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seldom called professor. Even my students—”
    “But you are one, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, I am. I teach at Langmore College.”
    “I’ve never heard of it.”
    “It’s a small school in New England.”
    The Brigadier spoke to the two of them. “Here are two chairs next to the fire. The Parson and I have held them overlong.”
    “Thank you, General,” said Mary.
    The man who had been sitting quietly opposite the Brigadier and the Parson rose and touched Lansing gently on the arm.
    “As you can see,” he said, “I am not a human. Would you take it unkindly if I welcomed you to our little circle?”
    “Why, no—” said Lansing, then stopped to stare at the welcomer. “You are…”
    “I am a robot, Mr. Lansing. You’ve not seen one before?”
    “No, I never have.”
    “Oh, well, there are not many of us,” the robot said, “and we’re not on all the worlds. My name is Jurgens.”
    “I’m sorry I had not noticed you before,” said Lansing. “Despite the fire, the room is rather dun and there was a good deal going on.”
    “Would you, Mr. Lansing, be, by any chance, a crackpot?”
    “I don’t think so, Jurgens. I have never thought about it. Why do you ask?”
    “I have a hobby,” said the robot, “of collecting crackpots. I have one who thinks he’s God whenever he gets drunk.”
    “That lets me out,” said Lansing. “Drunk or sober, I never think I’m God.”
    “Ah,” said Jurgens, “that’s but one road crackpottery can take. There are many others.”
    “I have no doubt there are,” said Lansing.
    The Brigadier took it upon himself to introduce all the people at the table. “I am Everett Darnley,” he said. “Brigadier for Section Seventeen. The man standing next to me is Parson Ezra Hatfield, and the lady at the table is Poetess Sandra Carver. The one standing next to Mr. Lansing is the robot Jurgens. And now that we all know one another, let us take our seats and imbibe some of the pleasing liquor that has been set out for us. The three humans of us have been sampling it and it is passing good.”
    Lansing came around the table and sat in a chair next to Mary Owen. The table, he saw, was of solid oak and yeoman carpentry. Three flaring candles had been placed upon it, and on it as well were three bottles and a tray of mugs. Now for the first time he saw the others in the room. At a table in a far corner sat four men intent on a game of cards.
    The Brigadier pulled two mugs in front of him and poured from one of the bottles. He passed one of the mugs to Mary and slid the other across the table to Lansing.
    “I hope the supper now in preparation,” he said, “shall prove as tasty as these potables.”
    Lansing tasted. The liquor went down smoothly with a comforting warmth. He settled more solidly in the chair and took a long pull at the mug.
    “We had been sitting here before you came,” the Brigadier said to Mary and Lansing, “wondering if, when the other two arrived—which are the two of you—they might have some idea of what is going on. It’s apparent from what you said, Miss Owen, that you don’t. How about you, Lansing?”
    “Not an inkling,” said Lansing.
    “Our host claims that he knows nothing,” said the Parson, speaking sourly. “He says he only operates the inn and that he asks no questions. Principally, I gather, because there is no one to ask questions of. I think the man is lying.”
    “You judge him too quickly and too harshly,” said the poetess, Sandra Carver. “He has an honest and an open face.”
    “He looks like a pig,” the Parson said. “And he allows abominations to take place beneath his roof. Those men playing cards—”
    “You’ve been slopping up the booze,” said the Brigadier, “mug for mug with me.”
    “Drinking is no sin,” the Parson said. “The Bible says a little wine for the stomach’s sake…”
    “Pal,” said the Brigadier. “This stuff isn’t wine.”
    “Perhaps if we calmed down a bit and compared what