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this specimen of his race was formidable to look upon. He was fully as tall as Naile, and in addition to the wicked sword of bone, double-edged with teeth, that he carried, his natural armament of fang and claw was weaponry even a hero might consider twice before facing. Yet on his scaled wrist, as on that of the bard and the cleric, was the same bracelet.
    Now the wizard turned to the fire, pointed a forefinger.Phrases of a language that meant nothing to Milo came from his lips in an invoking chant. Out of the heart of the flames spread more smoke but in no random puff. This was a serpent of white which writhed through the air, reaching out. It split into two and one loop of it fell about Milo, Naile and the elf before they could move, noosing around their heads, just as the other branch noosed the four facing them.
    Milo sputtered and coughed. He could see nothing of the room now or of those in it. But . . .
    â€œ ALL RIGHT, YOU PLAY THAT ONE THEN. NOW THE PROBLEM IS . . .”
    A room, misty, only half seen. Sheets of paper. He was . . . he was . . .
    â€œ WHO ARE YOU?” A VOICE BOOMED THROUGH THE MIST WITH THE resonance of a great bell.
    Who was he? What a crazy question. He was Martin Jefferson, of course.
    â€œWho are you?” demanded that voice once more. There was such urgency in it that he found himself answering it:
    â€œMartin Jefferson.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    His bewilderment grew. He was—he was playing a game. Something Eckstern had suggested that they practice up on for the convention using the new Q K figures.
    That was it—just playing a game!
    â€œNo game.” The booming voice denied that, leaving him bewildered, completely puzzled.
    â€œWho are you?”
    Martin wet his lips to answer. There was a question of two of his own for which he wanted an answer. The mist was so thick he could not see the table. And that was not Eckstern’s voice—it was more powerful. But before he could speak again he heard a second voice:
    â€œNelson Langley.”
    Nels—that was Nels! But Nels had not come tonight. In fact he was out of town. He hadn’t heard from Nels since last Saturday.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Again that relentless inquiry.
    â€œI’m playing a game . . .” Nels’ voice sounded odd—strong enough and yet as if this unending fog muffled it a little.
    â€œNo game!” For the second time that curt answer was emphatic.
    Martin tried to move, to break through the fog. This was like one of those dreams where you could not get away from an ever-encoaching shadow.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œJames Ritchie.”
    Who was James Ritchie? He’d never heard of him before. What
was
going on? Martin longed to shout out that question and discovered that he could not even shape the words. He was beginning to be frightened now—if this was a dream it was about time to wake up.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    Martin was not in the least surprised to hear the same answer he and Nels had given—the same denial follow.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œSusan Spencer.” That was a girl’s voice, again that of a stranger.
    Then came three other answers: Lloyd Collins, Bill Ford, Max Stein.
    The smoke was at last beginning to thin. Martin’s head hurt. He was Martin Jefferson and he was dreaming. But . . .
    As the smoke drifted away in ragged patches he was—not back at the table with Eckstern—no! This was—this was the tower of Hystaspes. He was Milo Jagon, swordsman—but he was also Martin Jefferson. The warring memories in his skull seemed enough for a wild moment or two to drive him mad.
    â€œYou see.” The wizard nodded as his gaze shifted from one of the faces to the next.
    â€œMasterly—masterly and as evil as the Nine and Ninety Sins of Salzak, the Spirit Murderer.” The wizard seemed divided, too, as if he both hated and feared what he might have learned from them.