caused by some unfortunate small beast meeting an untimely end.
But at last he dozed off — only to be wakened, quite suddenly, by the most horrible of all sensations
that can be experienced by a man in the utter darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber. Something was
moving around the room.
It was moving almost silently, yet with amazing speed. There was a kind of whispering rush and,
occasionally, a ghostly squeaking so high-pitched that at first Duncan wondered if he was imagining the entire phenomenon. After some minutes he decided, reluctantly, that it was real enough. Whatever the
thing might be, it was obviously airborne. But what could possibly move at such speed, in total darkness, without colliding with the fittings and furniture of the bedroom?
While he considered this problem, Duncan did what any sensible man would do. He burrowed under
the bedclothes, and presently, to his vast relief, the whispering phantom, with a few more shrill
gibberings, swooped out into the night. When his nerves had fully recovered, Duncan hopped out of bed
and closed the window; but it seemed hours before his nervous system settled down again.
In the bright light of morning, his fears seemed as foolish as they doubtless were, and he decided not to ask George any questions about his nocturnal visitor; presumably it was some night bird or large insect.
Everyone knew that there were no dangerous animals left on Earth, except in well-guarded reservations...
Yet the creatures that George now seemed bent on introducing to him looked distinctly menacing.
Unlike Charlemagne, they had built-in weapons.
"I suppose," said George, only half doubtfully, "that you recognize these?"
"Of course — I do know some Terran zoology. If it has a leg at each corner, and horns, it's not a horse, but a cow."
"I'll only give you half marks. Not all cows have horns. And for that matter, there used to be horned horses. But they became extinct when there were no more virgins to bridle them."
Duncan was still trying to decide if this was a joke, and if so what was the point of it, when he had a slight mishap.
"Sorry!" exclaimed George, "I should have warned you to mind your step. Just rub it off on that tuft of grass."
"Well, at least it doesn't smell quite as bad as it looks," said Duncan resignedly, determined to make the best of a bad job.
"That's because cows are herbivores. Though they're not very bright, they're sweet, clean animals.
No wonder they used to worship them in India. Hello, Daisy — morning, Ruby — now, Clemence, that
was naughty—"
It seems to Duncan that these bovine endearments were rather one-sided, for their recipients gave no
detectable reaction. Then his attention was suddenly diverted; something quite incredible was flying
toward them.
It was small — its wingspan could not have been more than ten centimeters — and it traced wavering,
zigzag patterns through the air, often seeming about to land on a low bush or patch of grass, then
changing its mind at the last moment. Like a living jewel, it blazed with all the colors of the rainbow; its beauty struck Duncan like a sudden revelation. Yet at the same time he found himself asking what
purpose such exuberant — no, arrogant — loveliness could possibly serve.
"What is it?" he whispered to his companion, as the creature swept aimlessly back and forth a couple of meters above the grass.
"Sorry," said George. "I can't identify it. I don't think it's indigenous, though I may be wrong. We get a lot of migrants nowadays, and sometimes they escape from collectors — breeding them's been a
popular hobby for years." Then he stopped. He had suddenly understood the real thrust of Duncan's question. There was something close to pity in his eyes when he continued, in quite a different tone of voice: "I should have explained — it's a butterfly."
But Duncan scarcely heard him. That iridescent creature, drifting so effortlessly though the air, made him forget the ferocious gravitational field of which he was now a captive. He started to run toward it —
with the inevitable result.
Luckily, he landed on a clean patch of grass.
*
*
*
*
*
Half an hour later, feeling quite comfortable but rather foolish, Duncan was sitting in the centuries-old farmhouse with his bandaged ankle stretched out on a footstool, while Mrs. Washington and her two
young daughters prepared lunch. He had been carried back like a wounded warrior from the battlefield by a couple of tough farm workers who handled his weight with contemptuous ease, and also, he could not
help noticing, radiated a distinct aroma of Charlemagne...
It must be strange, he thought, to live in what was virtually a museum, even as a kind of part-time