immaculately white brassard left the rope barrier and joined Bradford.

The Elder screamed, "You can't go back, Forsyte! Don't you understand? You disappeared two centuries ago when the vector field collapsed. You can't go back! You can't! This is your destiny!"

Sextus' heels soared five feet above the canvas and gained precious altitude with each spring, but it was a precarious business the higher he went. One slip and he'd glance off at a tangent and be captured by those reaching, grasping obscene hands in the crowd. The thought almost unseated his reason.

The police officer asked Bradford, "What would happen if he did go back?" Then he added, "Ain't he got a right to?"

Bradford shuffled nervously. "I don't quite know. We never considered such a—my God! Stop, man, stop. You'll change the whole course of history! Stop him!"

The barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the trampoline Sextus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and determination. The policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd roared.

One more bounce and a half twist, now. Sextus soared up, up, and his hands touched the sill.

With the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless window.

"You don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "Stay here and you'll be famous. If you go back it is to oblivion. Oblivion! Very, well, go back! Go back, you—you nonentity!"

"You bet," Sextus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth floor hallway of the Mahoney-Plaza hotel.

Instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from down the hall. "You, there. You mister manager." Sextus sighed mightily with relief. It was only Miss Genevieve Hafner holding a pimply-faced, red-haired youth by the ear.

True, Gary Gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging eddies of indignant displaced persons.

But these were things he understood. These were just beefs. Somewhat more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged convention at mid-night.

He adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust from his morning coat and moved into the fray.

"Now, now, Miss Hafner! What are you up to this time?"