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I know is that the call originated in Italy.”
    “Italy,” Sebastian said, puzzled. To R.C. Buckley he said, “Take a look in our inventory card-file and see if we own anybody of Italian extraction.” He walked over beside Miss Vale and took the receiver from her. “This is Sebastian Hermes,” he said. “Who am I speaking to?”
    To him, as to Cheryl Vale, the face on the small screen was unfamiliar. A Caucasian with long, neatly waved black hair and an intense, thorough gaze. “You don’t know me, Mr. Hermes,” the man said, “and up to now I have never had the pleasure of speaking to you.” He had a mild Italian accent and his speech was formal, measured. “Nice talking to you, sir.”
    “Nice talking to you, too,” Sebastian said. “You are Signor—”
    “Tony,” the dark-haired Italian said. “Never mind my last name; at the moment it isn’t important. We understand, Mr. Hermes, that you own rights to the late Anarch Peak. Or the
formerly
late Anarch Peak, if that’s the case. Which is it, Mr. Hermes?”
    Sebastian hesitated, then said, “Yes, my firm owns the rights to the individual in question. Are you in the market for him?”
    “Very much so,” Tony said.
    “May I ask whom you represent?”
    “An interested principal,” Tony said. “Not connected with Udi. And that’s important. You understand, don’t you, that Ray Roberts is a killer and it is essential to keep the Anarch Peak out of his hands? That there is a law both in the Western United States and in Italy which makes it a felony to transfer ownership of an old-born to anyone you reasonably anticipate might harm him? Are you conscious of this, Mr. Hermes?”
    “I’ll let you talk to Mr. Buckley,” Sebastian said, nettled; this part of the enterprise was not his pipe of sogum. “He’s our sales representative; just a moment.” He passed the receiver to R.C., who at once sprang into action.
    “R.C. Buckley here,” he intoned. “Uh, yes, Tony; your source of info is accurate; we do have the Anarch Peak in our inventory; he’s currently recovering from rebirth pains at the finest hospital we could locate for him. Naturally I can’t tell you its name; you understand that.” He winked at Sebastian. “May I ask, sir, what your source of information is? We’ve kept this matter somewhat private . . . because of various conflicting interests involved; as an instance Ray Roberts, whom I believe you mentioned.” He paused, waiting.
    Sebastian thought,
How could anybody know?
Only the six of us here, our organization, know. Lotta, he thought, then. She knows, too. Could she have told anyone? Well, it had to come to light eventually, if they expected to sell the Anarch. But this soon, before they had actual physical custody—this made it imperative, he realized, to get the Anarch out of the ground with no delay, law or no law. I’ll bet it was Lotta, he thought. Damn her.
    Leading Bob Lindy off to the workshop area of the store, he said to him, “Now we’re forced to go ahead. As soon as R.C. is off the phone get on it and round up Dr. Sign; you and he and Father Faine meet me at Forest Knolls Cemetery; I’m taking off right now.” He felt the urgency of it. “I’ll see you there. And make it quick; explain the situation to Sign.” He slapped Lindy on the back, then strode up the stairs to the roof field parking area, where his aircar reposed.
    In a moment he was airborne and on his way to the small, nearly abandoned cemetery where the Anarch Peak lay.

6
    Only in a perfect flight from nothingness is Being to be
found in all its purity.
    —St. Bonaventura
    Forest Knolls, Sebastian thought. The cemetery abandoned by everyone, obviously picked with great care by those who had buried the Anarch. They must have believed Alex Hobart and his theorem that time was about to reverse itself; they— those who loved the Anarch—must have anticipated this exact situation.
    He wondered how long and how hard Ray Roberts’ crack