recognize that now, but I didn't mind. There was nothing in the world that fascinated me like history. I simply wallowed in it-far places and far people and far times. At night when I was in bed, in the dark, I'd imagine a time machine and travel through far time to those distant places to observe those ancient people. I'd lie there in the dark and imagine that I was lying in my time machine, in those far lands and times and that just beyond the wall of darkened time moved and lived and breathed those people I had come to spy upon and that all about me those great events were happening that form the tide of history. When the time came to specialize, to follow one specific line of study, I found myself drawn irresistibly to the study of the ancient Earth. My adviser warned me against it. He pointed out that the field was narrow and the resource material very limited. I knew that he was right and I tried to reason with myself, but it did no good. I was obsessed with Earth.
'My obsession with the Earth,' she said, 'I am quite certain, was in part a rapport with the past, a deep concern for the old beginnings. My father's farm was only a few miles from the locality where the first Lansings had settled on Al-den, or so the legend ran. Nestled in a little rocky canyon, at a point where it opened on what at one time must have been a wide, rich valley suitable for farming, was an old stone house, or what at one time had been a stone house. Large parts of it had crumbled, the very stones weathering away with time, disturbed by the small shiftings of the ground that would become significant only after many centuries. There were no stories about it. It was not a haunted house. It was too old to be a haunted house. It simply stood there. Time had made it a part of the landscape. It was not noticed. It was too old and self-effacing to attract human notice, although many little wild creatures, I found when I went to visit it, had made it their home. The land on which it stood and the land around it was so poor and worthless that it interfered with nothing, so it had escaped the tearing down and razing that is so common a fate of many ancient things. The area, in fact, is so worn out for any economic use, ruined by centuries of forgotten farming, that it is seldom visited. Legend said-I must admit, a very shaky legend-that it had been, at one time, the residence of a very early Lansing.
'I visited it, I suppose, because of its very oldness. Not because it may have been Lansing, but simply because it was so old-old beyond the memory of man, a structure from the deeper past. I expected nothing from it. The visit, you must understand, was just a holiday, the filling of an empty day. I had known of it, of course, for a long time, and like all the rest, had ignored it. There were many others who knew of its existence and accepted that existence as they would the existence of a tree or boulder. There was nothing to recommend it, nothing at all. Perhaps I would never have thought of it except in passing, or would never have visited it if it had not been for a gradual sharpening of my concern for olden things. Can you understand what I'm saying?'
'I think,' I said, 'I understand it far better than you may suspect. I recognize the symptoms. I have suffered most acutely from them.'
'I went there,' she said, 'and I ran my hands along the old, roughly hewn stones and I thought of how human hands, long gone in dust, had shaped them and piled them atop another as a refuge against the night and storm, as a home on a newfound planet. Looking through the ancient eyes of the builders, I was able to understand the attraction of the place of building, knowing why they might have chosen this particular place for the building of a house. Protection of the canyon walls from the sweeping winds, the quiet and dramatic beauty of the place, the water from the spring that still ran in a trickle from underneath a hillside rock, the wide and fertile valley (no longer fertile now) spreading just beyond the doorstep. I stood there in their stead and felt as they would have felt. I was, for a moment, them. And it didn't really matter whether they were Lansings or not; they were people, they were the human race.
'I would have been richly repaid for my time in going there if I had walked away right then. The touching of the stone, the evidence of the past would have been quite enough, but I went into the house…'
She stopped and waited a moment, as if gathering herself for the telling of the rest of it.
'I went into the house,' she said, 'and it was a foolhardy thing to do, for at any moment a part of it might have come crashing down upon me. Some of the stones were balanced most precariously and the entire thing was unstable. I don't remember that at the time, however, I gave any thought to this. I walked softly, not because of any danger, but because of the sanctity of time that hovered in that space. It was strange, the feeling that I had-or, rather, the conflicting feelings. When I first went into it I felt that I was an invader, an outsider who had no right of being there. I was intruding on old memories, on old lives, on old emotions that should have been left alone in peace, that had been there so long that they had earned the right to be left alone. I went inside, into what had been a rather large room, perhaps what you might call a living room. There was thick dust upon the floor and the dust was marked by the tracks of wild and small things and there was the odour of wild things having lived there through millennia. Insects had spun webs of silk in the corners and some of the older webs were as dusty as the floor. But as I stood there, just inside the doorway, a strange thing happened-a feeling that I had the right to be there, that I belonged there, that I was coming back after a long, long time on a family visit and was a welcome visitor. For blood of my blood had lived there, bone of my bone, and the right of blood and bone is not erased by time. There was a fireplace in one corner. The chimney was gone, fallen long before, but the fireplace's remained. I walked over to it and, kneeling down, touched the hearthstone with my fingers, feeling the texture of its surface through the dust. I could see the fireplace's; blackened throat, blackened by the old home fires; the soot-still there, resisting time and weather, and there was a moment when it seemed I could see the piled logs and the flame. And I said-I don't know if I said it aloud or only in my mind-I said it is all right, I have come back to tell you; the Lansings still persist. Never for a moment confused as to whom I might be saying it. I waited for no answer. I did not expect an answer. There was no one there to answer. It was enough that I should say it. It was a debt I owed them.'
She looked at me with frightened eyes. 'I don't know why I tell all this,' she said. 'I did not intend to tell it. There is no reason I should tell you; no reason you should hear it. The facts-the facts I could tell in just a few sentences, but it seemed that they must be told in context..'.'
I reached and touched her arm. 'There are some facts that can't be stated simply,' I told her. 'You are doing fine.'
'You are certain you don't mind?'
'Not at all,' said Elmer, speaking for me. 'I am fascinated.'
'There's not much more,' she said. 'There was a doorway, still intact, leading out of the room into the interior of the house and when I went into this room beyond, I saw that it once must have been a kitchen, although only part of it was there. There was a second story to the house, a part of it still standing, although all the roof was gone, having long since caved in on the rest of the structure. But above the kitchen there was no second story. Apparently the eaves of the house had extended over the kitchen and there was a pile of weathered debris lying along what had been the kitchen's outside wall, the debris from the caving eaves. I don't know how I happened to notice it-it was not easily detectable-but extending for a short distance out of one section of the debris was a squareness. It looked wrong; it didn't have the look of debris. It was dust-covered, as was everything in the house. There was no way to know that it was metal. It had no gleam. I guess it must have been the squareness of it. Debris isn't square. So I went over and tugged it out. It was a box, corroded, but still intact-the metal at no point had been broken or worn through. I squatted there on the floor beside it and I tried to reconstruct what had happened to it and it seemed to me that at some time it had been tucked away underneath the eaves, up in the attic, and then somehow was forgotten and that it had fallen when the eaves had fallen, perhaps crashing through the kitchen roof, or perhaps, by that time the kitchen had no roof.'
'So that's the story,' I said. 'A box with a treasure clue…'
'I suppose so,' she said, 'but not quite the way you think. I couldn't get the box open, so I carried it back to my apartment and got some tools and opened it. There wasn't much in it. An old deed to a small parcel of land, a promissory note marked paid, a couple of old envelopes with no letters in them, a cancelled check or two, and a document acknowledging the loan of some old family papers to the manuscript department of the university. Not a permanent gift; they were just on loan. The next day I went to Manuscripts and made inquiry. You know how manuscript departments are…'
'Indeed I do,' I said.
'It took a while, but my status as a graduate student in Earth history and the fact that the papers, after all, were my family's papers finally did the trick. They expected I simply wanted to study them, but by the time they were produced-I think that they had probably been misplaced and may have been difficult to locate-I was so fed up that I filed notice that I was revoking the loan and walked out with them. Which was no way for a devoted history student to behave, of course, but by that time I'd had it. The department threatened me with court action and if they had started action it would have been a lovely mess for someone to untangle, but they never did. Probably they
