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grow old. Not to die: to grow old .
A gull screeched its ridicule .
    Flapping Eagle began his search for Sispy and Bird-Dog as methodically as he could. He sailed back to Amerindia and made his way inland to Axona and Phoenix, where the whole cold trail began. But that led him nowhere. Sispy and Bird-Dog didn’t seem to have travelled anywhere at all. They had simply vanished.
    —Sispy? said people in Phoenix. That some kind of a pree-vert foreign name?
    After that, Flapping Eagle gave up any pretence of method. He sailed on through seas, channels, rivers, lakes, oceans, wherever his craft took him, asking, wherever he stopped, if anyone knew of the pedlar, or his sister.
    He knew it was almost certainly hopeless; they might be anywhere on the globe; they might use different names; they might have drowned, or died some other violent death; they might no longer be together.
    Only two things kept him going: the first was the knowledge that only Sispy would know if there was a way, not of dying, but of restoring his body to the normal, vulnerable state of human bodies: to allow him to grow old.
    The second was the message Sispy had sent him through Bird-Dog on his first appearance:
    Tell your brother Born-From-Dead that all eagles come at last to eyrie and all sailors come at last to shore .
    Sispy had said that before Joe-Sue had even become Flapping Eagle; and years before he had any notion of going to sea. Perhaps, thought Flapping Eagle, sailor, Sispy divined something of my future.
    It wasn’t much grounds for optimism, but it was something.
    He remembered another sentence of Sispy’s: For those who will not use the blue there is only one place I know of .
    Flapping Eagle told himself firmly, over and over again: there is such a place; it’s only a matter of time before you find it; and You’ll know when you do, because its inhabitants will be like you. Young or old, they cannot disguise their eyes from me. Eyes like mine, which have seen everything and know nothing. The eyes of the survivor.
    But the years passed. And more years. And more years.
    Flapping Eagle was beginning to wonder if he was sane. Perhaps there never was a Sispy, never a Bird-Dog or Sham-Man or Phoenix: perhaps not even a Livia Cramm or a Deggle. Yes. Madness explained everything. He was mad.
    So when his boat sailed into its home port, the port of X on the Moorish coast of Morispain, his eyes were glazed and distant.
    He was contemplating killing himself.

VII
    N ICHOLAS D EGGLE SAT on a bollard on the jetty, long and black, with an inordinately wicked smile playing about his lips.
    —I trust you had a nice sail, pretty-face, he said. Wind all right? Not too high? Not too low? I’m afraid I’m not an expert in these matters.
    Flapping Eagle raised his head slowly. Now he knew he was mad.
    —Deggle, he said.
    —The same. None other. Accept no substitute, said Deggle. But a word in your shell-like orifice: I’m not called by that name any more. Time flies, you know, and names with it.
    —Yes, said Flapping Eagle, bemused.
    —I’m called Lokki, actually. The Great Lokki at your service. Phenomenal Pheats of Prestidigitation Phantastically Performed. Dear me, how one does fall upon hard times. Straitened circumstances. I’ve become my own descendant, as a matter of fact, or my own ancestor, depending on your historical perspective. The legal problems were enormous. Anyway, I’ve been careful to keep leaving myself my own boat, so thank you for returning it.
    —Not at all, mouthed Flapping Eagle.
    —Lokki, said Deggle, rolling the L. It’s a good name, don’t you think? Echoes of the old Norse and so forth. Gives one’s act a kind of artistic respectability. Shame about Livia, wasn’t it? I’m sure you did the right thing, going off like that. It must have been a great shock for you, all that money at once. You’re quite better now, I hope?
    The eyes.
    Deggle’s eyes: the eyes of the survivor, filled with an ageless