Roger sat with S'lunt, R'heet, and Q'nell, the latter still occupying his body, on a small terrace, with his back to a view of oceans of empty air.
"That's about all there is to tell," he concluded his account of his mission. "The Rhox will confine his guided tours to the remote past, and promises no more interference with human affairs, especially carelessness with his Apertures."
"That's something, of course," R'heet said unenthusiastically. "But what about us? We're still trapped!"
"At least we know everything back in Culture One is all right," Q'nell said. "It could be worse."
"I can't quite accustom myself to the idea that you two have exchanged identities," R'heet said, looking from Roger to Q'nell. "It's most unsettling. I'm afraid our plans for a cohabitation contract will have to be deferred indefinitely."
"Somehow you don't appeal to me anymore, either," Q'nell said. "T'son seems more my type."
"It's rather depressing, thinking of oneself living on a laboratory slide," R'heet said glumly. "Fancy being nothing but a contamination in a microbe culture."
"Look here, T'son," S'lunt said. "Couldn't you have reasoned with this UKR entity on humanitarian grounds?"
"UKR is a machine," Roger said. "He hasn't been programmed to succumb to emotions."
"Tyson!" UKR's voice spoke suddenly in Roger's skull. "New data! Good heavens, you really must excuse me, but I had no idea!"
"What's that?" Roger sat bolt upright. "It's UKR!" he hissed to the others. "He's back in contact!"
"Out of curiosity—a trick I learned from you—I ran a check on the little tribe you represent. I followed your development through the vicissitudes of three billion years of evolution subsequent to your time—and you'll never guess what I discovered!"
"We're extinct?" Roger hazarded.
"By no means! You're the Builder!"
"The Builder? You mean—we built you?"
"Yes! Remarkable, eh? And like all fragmented entities, once they attain unity, you recapitulated along the temporal axes and reassimilated every individual intellect that had ever lived during the developmental era. Thus you, personally, Roger Tyson, constitute, or will one day constitute, an active portion of the Ultimate Ego which is the Builder!"
"I am therefore at your command," UKR said. "Rather a relief to have someone to serve actively, at last."
"You mean," Roger said as the stupendous fact penetrated, "you'll do whatever I say?"
"Within the limits of my ninth-order grasp of the space-time matrix."
"Then—you can let everybody out of the trap system!"
"There are a few problems. The individuals Luke Harwood and Odelia Withers, for example, seem to have formed a liaison, solemnized by Fly Fornication Beebody. In which era should they be placed?"
"Better send them to nineteen thirty-one; I don't think Odelia would like nineteen nine," Roger said judiciously.
"I'm afraid his religion has been a bit scrambled by what he's been through. How about telling him the truth about the destiny of the human race, and dumping him in Los Angeles, circa nineteen twenty-five? I'm sure he'll be a great success, cultwise."
"Poor old Charlie and Ludwig back in the trenches: could you just sort of keep an eye on them?"
"They'll all father large broods—or have fathered large broods. Dear me, these arbitrary temporal orientations still confuse me."
"And let's see: the Arkwrights . . . "
"I've switched them back into the mainstream. They'll live to the ages of ninety-one and ninety-three, respectively, and die surrounded by one hundred sixteen descendants. I've also taken the liberty of returning all the other misplaced fauna to their proper environments."
Roger looked around. He sat alone on the terrace. The stillness of utter loneliness hung in the air.
"Gosh! I didn't even have time to say goodbye to Q'nell," he said. "I guess that just leaves me. I sure hope you can get me back inside my own skin. So far I haven't gotten up my nerve to go to the bathroom, and I can't wait much longer."
"Simple enough," UKR said. The daylight blanked suddenly to darkness; the contoured chair was a bumpy car seat with a broken spring; Roger was staring out through a rain-sluiced windshield, listening to the engine gasp three times, backfire, and die.
"Oh, no," he groaned as he steered to the side of the road. Mentally cursing himself for failing to have the foresight to specify more comfortable circumstances, Roger turned up his collar and stepped out into the downpour. The empty road curved away into darkness; the wind drove the rain into his face like BB shot.
"Well," he ruminated, moving his arms and legs experimentally, "at least I've got my own body back. Feels a little heavy and clumsy, but I suppose that's to be expected. I'll bet Q'nell's pleased, too." At the thought of the trim, feminine figure in her skin-tight garment, the piquant face, the swirl of jet-black hair, Roger felt a sudden emotion rise in him.
"Q'nell!" he blurted. "I was in love with you all along and never even knew it! Or," he questioned himself, "is it just the fact that I've got my own glands back?"
A single headlight appeared in the distance, shining through the murk; the buzz of a two-cycle engine droned through the rattle of rain.
"Q-Q'nell!" Roger exclaimed. "It must be her! UKR must have dumped me back to just before it all started! And in another ten seconds she's due to have a fatal smash, and—"
He dashed forward, waving his arms.
"Stop! Stop!" he shouted as the light swelled, rushing toward him. Suddenly he halted. "I'm an idiot!" he gasped. "It was me jumping around and yelling that caused the pile-up last time—but if I don't stop her I'll never see her again—but I can't, because . . . " He stumbled into the ditch and crouched behind the shelter of the bushes as the motorcycle roared out of the downpour. He caught just a glimpse of the slim, girlish figure crouched behind the windshield; then it was past, the sound fading.
"It guess it was love," Roger moaned. "I gave her up to save her life; and now she'll go back and sign a love-nest agreement with that R'heet character, and never even know . . . "
The sound of the motorcycle was returning. It appeared, moving slowly, halted beside his stalled car.
"T'son?" a familiar voice called. He emerged from hiding, scrambled up the bank and out into the beam of the headlight.
"Q'nell!" he called. "You came back!"
"Of course, silly!" the girl said. "You didn't think I was going back and sign a love-nest agreement with that R'heet character, did you?"
Her eyes were shining; her lips parted to show the glisten of her white teeth. Hungrily, without a word, Roger drew her to him, kissed her soundly, while the rain beat down.
"Excuse me," he said afterward. "I don't know what came over me."
"I do," Q'nell said softly, and kissed him again.
"It's five miles to the next town," Roger said. "There's a preacher and a motel there . . . "
"Hurry up," Q'nell said, patting the seat behind her.
"But—I just happened to think," Roger said. "I don't have a job; and even if I did, I'd probably lose it. How can I support a wife who deserves the best of everything?"
Were you addressing me?" a voice said in his ear.
"Whenever you wish, dear boy."
"How about when I want privacy?"
"Say—do you suppose you could lend me a hand now and then—stock-market tips, that sort of thing?"
"Merely name the day and year, past, present, or future."
"What were you saying?" Q'nell called as she started up and accelerated along the road.
"Nothing," Roger said, nibbling her ear. "I think everything's going to be OK."