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the others, as the dream dissolved, a dream one should certainly not forget.
    He found himself staring down at the magnificent carpet which covered the salon floor—a Persian rug woven in patterns that suggested ever-deepening webs and wells. And the hanging vines around us, how easily one escapes. Magic carpets to the stars, noble suckers, magic carpets for all!
    A young bearded man went toward Lazare; the fellow’s clothes were ordinary, his manner that of an observer, a fact which Picard affirmed a moment later when the young man identified himself as a journalist and took a pad and pen from his pocket. “Did you write that piece yourself, Monsieur Lazare?”
    “It was given to me by a friend,” said Lazare.
    “And whom might that be?”
    “The vulture-priestess of El Kab.”
    “El Kab? That’s an Egyptian city, is it not?”
    “It had another name, when the priestess played for me.”
    “And when were you traveling in Egypt, Monsieur Lazare? Recently?”
    “In the forty-third century B.C.”
    “The forty-third century?”
    “Our king was known as the Scorpion,” said Lazare, placing the ancient instrument down. “I believe it was actually he who composed the song, though I received it from his attendant priestess.”
    “A moment, Monsieur Lazare, a moment please! Are you saying you learned this song five thousand years ago?”
    An elegant young woman, adorned with a massive chignon held by a startling diamond pin, came forward, her body obviously still charmed by the music. “I have heard you tell others differently about this song, Monsieur Lazare.”
    “Have I?” The host smiled. “Oh well, it has undergone many transformations...”
    “You said the other night it was written by the father of Cleopatra.”
    “The song, dear child, is a traveler through time. It visits now one fellow, and now another...”
    Lazare’s voice grew softer then, and the young woman moved closer to him, as the reporter came away from the little tête-à-tête shaking his head, and joining Duval and Picard at the wine table.
    “He would have us believe he was alive five thousand years ago,” muttered the reporter, accepting a snifter of brandy.
    “And do you?” asked Duval.
    “I... I don’t know.”
    “It strikes me, monsieur, that you might be interested in the opening of a new gold mine, in Africa...”  
    “Monsieur Fanjoy?”
    Picard turned. The butler was standing beside him, and the gold tray was extended. On it was the card of Paul Fanjoy, Africa Oyster Bed Company, and across the bottom of the card was written:
     
    25 seconds, no more!
     
    Picard walked in the tiptoeing way of his foppish puppet, Monsieur Fanjoy. He was conscious of the eyes of others upon him, for now he was the chosen guest, about to be initiated into the mysteries. He smiled insipidly, acting altogether naive and playful as he followed the butler across the room, toward the large oak door.
    They walked through the doorway, into a hall lit by arabesque lamps. Ahead of them was another door, carved with floral designs, and it opened from within as Picard approached.
    A tall Hindoo in white robe and turban awaited him inside. The room was windowless. Small candles burned in twisted-silver holders. The Hindoo led Picard to a snake-legged table, on which a crystal ball was set. Picard looked into the ball, saw nothing in its spherical depths.
    But the incensed atmosphere and the flickering candles produced a momentary illusion—the room seemed to curve gently around him, as if he were standing inside a transparent bubble. Lazare’s operation is all suggestiveness—strange backdrops and dim lights, effects to weaken the mind and make the imagination run riot. I’ll wager people see all sorts of things in that ball.
    The Hindoo took Picard by the elbow and moved him to another table, on which a small telegraph machine was mounted. The machine started to click; the Hindoo opened a drawer in the table, beneath the telegraph instrument,