His best insurance was that I would realize others knew where he was and would pursue me implacably if he failed to return. He was also telling me, very clearly, that the reason for his presence was not to recapture the infamous child murderer Dr. Oliver Guest, and return him to the blind cave of centuries of judicial sleep. He was here because he needed something from me.

Otranto Castle is, as castles go, of mean proportions. The short entrance hallway leads to the long dining room, and off to one side of it lies my private study. “Come in,” I said, and led the way there. “Come in and sit down.”

As I poured whiskey and put the pitcher of peat water beside it, I studied my visitor. My first thought, that he was here because the telomod therapy was failing, did not bear up under examination. Seth Parsigian appeared no older now than when I had last seen him, over a quarter of a century ago. If anything, he was healthier.

But if it were not the telomods, what could I possibly have to offer that might guarantee my continued freedom and safety?

He was examining me as closely as I scrutinized him.

“Looking good.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the Oliver Guest telomod protocol. Been taking it yourself, haven’t you?”

It was not a question that required an answer. I also appeared no older than at our last meeting. The mystery was that everyone did not employ the protocol. The teratomorphic potential, I suppose, frightened many. Speaking for myself, it interests me little what I may resemble at my death.

“How did you know that I was still alive?” I asked.

“I was pretty sure you weren’t killed in the fire. The body we found had dentures. But I didn’t have evidence that you weren’t dead an’ rotting until eleven years ago.”

A most comforting statement. He had known of my existence for eleven full years, and I was still a free man.