely.

Coghlan picked up the alnico magnet. He moved toward the wall and held the magnet near the wet spot. The silvery appearance sprang into being. He swept the magnet back and forth. He said: "The doctor couldn't rouse Duval, could he? So he could write something for me in Byzantine Greek?" He added, with a sort of quiet bitterness. "The thing is shrinking--naturally!" It was true. The wet spot was no longer square. It had drawn in upon itself so that it was now an irregular oval, a foot across at its longest, perhaps eight inches at its narrowest. "Give me something solid," commanded Coghlan. "A flashlight will do." Laurie handed him Lieutenant Ghalil's flashlight. He turned it on--it burned only feebly--and pressed it close to the silvery surface. He pushed the flashlight into contact. Into the silvery sheen. Its end disappeared. He pushed it through the silver film into what should have been solid plaster and stone. But it went. Then he exclaimed suddenly and jerked his hand away. The flashlight fell through--into the plaster. Coghlan rubbed his free hand vigorously on his trouser-leg. His fingers were numb with cold. The flashlight had been metal, and a good conductor of frigidity. 

"I need Duval awake!" said Coghlan angrily. "He's the only one who can write that Middle Greek--or talk it or understand it! I need him awake!" 

The physician shook his head when Ghalil relayed the demand. "He required much 

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