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                           TIME IN THE ROUND

                            By FRITZ LEIBER

                         Illustrated by DILLON

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                   Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




             Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator
             in history: everybody gave in to him because
             he was so puny and they were so impregnable!


From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the Peace
Park, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly at
the towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, the
effect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning of
civilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught up
with the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and the
scene was normal again.

The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studied
the dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid and
poked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened his
grip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushiony
pavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his grip
and suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stiff
tube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in an
upside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a long
black tongue lolled.

The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tube
with a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someone
called: "Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!"

A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across the
luxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,
except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.

Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:
"Kill 'em, Brute."

       *       *       *       *       *

The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necks
so short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like a
fanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue and
one pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.

Butch yawned.

"What's the matter?" inquired Darter's master. "I thought you liked dog
fights, Butch."

"I do like dog fights," Butch said somberly, without looking around. "I
don't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.
Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy--and you, too, Hal--when you
talk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?"

"That's not exactly a functional name," Hal observed with the
judiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: "All
right, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when people
were hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?"

"I certainly would," the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned back
skeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwed
up his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. He
squeaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.

"A kid can't do anything any more," he announced dramatically. "Can't
break anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.
Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen--and they graduate him from that
when he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj--it's contraprogrammed."

"Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt?" Hal asked in a gentle voice
acquired from a robot adolescer.

"I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn," the
Butcher replied airily. "A swell book. That guy got dirtier than
anything." His eyes became dreamy. "He even ate out of a garbage pail."

"What's a garbage pail?"

"I don't know, but it sounds great."

The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the ear
and was whirling him around hilariously.

"Aw, _quit_ it, Brute," the Butcher said in annoyance.

Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying no
attention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.

The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. "You're making too much
of a rumpus," he said. "I want to think."

       *       *       *       *       *

He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.

"Look," Joggy said, "you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, would
you?"

"How can you hurt something that's uninjurable?" the Butcher demanded
scathingly. "An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuits
and a micropack bedded in hyperplastic." He looked at Brute with
guarded wistfulness.

"I don't know about that," Hal put in. "I've heard an uninj is
programmed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practically
has racial memory."

"I mean if you _could_ hurt an uninj," Joggy amended.

"Well, maybe I wouldn't," the Butcher admitted grudgingly. "But shut
up--I want to think."

"About what?" Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.

The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. "When I'm World Director," he
said slowly, "I'm going to have warfare again."

"You think so now," Hal told him. "We all do at your age."

"We do not," the Butcher retorted. "I bet _you_ didn't."

"Oh, yes, I was foolish, too," the older boy confessed readily. "All
newborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.
They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and death
games and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adult
conditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,
long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, people
kept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition them
differently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man's
greatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject all
violent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older."

"I will not!" the Butcher countered hotly. "I'm not going to be a
sissy." Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. "And what if we
were attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?"

"The Space Fleet would take care of them," Hal replied calmly. "That's
what it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions to
problems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did to
viruses."

"But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?"

"They can't. It's impossible."

"Yes, but suppose they did all the same."

"You've never been inside the Time Theater--you're not old enough
yet--so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasons
why it's impossible," Hal replied with friendly factuality. "The Time
Bubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just into
the past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can't
change the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff."

"I don't care," the Butcher asserted obstinately. "I'm still going to
have warfare when I'm World Director."

"They'll condition you out of the idea," Hal assured him.

"They will not. I won't let 'em."

"It doesn't matter what you think now," Hal said with finality. "You'll
have an altogether different opinion when you're six."

"Well, what if I will?" the Butcher snapped back. "You don't have to
keep _telling_ me about it, do you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedly
on the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and said
in soothing tones: "Joggy and I are going to swim over to the Time
Theater. Want to walk us there, Butch?"

Butch scowled.

"How about it, Butch?"

Still Butch did not seem to hear.

The older boy shrugged and said: "Oh, well, how about it--Butcher?"

The Butcher swung around. "They won't let me in the Time Theater. You
said so yourself."

"You could walk us over there."

"Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't."

"While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy."

Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulging
pocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made a
black mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.

He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownups
wanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it up
or tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of the
crayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFF
THE GRASS.

With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after the
others.

Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air at
shoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was a
wide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjes
avoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, looking
up inquiringly at his master.

"Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride!" the Butcher called. The older boy
ignored him. "Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy."

"Oh, all right." Joggy touched the small box attached to the front of
his broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcher
climbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, during
which each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.

Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim along
securely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up after
his master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a few
minutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts to
climb the hemispherical repulsor field.

Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down the
Avenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When he
was about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walking
and quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsor
hemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it would
be nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was the
simplest way to make progress.

The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators were
among the most prized of toys.

"There's the Theater," Joggy announced.

"I _know_," the Butcher said irritably.

But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Ramp
to the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a god
realized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods to
the adults drifting up and down the ramp.

"My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater," Hal said softly
as he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. "Say, they're
viewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.
time scale. It should be interesting."

"Will it be about Napoleon?" the Butcher asked eagerly. "Or Hitler?" A
red-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hair
had fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he sat
Joggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of the
grim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.

"Wrong millennium," Hal said.

"Tamerlane then?" the Butcher pressed. "He killed cities and piled the
skulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of the
Navies."

Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. "Well, even
if it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?"

"They won't let me in, either."

"Yes, they will. You're five years old now."

"But I don't feel any older," Joggy replied doubtfully.

"The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice the
difference."

Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to their
feet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He opened
his mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain in
tight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier--like Stalin, maybe, he
thought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.

Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor which
drank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcher
limped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot his
battle injury.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hal looked back. "Honestly, the usher will stop you."

The Butcher shook his head. "I'm going to think my way in. I'm going to
think old."

"You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fives
simply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason for
it--something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside."

"Why?"

"I don't exactly know, but something."

"Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble and
have some excitement."

"They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander away
from your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronics
or something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will take
care of you."

"Shut up--I'm thinking I'm World Director," the Butcher informed them,
contorting his face diabolically.

Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.
Obediently four of them lined up.

But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into a
deeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed to
retreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhed
back to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar sound
issued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The other
uninjes moved uneasily.

"Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits?" Joggy
whispered. "Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands."

"Of course not," Hal said irritably.

"Brute, get over there," the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes still
fixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.

The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguely
electrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.
The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.

"I told you you couldn't fool the usher," Hal said.

The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, then
bounced him back with equal force.

"I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway," the Butcher said, not giving
up, but not trying again. "And I still don't think the usher can tell
how old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on you
through a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on the
usher."

       *       *       *       *       *

But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited and
then sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee and
growled faintly down the corridor.

"Take it easy, Brute," the Butcher consoled him. "I don't think
Tamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow."

Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through the
usher as if it weren't there.

The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.
There were two closely spaced faint _plops_ and a large green stain
appeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped from
the close-cropped hair of the other.

They glared at him and one of them said: "A cub!" But he had his arms
folded and wasn't looking at them.

Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from the
main entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they found
themselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watch
the show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped their
levitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.

The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low central
platform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhat
flattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around the
bubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the pale
central glow.

But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention of
the boys.

Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by the
bubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliage
appeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,
a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside a
little fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round about
were wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blond
beards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.

Here and there were scattered weapons and armor--long swords glistening
with oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, and
helmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,
wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peer
down the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Only
the hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonder
and fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.

"The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbaric
cultures of the Dawn Era," a soft voice explained, so casually that
Joggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,
whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: "Don't do that,
Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our development
and hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.
But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billion
microtapes, though."

The interpreter continued: "The skin-clad men we are viewing in Time
in the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who lived
by pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. We
believe it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forces
of nature and see into the future."

Joggy whispered: "How is it that we can't see the audience through the
other side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right."

"The bubble only shines light out," Hal told him hurriedly, to show he
knew some things as well as the interpreter. "Nothing, not even light,
can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side of
the bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the other
way--for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in the
way. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky."

Joggy nodded. "You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it's
a kind of hole through time?"

"That's right." Hal cleared his throat and recited: "The bubble is the
locus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around two
points in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completely
open, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped--and so would
an atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintain
the bubble, let alone maneuver it."

"I see, I guess," Joggy whispered. "But if the hole works for light,
why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?"

"Why--er--you see, Joggy--"

The interpreter took over. "The holes are one-way for light, but no-way
for matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked toward
you, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on the
opposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walked
away along the vista down which they are peering."

       *       *       *       *       *

As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized on
their side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. For
an instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growing
silhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of the
bubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized the
back of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience on
the other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for some
time.

He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.

"More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia," a new voice
cut in.

Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into the
cubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand while
mopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.

Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: "Butch!"

But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.

"Then how is it, Hal," he asked, "that light comes out of the bubble,
if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks toward
us, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the light
coming our way disappear, too?"

"Well--you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's--"

Once more the interpreter helped him out.

"The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms of
one element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It's
more than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of light
tends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of the
light goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.
But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into the
Time Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,
you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we're
getting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, no
isotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts are
being made to synthesize them."

"Oh, explanations!" murmured one of the newly arrived girls. "The cubs
are always angling for them. Apple-polishers!"

"_I_ like this show," a familiar voice announced serenely. "They cut
anybody yet with those choppers?"

Hal looked down beside him. "Butch! How did you manage to get in?"

"I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?"

"But how _did_ you get in--Butcher?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Butcher replied airily: "A red-headed man talked to me and said it
certainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenes
of carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theater
and just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, but
then my sprained ankle had got worse--I kind of tried to get up and
fell down again--so he picked me up and carried me right through the
usher."

"Butcher, that wasn't honest," Hal said a little worriedly. "You
tricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketed
yours, going through the usher. I really _have_ heard it's dangerous
for you under-fives to be in here."

"The way those cubs beg for babying and get it!" one of the girls
commented. "Talk about sex favoritism!" She and her companion withdrew
to the far end of the cubicle.

The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention on
the scene in the Time Bubble.

"Those big dogs--" he began suddenly. "Brute must have smelled 'em."

"Don't be silly," Hal said. "Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.
Smells haven't any isotopes and--"

"I don't care," the Butcher asserted. "I bet somebody'll figure out
someday how to use the bubble for time traveling."

"You can't travel in a point of view," Hal contradicted, "and that's
all the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't real
at all, but a--uh--"

"I believe," the interpreter cut in smoothly, "that you're thinking
of the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Some
scientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling and
that the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, but
ever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it is
only a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being used
for time traveling--just as it may be a similar disability that keeps
a robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a real
man or animal.

"It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals and
other beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the Time
Theater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory should
prove true--and no evidence for it has ever appeared--there are
automatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from any
harmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,
remember) in either direction."

"Sissies!" was the Butcher's comment.

       *       *       *       *       *

"You're rather young to be here, aren't you?" the interpreter inquired.

The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.

The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through a
quarter-million microtapes. "Well, you wouldn't have got in unless a
qualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself."

There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubble
had acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking up
their swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,
revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to be
looking straight out of the bubble at the future.

"This is getting good," the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge of
his seat.

"Stop being an impulsive mentality," Hal warned him a little nervously.

"Hah!"

The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud of
smoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand waved
wildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. The
warriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate the
sorcerer.

"That's right," the Butcher approved loudly. "Sock it to 'em!"

"Butcher!" Hal admonished.

Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shone
forth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.

"A viewing anomaly has occurred," the interpreter announced. "It may be
necessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period."

In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushed
at one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment he
must cross-section.

"Attaboy!" the Butcher encouraged.

Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward the
shadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.

"Oh, _boy_!" the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.

"Butcher, you've done it!" Hal said, aghast.

"I sure did," the Butcher agreed blandly, "but that old guy in the
bubble helped me. Must take two to work it."

"Keep your seats!" the interpreter said loudly. "We are energizing the
safeguards!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after the
one who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,
pushing them in his direction.

Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emerged
from the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.

"The safeguards are now energized," the interpreter said.

A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front row
of the audience.

The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant step
forward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over his
left shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in his
right hand.

"I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!"
the interpreter enjoined.

In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but the
Butcher yelled a "Hey!" of disapproval, snatched up something from the
floor and darted out through the sphincter.

Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emerged
warriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Between
their legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.
Then the warriors began to fan out.

"There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards," the
interpreter said. "Please be patient."

At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing a
levitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. At
his heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilization
voice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: "Hey,
you! You quit that!"

The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake to
quiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple his
sword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.
Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.

Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staring
at him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisible
an arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backed
a step.

The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat and
digging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. "Sic
'em, Brute!" he shrilled. "Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitie
and Blue!" Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselves
forward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the first
encounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, and
tossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. But
then Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight--and suddenly the
face of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked and
touched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.

The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. But
already the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter had
the advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so many
foxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninj
clamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.

Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all the
warriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.
That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, hand
clenching the levitator above his head.

"Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!"

The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,
a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.

"We are working to energize the safeguards," the interpreter said in
mechanical panic. "Remain patient and in your seats."

The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur than
flesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. They
came yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.
He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out a
screech.

Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which the
Butcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drew
back, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.
At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the Time
Bubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wasted
no time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, and
no repulsor field stayed them.

"Brute, come back!" the Butcher yelled.

       *       *       *       *       *

The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scampered
out of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original light
intensity and then winked out.

For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in the
auditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.

"We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse the
Time Bubble," the interpreter said. "There will be no viewing until
further announcement. Thank you for your patience."

Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into his
arms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. The
Butcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.

"Cubs!" came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. "Always
playing hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have come
from those dirty past men."

Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listening
to them or to the older voices clamoring about "revised theories of
reality" and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brute
licked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practically
on his mouth.

He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: "We
came, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?"