simple formula had circulated, however, and Jarry and Sanza found awell-stocked bar in the storeroom and a hand-written manual explaining itsuse and a variety of drinks which might be compounded. The author of thedocument had expressed the hope that each tour of attendance might result inthe discovery of a new mixture, so that when he returned for his next cyclethe manual would have grown to a size proportionate to his desire. Jarry andSanza worked at it conscientiously, and satisfied the request with aSnowflower Punch which warmed their bellies and made their purring turn intogiggles, so that they discovered laughter also. They celebrated themillennium with an entire bowl of it, and Sanza insisted on calling all theother installations and giving them the formula, right then, on thegraveyard watch, so that everyone could share in their joy. It is quitepossible that everyone did, for the recipe was well-received. And always,even after that bowl was but a memory, they kept the laughter. Thus are thefirst simple lines of tradition sometimes sketched.

"The green birds are dying," said Sanza, putting aside a report she hadbeen reading.

"Oh?" said Jarry.

"Apparently they've done all the adapting they're able to," she toldhim.

"Pity," said Jarry.

"It seems less than a year since we came here. Actually, it's athousand."

"Time flies," said Jarry.

"I'm afraid," she said.

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Just afraid."

"Why?"

"Living the way we've been living, I guess. Leaving little pieces ofourselves in different centuries. Just a few months ago, as my memory works,this place was a desert. Now it's an ice field. Chasms open and close.Canyons appear and disappear. Rivers dry up and new ones spring forth.Everything seems so very transitory. Things look solid, but I'm getting