LITMIR.BIZ

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Eighth" given in accurate portrayal, and was once surprised to discover a familiar–seeming musical comedy, complete to scantily–clad chorus. In many ways Evanie puzzled Tom Connor. There was some mystery about her that he could not understand. Life in Ormon, it seemed to him, was essentially what it had been in his old days in St. Louis. Young men still followed immemorial routine; each evening saw them walking, sitting, talking, with girls, idling through the parklike arcades of trees, strolling along the quiet river.

      But not Evanie. No youth ever climbed the hill to her cottage, or sat with her at evening—except when Jan Orm occasionally came. And this seemed strange, considering the girl's loveliness. Connor couldn't remember a more attractive girl than this spirited, gentle, demure Evanie—except his girl of the woods. Not even Ruth of the buried days of the past.

      He mused over the matter until a more sensational mystery effaced it. Evanie went hunting game up–river. Deer were fairly plentiful, and game–birds, wild turkeys, and pheasants had increased until they were nearly as common as crows once had been.

      The trio carried glistening bows of spring steel that flung slender steel arrows with deadly accuracy, if used properly. Connor was awkward, but Evanie and Jan Orm handled them with skill. Connor bemoaned the lack of rifles; he had been a fair marksman in the old days.

      "I'd show you!" he declared. "If I only had my Marlin repeater!"

      "Guns aren't made any more," said Jan. "The Erden Resonator finished them; they're useless for military weapons."

      "But for hunting?"

      "They're banned by law. For a while after the founding of the Urban Empire people kept 'em hidden around, but no one knew when a resonator might sweep the section, and folks got tired of having the things go off at night, smashing windows and plowing walls. They weren't safe house–pets."

      "Well," grumbled Connor, "I'd like one now, even an air–rifle. Say!" he exclaimed. "Why not a water–gun?"

      "A water–gun?"

      "One run by atomic energy. Didn't you say you could detonate it—get all the power out at once?"

      "Yes, but—" Jan Orm paused. "By God!" he roared. "That's the answer! That's the weapon! Why didn't anybody think of that before? There's what we need to—" He broke his sentence in mid–air.

      Evanie smiled. "It's all right," she said. "Tom knows."

      "Yes," said Connor, "and I'm with you in your revolutionary ambitions."

      "I'm glad," Jan Orm said simply. His eyes lighted. "That gun! It's a stroke of genius. The resonators can't damage an atom–powered rifle! Evanie, the time draws near!"

      The three proceeded thoughtfully up the river bank. The midsummer sun beat down upon them with withering intensity. Connor mopped his streaming brow.

      "How I'd like a swim," he ejaculated. "Evanie, do you people ever swim here? That place where the river's backed up by that fallen bridge—it should be a great place for a dip!"

      "Oh, no!" the girl said quickly. "Why should we swim? You can bathe every day in the pool at home."

      That was true. The six–foot basin where water, warmed to a pleasant tepidity by atomic heat, bubbled steadily through, was always available. But it was a poor substitute for swimming in open water.

      "That little lake looked tempting," Connor sighed.

      "The lake!" cried Evanie, in horror. "Oh, no! No! You can't swim there!"

      "Why not?"

      "You just can't!"

      And that was as much information as he could obtain. Shortly afterward, swinging the half–dozen birds that had fallen to their arrows, they started back for the village.

      But Connor was determined to ferret out at least that one mystery—why he should not swim in the lake. The next time he accompanied Jan Orm on a tramp up–river, he plied Jan with questions. But it was futile. He could extract no more from Jan Orm than he had from Evanie.

      As the pair approached the place of the ruined bridge that dammed the stream, they turned a little way inland. Jan's keen eyes spotted a movement in a thick copse.

      "Deer in there," he whispered. "Let's separate and start him."

      He bore off to the left, and Connor, creeping cautiously to the right, approached the grass–grown bank of the watercourse. Suddenly he stopped short. Ahead of him the sun had glinted on something large and brown and wet, and he heard a rustle of movement. He moved stealthily forward; with utmost care he separated a screen of brush, and gazed through it to a little open glade, and on the creature that sprawled there beside the water.

      At first he saw only a five–foot strip of wet, hairless, oily skin that heaved to the thing's slow breathing. He held his bow ready lest it prove dangerous, and stared, wondering what sort of creature it could be. It was certainly nothing native to the North America of his day. And then, at some sound or movement of his, the beast rolled over and faced him.

      Connor felt sick. He glimpsed short, incredibly thick limbs, great splay feet with webbed toes, broad hands with webbed fingers. But what sickened him was the smooth bulbous face with its tiny eyes and little round red–lipped mouth.

      The thing was, or had been, human!

      Connor let out a choking yell. The creature, with a mumble that might have been speech, flopped awkwardly to the bank and into the water, where it cleaved the element like an otter and disappeared with a long, silent wake.

      He heard the crashing of Jan Orm's approach, and his cry of inquiry. But a webbed print in the mud of the bank told Jan Orm the story.

      "Wh—what was it?" Connor choked.

      "A metamorph," said Jan soberly.

      Empty–handed as they were, he turned homeward. Connor, too aghast to press questions, followed him. And then came the second mystery.

      Connor saw it first—a face, a child's face, peering at them from a leafy covert. But this was no human child. Speechless, Connor saw the small pointed ears that twitched, the pointed teeth, the black slanting eyes squinting at him beadily. The face was that of a young satyr, a child of Pan. It was the spirit of the wilderness incarnate, not evil exactly, not even savage, but just wild —wild!

      The imp vanished instantly. As Connor gasped, "What's that?" it was already far beyond arrow–shot, headed for the forest. Jan viewed it without surprise.

      "It's a young metamorph," he said. "A different sort than the one at the lake." He paused and stared steadily into Connor's eyes.

      "Promise me something," he muttered.

      "What?"

      "That you'll not tell Evanie you saw these things."

      "If you wish," said Connor slowly. It was all beyond him.

      Panate Blood

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      But Tom Connor was determined now to fathom these mysteries. Jan should no longer put him off. He stopped and placed a hand firmly on Jan's arm, forced the man to look into his eyes when Jan would have evaded his gaze.

      "Just what," he said bluntly, "is a metamorph? You must tell me, Jan!"

      There was a moment's uncomfortable silence.

      "That question has been evaded long enough," Connor said firmly, "and I intend to know why. This is my world now. I've got to live in it, and I want to know what others know of it—its faults as well as its virtues. Why have you shunned the question?"

      "Because—because—"

      "Because of Evanie!" supplied Connor.

      "Yes," Jan agreed, reluctantly. "Because of Evanie."

      "What has that

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