"Well?" he said carelessly, "that's been a privilege granted to the heads of many governments, hasn't it?"
Her eyes blazed. "I can't understand a man who's willing to surrender his natural rights!" she flared. "Our men would die for a principle!"
"But they're not doing it," observed Connor caustically.
"Because they'd be throwing their lives away uselessly —that's why! They can't fight the Master now with any chance of success. But just wait until the time comes!"
"And then, I suppose, the whole world will be just one great big beautiful state of anarchy."
"And isn't that an ideal worth fighting for?" asked the girl hotly. "To permit every single individual to attain his rightful liberty? To destroy every chance of injustice?"
"But—"
Connor paused, considering. Why should he be arguing like this with Evanie? He felt no allegiance to the government of Urbs; the Master meant nothing to him. The only government he could have fought for, died for, was lost a thousand years in the past. Whatever loyalty he owed in this topsy–turvy age belonged to Evanie. He grinned. "Crazy or not, Evanie," he promised, "your cause is mine!"
She softened suddenly.
"Thank you, Tom." Then, in lower tones, "Now you know why Jan Orm is so anxious for the secret of the rocket blast. Do you see?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Revolution!"
He nodded. "I guessed that. But since you've answered one question, perhaps you'll answer my other one. What are the failures that still haunt the world, the products of the immortality treatment?"
Again that flush of unhappiness.
"He meant—the metamorphs," she murmured softly. Quickly she rose and passed into the cottage.
The Metamorphs
Connor's strength swiftly approached normal, and shortly little remained of that unbelievable sojourn in the grave. His month's grizzle of beard began to be irritating, and one day he asked Jan for a razor.
Jan seemed puzzled; at Connor's explanation he laughed, and produced a jar of salve that quickly dissolved the stubble, assuring Connor that the preparation would soon destroy the growth entirely.
But Evanie's reaction surprised him. She stared for a moment without recognition.
"Tom!" she cried. "You look—you look like an ancient statue!"
He did look different from the mild–featured villagers. With the beard removed, his lean face had an aura of strength and ruggedness that was quite unlike the appearance of his neighbors.
Time slipped pleasantly away. Evenings he spent talking to newly made friends, relating stories of his dead age, explaining the state of politics, society, and science in that forgotten time. Often Evanie joined in the conversation, though at other times she amused herself at the "vision," a device of remarkable perfection, on whose two–foot screen actors in distant cities spoke and moved with the naturalness of miniature life.
Connor himself saw "Winter's Tale" and "Henry the Eighth" given in accurate portrayal, and was once surprised to discover a familiar–seeming musical comedy, complete to scantily–clad chorus. In many ways Evanie puzzled Tom Connor. There was some mystery about her that he could not understand. Life in Ormon, it seemed to him, was essentially what it had been in his old days in St. Louis. Young men still followed immemorial routine; each evening saw them walking, sitting, talking, with girls, idling through the parklike arcades of trees, strolling along the quiet river.
But not Evanie. No youth ever climbed the hill to her cottage, or sat with her at evening—except when Jan Orm occasionally came. And this seemed strange, considering the girl's loveliness. Connor couldn't remember a more attractive girl than this spirited, gentle, demure Evanie—except his girl of the woods. Not even Ruth of the buried days of the past.
He mused over the matter until a more sensational mystery effaced it. Evanie went hunting game up–river. Deer were fairly plentiful, and game–birds, wild turkeys, and pheasants had increased until they were nearly as common as crows once had been.
The trio carried glistening bows of spring steel that flung slender steel arrows with deadly accuracy, if used properly. Connor was awkward, but Evanie and Jan Orm handled them with skill. Connor bemoaned the lack of rifles; he had been a fair marksman in the old days.
"I'd show you!" he declared. "If I only had my Marlin repeater!"
"Guns aren't made any more," said Jan. "The Erden Resonator finished them; they're useless for military weapons."
"But for hunting?"
"They're banned by law. For a while after the founding of the Urban Empire people kept 'em hidden around, but no one knew when a resonator might sweep the section, and folks got tired of having the things go off at night, smashing windows and plowing walls. They weren't safe house–pets."
"Well," grumbled Connor, "I'd like one now, even an air–rifle. Say!" he exclaimed. "Why not a water–gun?"
"A water–gun?"
"One run by atomic energy. Didn't you say you could detonate it—get all the power out at once?"
"Yes, but—" Jan Orm paused. "By God!" he roared. "That's the answer! That's the weapon! Why didn't anybody think of that before? There's what we need to—" He broke his sentence in mid–air.
Evanie smiled. "It's all right," she said. "Tom knows."
"Yes," said Connor, "and I'm with you in your revolutionary ambitions."
"I'm glad," Jan Orm said simply. His eyes lighted. "That gun! It's a stroke of genius. The resonators can't damage an atom–powered rifle! Evanie, the time draws near!"
The three proceeded thoughtfully up the river bank. The midsummer sun beat down upon them with withering intensity. Connor mopped his streaming brow.
"How I'd like a swim," he ejaculated. "Evanie, do you people ever swim here? That place where the river's backed up by that fallen bridge—it should be a great place for a dip!"
"Oh, no!" the girl said quickly. "Why should we swim? You can bathe every day in the pool at home."
That was true. The six–foot basin where water, warmed to a pleasant tepidity by atomic heat, bubbled steadily through, was always available. But it was a poor substitute for swimming in open water.
"That little lake looked tempting," Connor sighed.
"The lake!" cried Evanie, in horror. "Oh, no! No! You can't swim there!"
"Why not?"
"You just can't!"
And that was as much information as he could obtain. Shortly afterward, swinging the half–dozen birds that had fallen to their arrows, they started back for the village.
But Connor was determined to ferret out at least that one mystery—why he should not swim in the lake. The next time he accompanied Jan Orm on a tramp up–river, he plied Jan with questions. But it was futile. He could extract no more from Jan Orm than he had from Evanie.
As the pair approached the place of the ruined bridge that dammed the stream, they turned a little way inland. Jan's keen eyes spotted a movement in a thick copse.
"Deer in there," he whispered. "Let's separate and start him."
He bore off to the left, and Connor, creeping cautiously to the right, approached the grass–grown bank of the watercourse. Suddenly he stopped short. Ahead of him the sun had glinted on something large and brown and wet, and he heard a rustle