no end to them.
He fell asleep and dreamed of going down a line of ghostly houses, counting them frantically as he ran along, hoping that he'd soon get to the end of them, for he couldn't quit until he did get to the end. But they always stretched ahead of him, as far as he could see, and he could find no end to them.
He woke, damp with perspiration, his tongue a dry and bitter wad inside a flannel mouth. He crept out of bed and went to the bathroom. He held his head under a cold faucet. It helped, but not much.
Downstairs, he found a note that Elaine had propped against the radio on the breakfast table:
Gone to play bridge at Mabel's.
Sandwiches in refrigerator.
It was dark outside. He'd slept the daylight hours away. A wasted day, he berated himself?a completely wasted day. He hadn't done a dollar's worth of work.
He found some milk and drank it, but left the sandwiches where they were.
He might as well go to the office and get a little work done, compensate in part for the wasted day. Elaine wouldn't return until almost midnight and there was no sense in staying home alone.
He got his hat and went out to where he'd parked the car in the driveway. He got into it and sat down on something angular and hard. He hoisted himself wrathfully and searched the seat with a groping hand to find the thing he'd sat on. His fingers closed about it and then he remembered. He'd sat on it on that day Morgan had showed up in answer to the ad. It had been rolling around ever since, unnoticed in the seat.
It was smooth to the touch and warm?warmer than it should be?as if there were a busy little motor humming away inside it.
And suddenly it winked.
He caught his breath and it flashed again.
Exactly like a signal.
Instinct told him to get rid of it, to heave it out the window but a voice suddenly spoke out of it?a thick, harsh voice that mouthed a sort of chant he could not recognize.
'What the hell?' chattered Homer, fearful now. 'What's going on?'
The chanting voice ceased and a heavy silence fell, so thick and frightening that Homer imagined he could feel it closing in on him.
The voice spoke again. This time, it was one word, slow and laboured, as if the thick, harsh tongue drove itself to create a new and alien sound.
The silence fell again and there was a sense of waiting. Homer huddled in the seat, cold with fear.
For now he could guess where the cube had come from.
Steen had ridden in the car with him and it had fallen from his pocket.
The voice took up again: 'Urrr?urr?urrth?mum!'
Homer almost screamed.
Rustling, panting sounds whispered from the cube.
Earthman? Homer wondered wildly. Was that what it had tried to say?
And if that was right, if the cube in fact had been lost by Stcen, then it meant that Steen was not a man at all.
He thought of Steen and the way he wore his shoes and suddenly it became understandable why he might wear his shoes that way. Perhaps, where Steen came from, there was no left or right, maybe not even shoes. No man could expect an alien, a being from some distant star, to get the hang of all Earth's customs?not right away, at least. He recalled the first day Steen had come into the office and the precise way he had talked and how stiffly he'd sat down in the chair. And that other day, six weeks later, when Steen had talked slangily and had sat slouched in his chair, with his feet planted on the desk.
Learning, Homer thought. Learning all the time. Getting to know his way around, getting the feel of things, like a gawky country youth learning city ways.
But it sure was a funny thing that he'd never learned about the shoes.
The cube went on gurgling and panting and the thick voice muttered and spat out alien words. One could sense the tenseness and confusion at the other end.
Homer sat cold and rigid, with horror seeping into him drop by splashing drop, while the cube blurted over and over a single phrase that meant not a thing to him.
Then, abruptly, the cube went dead. It lay within his hand, cooling, silent, just a thing that looked and felt like a cliptogether plastic block for children.
From far off, he heard the roar of a car as it left the curb and sped off in the night. From someone's backyard, a cat meowed for attention. Nearby, a bird cheeped sleepily.
Homer opened the glove compartment and tossed the cube in among the rags and scraper and the dog-eared road map and the other odds and ends.
He felt the terror and the loathing and the wild agony begin to drain out of his bones and he sat quietly in the car, trying to readjust his mind to this new situation?that Steen must be an alien.
He dipped his hand into his pocket and found the replica of the radiator ornament. And that was the key, he knew?not only the key to the many streets of homes, but the key to Steen and the alien world.
They hadn't meant for him to keep the ornament, of course. If he had returned the way he'd entered the world of the Second Bank, the teller more than likely would have demanded that he give it back. But he'd returned another way, an unexpected way, and it still was in his pocket.
And the radiator ornament, of course, was the reason that Steen had insisted that anyone who leased a house must also buy a car. For the ornament was a key that bridged one world and another. Although, thought Homer, it was rather drastic to insist that a man should buy a car simply so he'd have the correct radiator ornament.
But that might be the way, he told himself, that an alien mind would work.
He was calmer now. The fear still lingered, but pushed back, buried just a little.
Exactly how is a man supposed to act, he asked himseff, when he learns there are aliens in the land? Run screeching through the streets, rouse all the citizens, alert the law, go baying on the trail? Or does he continue about his business?
Might he not, he wondered, take advantage of his knowledge, turn it to his own benefit?
He was the only human being on all of Earth who knew.
Steen might not like it known that he was an alien. Perhaps it would be worth a lot to Steen not to have it known.
Homer sat and thought about it. The more he thought, the more reasonable it seemed that Steen might be ready to lay plenty on the line to keep the fact a secret.
Not that I don't have it coming to me, Homer told himself. Not that he hasn't caused me a heap of worry and trouble.
He put his hand into his pocket. The miniature ornament was there. There was no need to wait. Now was as good as any time.
He turned the ignition key and the motor came to life. He backed out of the driveway and took the road to Happy Acres.
The development was dark and quiet. Even the usual advertising signs were turned off in the shop fronts.
He parked in front of Steen's office and got out. Opening the trunk, he found the jack handle in the dark.
He stood staring toward the gate. There was no sign of the gateman. But that was a chance he'd have to take. If the old fool tried to interfere, he could handle him.
For a moment, in front of the door to Steen's office, he hesitated, trying to reassure himself. Certainly there would be another closet, some way to get to those other worlds, inside the office.
He struck savagely at the glass in the door with the jack handle. The glass splintered and rained down, with crashing, tinkling sounds.
Homer waited, tense, listening, watching. Nothing stirred. The old gateman, if he was around, apparently had not heard the crash.
