with all his strength. As it tilted, Gillian Murray forced chocks of metal underneath to hold it in place. The teamwork was repeated time after time, until at last the slab toppled over, gaining them another twelve inches. They rested for a moment. Then the whole endless process started once again.

By dusk, they had removed five stones.

Finished eating, they relaxed in the living room, lying back in the padded comfort of the armchairs. Only Jason Tarsh remained standing—slim and compact, like a young Oriental despot—his eyes fixed on Walter Pellinger.

Pellinger squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I think I'll try and get some sleep," he said.

"Just a moment, Walter," Tarsh lifted a restraining hand. "You're a businessman and I want your advice. It's quite a simple problem. Imagine that four of your employees are stranded on a desert island with very little food. And suppose they all agree to build a raft on which to escape and get back to the head office—what you might call a 'joint venture.' Now let us also suppose that three of those people work hard, cut down trees and fashion them into planks, gather creepers and braid them into ropes, and generally do all they can to further the common purpose. But the fourth, Walter—and this is the point—the fourth does nothing. He eats the food—Company food, mind you!—so urgently needed to keep up the strength of the—"

"Why do you keep picking on me? I do all I can." Walter Pellinger got out of his chair.

"You?" said Jason Tarsh, affecting amazement. "Who said anything about you? Why, you're the last person I'd criticize. But I see you wish to leave the lovebirds to themselves, so let's finish our little chat outside. It's a fine night." He steered the unwilling Pellinger out onto the veranda.

"Well, shall we take a hint and move over to the settee?" Gillian Murray suggested.

Delman watched with admiration as she crossed the room, clean-limbed and graceful, her long red hair falling from the crown of her head in a soft cascade.

"Never be discourteous to the cook," he replied. "That was one of my earliest lessons. And, heaven knows, you're an unusually attractive cook. It gives one an appetite just to look at you." He got up to join her—a bearded giant, tall and deep-chested, like the heroes of the Viking sagas.

"What will you do when we get back?" she asked.

"Marry and get some job that won't take me away from you. Does that meet with your approval?"

"Yes," she said. "If that's a proposal, it will do nicely."

They kissed with all the intensity of young love, losing in their embrace the dread of time which swept them toward their childhood.

"Curtis," she said quietly, "have we any hope? Please be honest!"

His fingers brushed the back of her neck lightly, up and down, not altering their tender rhythm.

"Not much," he said without emotion.

"Jason was right about the food. There's very little left; the supplies were on the lifeboat. You're all hungry. I know you are."

"It's not only that, darling. Sleep is just as important. But we can't spare the time. Every day now, we'll be growing physically weaker and the same job will soon take us twice as long. There's so much to do. And we've got to plan all of it in advance, while our minds are still adult."

"Is that why you've got the recording machine down here?"

"It may sound idiotic," he said, "but I can't remember my boyhood—it was four hundred years ago. Today, I'm twenty-five, you're twenty, and Walter is somewhere between the two of us. Jason, I'm sure, is less—how much, I don't know. The fact is that we'll be children before we leave—that is, if we leave—and we'll only be able to understand the simple things. So it seemed essential to clarify the lifeboat instructions; the manual would be complete nonsense to a child. Of course, I've added some general advice as it occurred to me."

Gillian sighed. "I don't think I'll like being married to you," she said. "You think of everything. May I switch on the recording machine?"

"Go ahead," he replied. "It will take a few seconds to warm up, though."

She kissed him lightly, then uncurled herself and went over to the recorder. The purr of the machine gradually increased in pitch until it passed from the range of human hearing. The silence was broken by his own voice.

"Curtis!" it said, "Curtis! Do not touch the controls until you are sure that Gillian and Walter and Jason are all in the cabin. Are they all there? Good. Then pull the big lever toward you. Now—"

Jason Tarsh entered the room and switched off the machine. "You can delete Walter," he said. He began to tape the slow, earnest delivery of the recorder. "For he is a silly boy and fell over the edge of the cliff." He smiled and continued in normal tones, "Very unfortunate. Should never have left him alone, poor guy. Blind as a bat. Oh, well, bigger breakfasts tomorrow. Good night."

It was noon. The whole ledge shimmered in the sun, hazy and indistinct, as the rising currents of air dispersed the light in a jumble of refracted motion.

On the runway, between the hangar and the house, stood a nine-year-old boy. A small, motionless figure, with a towel around his waist and his feet bandaged for protection against the blistering heat of the rock, he gazed up in triumph at the launching ramp.

There, perched on the summit of the ramp, lay the squat, powerful bulk of the lifeboat.

He turned and ran joyfully back to the house. "Jill!" he called. "Jill, come and play! And bring Jason with you."

A little girl, her red hair unbrushed, stepped out onto the veranda. "Don't want to bring Jason," she said, "He's mean."

"You must bring Jason," he insisted, "or you can't play."

"What we going to play?"

"'Ships,'" he said. He pointed to the top of the launching ramp.

Silently, the two children trudged across the rock-face and began to climb the steep slope of the ramp, leaning forward to retain their balance. Tucked up in a blanket in Gillian Murray's arms, Jason Tarsh bawled hungrily. Higher and higher they climbed, the only living creatures in a purple world, striving toward their goal. Curtis Delman, hampered by the weight of the recording machine, kept urging her to keep up with him. Suddenly, she stopped.

"Don't want to play," she said. "I'm tired." She sat down on the hot metal of the ramp, placing the baby beside her.

He let her rest for a few minutes, then tried to coax her to carry on. "You're a sissy," he said. "You're afraid!"

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm not a sissy," she cried. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"

Delman turned and continued climbing purposefully. "Gillian's a sissy! Gillian's a sissy!" he chanted over and over again.

Panting with weariness and indignation, she struggled after him.

They had covered more than half the distance before he looked back. He saw her following and prepared to go on again. Then he realized something was wrong and swung around, startled. Her hands were empty!

"Where's Jason?" he cried out.

She was too exhausted to reply and stared at him blankly. Putting down the recording machine, he ran past her. Some twenty yards away, the bundle of blanket that was Jason Tarsh began to roll gently down the slope.