The CIA suddenly became interested in a Civil War veteran who looked younger than thirty, an alien corpse in his family cemetery, and a house whose windows could not be broken with an axe. Then the outside world threatened to destroy the Way Station, and with it, man’s last hope of avoiding cataclysmic self-annihilation. He passed many evenings listening to the fascinating tales of these travelers from the furthest reaches of space. For more than a century he carried out his duties flawlessly, having become so accustomed to the bizarre and wonderful creatures that passed through his materializer he saw nothing unusual in a plasm that communicated by changing its shape or a beetle that counted by clicking its mandibles. When Wallace agreed to manage the Way Station, he had been unaware of the greater role for which he was being considered-Earth’s sole representative to the Inter-Galactic Council. He was, in fact, the keeper of Way Station 18327. If his neighbors in the hills of Wisconsin thought it strange that he never seemed to grow older, they never spoke of it. He left his house only to collect his mail or take an occasional walk his two Earthly acquaintances were the postman and a beautiful deaf-mute girl who could mend the broken wing of a butterfly.
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