At last the light began to coalesce, and in a moment he saw floating before him a shining crystal globe, over which floated the illuminated faces of his wife—and—Yero, The Enemy. This was the crucial instant, and he remembered the simulacrum's advice: "Don't hate Yero."
Indeed, he could not. He had nearly forgotten whom it was that Yero resembled, so great was his desire for escape, and his fear of the tumult behind him.
The light grew, and by it, the table upon which the crystal rested, and the bodies belonging to the two illuminated heads, became slowly visible. There was a cat there, too; he saw the outline become sharp as he catapulted on through the dimness. He tried to slow down as he approached the table. The rod, this time, did not resist. The two heads regarded him with slow surprise. The cat began to rise and bristle.
The shouting died.
"Hugh!"
He was in Jeremy Wright's apartment, a splintered door behind him, his heels digging into the carpet to halt his headlong charge. In his outstretched hand was, not a warped divining rod, but a gun.
"Hugh!" his wife cried again. "You found out! But—"
The table was still there, and the crystal. The cat and the castle were gone. But Jeremy Wright was still dressed in the robes of an astrologer. He was an astrologer.
"I'm sorry, darling, honestly—I knew you hated it, but—after all, breaking in this way! And—a gun! After all, even if you do think it's humbug—"