You're Dave Hanson," Ser Perth
said flatly. "Of all the powers of the Science, the greatest lies in the
true name. We evoked you by the name of Dave Hanson. You _are_ Dave
Hanson, therefore."
"Don't try to deceive us," Nema suggested. Her voice was troubled. "Pray
rather that we never have reason to doubt you. Otherwise the wisest of
the Satheri would spend their remaining time in planning something
unthinkable for you."
Ser Perth nodded vigorous assent. Then he motioned to the office. "Nema
will show you to your quarters later. Use this until you leave. I have
to report back."
Dave stared after him until he was gone, and then around at the office.
He went to the window and stared upwards at the crazy patchwork of the
sky. For all he knew, in such a sky there might be cracks. In fact, as
he looked, he could make out a rift, and beyond that a ... hole ... a
small patch where there was no color, and yet the sky there was not
black. There were no stars there, though points of light were clustered
around the edges, apparently retreating.
All he had to do was to repair the sky. Shades of Chicken Little!
Maybe to David Arnold Hanson, the famed engineer, no task was
impossible. But quite a few things were impossible to that engineer's
obscure and unimportant nephew, the computer technician and generally
undistinguished man who had been christened Dave.
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