World's End

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his office lay, its multiple domes of azure and gold ceramic half obscured by newer, more graceful structures.

He took an antique watch from his pocket, glancing absently at the time . . . looking at the watch itself, turning it over andover for the feel of its comfortable familiarity in his hand. He sighed.

The hour was getting late--but not late enough that he could postpone this final duty for another day.

Besides, he had no more days left. The ceremonies at the Pantheon were due to begin today at sunset, and they would drag on through half of tomorrow. Crowds were gathering there already

. . . gathering from all over

Number Four to see him. The thought made him grimace.

These were only the first of too many ceremonies that he would have to wade through, like streams, on the way to where he wanted to go.

He had put off the meaningless honors, the public displays of adoration, for as long as possible, using his wound and his weakness as excuses. But he had spent JOAN D. VINGE

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