He saw two doors, one on each side of the landing. He sought one,
stooped and peered at the card over the bell. Conover. Gregor's
was opposite. Having a key he did not knock but unlocked the door
and stepped into the dark hall.

"Stefani Gregor?" he called, joyously. "Stefani, my old friend, it
is I!"

Silence. But that was understandable. Either Gregor had not
returned from his labours or he was out gathering the essentials
for the evening meal. Judging from the variety of odours that swam
the halls of this human warren many suppers were in the process of
making, and the top flavour was garlic. He sniffed pleasurably.
Not that the smell of garlic quickened his hunger. It merely sent
his thought galloping backward a score of years. He saw Stefani
Gregor and a small boy in mountain costume footing it sturdily
along the dizzy goat paths of the rugged hills; saw the two sitting
on some ruddy promontory and munching black bread rubbed with garlic.
Ambrosia! His mother's horror, when she smelt his breath - as if
garlic had not been one of her birthrights! His uncle, roaring out
in his bull's voice that black bread and garlic were good for little
boys' stomachs, and made the stuff of soldiers. Black bread and
garlic and the Golden Age!

After he had flooded the hall with light he began a tour of
inspection. The rooms were rather bare but clean and orderly.
Here and there were items that kept the homeland green in the
recollection. He came to the bedroom last. He hesitated for a
moment before opening the door. The lights told him why Gregor had
not greeted his entering