How exquisitel I wish that I could know the other half. Devers says

there are two things in a complete experience-a moving toward, called pity, and a moving away from, called terror. It is the latter which I feel, which I have always sought; I do not understand the other, even when my

host quivers and his vision goes moistly dim.

I should like very much to cultivate the total re- sponse. Unfortunately, my time here is limited. I have hounded beauty through a thousand stellar cells, and here I learned mat a man named Aristotle defined it. It is unfortunate that I must leave without knowing the entire

experience.

But I am the last. The others have gone. The stars

move still, time runs, and the clock will strike ...

The ovation is enormous. The resurrected Jocasta bows beside her red-socketted king, smiling. Hand in hand, they dine upon our applause-but even pale Tiresias does not see what I have seen. It is very unfortunate.

And now the taxi home. What time is it in Thebes?

Devers is mixing us a strong drink, which he generally does oot do. I shall appreciate these final moments all the more, seen through the prism of his soaring fancy.

His mood is a strange one. It is almost as if he knows what is to occur at one o'clock-almost as if he knows what will happen when the atom expands its fleecy chest, shouldering aside an army of Titans, and the Mediter- ranean rushes to dip its wine-dark muzzle into the vacant

Sahara.

But he could not know, without knowing me, and this

time he will be a character, not an observer, when the

thing of terrible beauty occurs.

We both watch the pale gray eyes on the sliding panel.

He takes aspirins in advance whea he drinks, which

means he will be mixing us more.

But his hand ... It stops short of the medicine chest Framed in the tile and stainless steel, we both regard

reflections of a stranger.

"Good evening."

After .ten years, those two words, and on the eve of the

last performancel

Activating his voice to reply would be rather silly, even

19.

if I could manage it, and it would doubtless be upsetting.

I waited, and so did he.

Finally, like an organ player, I pedalled and chorded the necessary synapses:

Good evening. Please go ahead and take your aspirins.

He did. Then he picked up his drink from the ledge,

"I hope you enjoy Martinis."

/ do. Very much. Please drink more.

He smirked at us and returned to the living room.

"What are you? A psychosis? A dybbuk?"

Oh, no! Nothing like that-Just a member of the audience.

"I don't recall selling you a ticket"

You did not exactly invite me, but I didn't think you would mind, if I kept quiet. .. .

"Very decent of you."

He mixed another drink, then looked out at the build- ing across the way. It had two lighted windows, on differ- ent floors, like misplaced eyes.

"Mind if I ask why?"

Not at all. Perhaps you can even help me. I am an itinerant esthetician. I have to borrow bodies on the worlds I visit-preferably those of beings with similar interests. -

"I see-you're a gate-crasher.'*

Sort of, I guess. I try not to cause any trouble, though.

Generally, my host never even learns of my existence.

But I have to leave soon, and something has been trou- bling me for the past several years. . . . Since you have guessed at my existence and managed to maintain your stability, I've decided to ask you to resolve it.

"Ask away." He was suddenly bitter and very of- fended. I saw the reason in an instant

Do not think, I told him, that I have influenced any- thing you have thought or done. I am only an observer.

My sole function is to appreciate beauty.

"How interesting!" he sneered. "How soon is it going to happen?"

What?

"The thing that is causing you to leave."

Oh, that...