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would think I was the most outrageous sort of fake. There must be four thousand people in the world today trying to sell pieces of wood which they claim to be from Noah’s Ark—and probably four hundred thousand trying to peddle pieces of the One True Cross—but I can say it’s over two thousand years old, because it’s been carbon-dated, and I can say it camefrom the Holy Land, although it was found not on Mount Ararat, but on Mount Boram.”
    Most of this was lost on Brian, but the most salient fact was not. “Two thousand years,” he breathed. “Wow! You’re really sure?”
    â€œI am indeed,” Mr. Gaunt said. “I have a certificate from M.I.T., where it was carbon-dated, and that goes with the item, of course. But, you know, I really believe it might be from the Ark.” He looked at the splinter speculatively for a moment, and then raised his dazzling blue eyes to Brian’s hazel ones. Brian was again transfixed by that gaze. “After all, Mount Boram is less than thirty kilometers, as the crow flies, from Mount Ararat, and greater mistakes than the final resting place of a boat, even a big one, have been made in the many histories of the world, especially when stories are handed down from mouth to ear for generations before they are finally committed to paper. Am I right?”
    â€œYeah,” Brian said. “Sounds logical.”
    â€œAnd, besides—it produces an odd sensation when it’s held. Wouldn’t you say so?”
    â€œI guess!”
    Mr. Gaunt smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair, breaking the spell. “I like you, Brian. I wish all my customers could be as full of wonder as you are. Life would be much easier for a humble tradesman such as myself if that were the way of the world.”
    â€œHow much . . . how much would you sell something like that for?” Brian asked. He pointed toward the splinter with a finger which was not quite steady. He was only now beginning to realize how deeply the experience had affected him. It had been like holding a conch shell to your ear and hearing the sound of the ocean . . . only in 3-D and Sensurround. He dearly wished Mr. Gaunt would let him hold it again, perhaps even a little longer, but he didn’t know how to ask and Mr. Gaunt did not offer.
    â€œOh now,” Mr. Gaunt said, steepling his fingers below his chin and looking at Brian roguishly. “With an item like that—and with most of the good things I sell, the really interesting things—that would depend on the buyer. What the buyer would be willing to pay. What would you be willing to pay, Brian?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Brian said, thinking of the ninety-one cents in his pocket, and then gulped: “A lot! ”
    Mr. Gaunt threw back his head and laughed heartily. Brian noticed when he did that he’d made a mistake about the man. When he first came in, he had thought Mr. Gaunt’s hair was gray. Now he saw that it was only silver at the temples. He must have been standing in one of the spotlights, Brian thought.
    â€œWell, this has been terribly interesting, Brian, but I really do have a lot of work ahead of me before ten tomorrow, and so—”
    â€œSure,” Brian said, startled back into a consideration of good manners. “I have to go, too. Sorry to have kept you so long—”
    â€œNo, no, no! You misunderstand me!” Mr. Gaunt laid one of his long hands on Brian’s arm. Brian pulled his arm away. He hoped the gesture didn’t seem impolite, but he couldn’t help it even if it did. Mr. Gaunt’s hand was hard and dry and somehow unpleasant. It did not feel that different, in fact, from the chunk of petrified wood that was supposed to be from Nora’s Ark, or whatever it was. But Mr. Gaunt was too much in earnest to notice Brian’s instinctive shrinking away. He acted as if he, not Brian, had committed a breach of