The figure stepped forward, so that its face was illuminated by the fluorescence streaming from the open door which led to the inclined chairway descending to Littlejohn's dwelling.
Littlejohn could see the face, now—the gigantic, wrinkled face, scarred and seared and seamed. It was a human face, but utterly alien to the humanity Littlejohn knew. Faces such as this one had disappeared from the earth a lifetime ago. At least, history had taught him that. History had not prepared him for the actual living presence of a—
"Naturalist!" Littlejohn gasped. "You're a Naturalist! Yes, that's what you are!"
The apparition scowled.
"I am not a Naturalist. I am a man."
"But you can't be! The war—"
"I am very old. I lived through your war. I have lived through your peace. Soon I shall die. But before I do, there is something else which must be done."
"You've come here to kill me?"
"Perhaps." The looming figure moved closer and stared down. "No, don't try to summon help. When your servants saw me, they fled. You're alone now, Littlejohn."
"You know my name."