A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage.
He stood before the mirror over the shelf, examining his features. He had trimmed his beard—they had not got him to cut it off—and his hair was neat. He was dressed in the clothing of the middle-twentieth century, the odd collar and coat, the shoes of animal hide. In his pocket was money of the times. That was important. Nothing more was needed.
Nothing, except his ability, his special cunning. But he had never used it in such a way before.
He walked down the road toward the town.
The first things he noticed were the newspapers on the stands. April 5, 1961. He was not too far off. He looked around him. There was a filling station, a garage, some taverns, and a ten-cent store. Down the street was a grocery store and some public buildings.
A few minutes later he mounted the stairs of the little public library and passed through the doors into the warm interior.
The librarian looked up, smiling.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
He smiled, not speaking because his words would not be correct; accented and strange, probably. He went over to a table and sat down by a heap of magazines. For a moment he glanced through them. Then he was on his feet again. He crossed the room to a wide rack against the wall. His heart began to beat heavily.
Newspapers—weeks on end. He took a roll of them over to the table and began to scan them quickly. The print was odd, the letters strange. Some of the words were unfamiliar.
He set the papers aside and searched farther. At last he found what he wanted. He carried the Cherrywood Gazette to the table and opened it to the first page. He found what he wanted:
PRISONER HANGS SELF
An unidentified man, held by the county sheriff’s office for suspicion of criminal syndicalism, was found dead this morning, by—
He finished the item. It was vague, uninforming. He needed more. He carried the Gazette back to the racks and then, after a moment’s hesitation, approached the librarian.
“More?” he asked. “More papers. Old ones?”
She frowned. “How old? Which papers?”
“Months old. And—before.”
“Of the Gazette? This is all we have. What did you want? What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”
He was silent.
“You might find older issues at the Gazette office,” the woman said, taking off her glasses. “Why don’t you try there? But if you’d tell me, maybe I could help you—”
He went out.
The Gazette office was down a side street; the sidewalk was broken and cracked. He went inside. A heater glowed in the corner of the small office. A heavy-set man stood up and came slowly over to the counter.
“What did you want, mister?” he said.
“Old papers. A month. Or more.”
“To buy? You want to buy them?”
“Yes.” He held out some of the money he had. The man stared.
“Sure,” he said. “Sure. Wait a minute.” He went quickly out of the room. When he came back he was staggering under the weight of his armload, his face red. “Here are some,” he grunted. “Took what I could find. Covers the whole year. And if you want more—”
Conger carried the papers outside. He sat down by the road and began to go through them.
What he wanted was four months back, in December. It was a tiny item, so small that he almost missed it. His hands trembled as he scanned it, using the small dictionary for some of the archaic terms.
MAN ARRESTED FOR UNLICENSED DEMONSTRATION
An unidentified man who refused to give his name was picked up in Cooper Creek by special agents of the sheriff’s office, according to Sheriff Duff. It was said the man was recently noticed in this area and had been watched continually. It was—
Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart pounded. That was all he needed to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the very edge of the hills. He smiled. Already he had discovered the exact time and place. Now he needed only to go back, perhaps to November, to Cooper Creek—
He walked back through the main section of town, past the library, past the grocery store. It would not be hard; the hard part was over. He would go there; rent a room, prepare to wait until the man appeared.
He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway, loaded down with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her pass. The woman glanced at him. Suddenly her face turned white. She stared, her mouth open.
Conger hurried on. He looked back. What was wrong with her? The woman was still staring; she had dropped the packages to the ground. He increased his speed. He turned a second corner and went up a side street. When he looked back again the woman had come to the entrance of the street and was starting after him. A man joined her, and the two of them began to run toward him.
He lost them and left the town, striding quickly, easily, up into the hills at the edge of town. When he reached the cage he stopped. What had happened? Was it something about his clothing? His dress?
He pondered. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.
Conger sat before the wheel. For a moment he waited, his hands resting lightly on the control. Then he turned the wheel, just a little, following the control readings carefully.
The grayness settled down around him.
But not for very long.
The man looked him over critically. “You better come inside,” he said. “Out of the cold.”
“Thanks.” Conger went gratefully through the open door, into the living-room. It was warm and close from the heat of the little kerosene heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.
“It’s a good room,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Appleton. It’s got heat. You need that this time of year.”
“Yes.” He nodded, looking around.
“You want to eat with us?”
“What?”
“You want to eat with us?” The man’s brows knitted. “You’re not a foreigner, are you, mister?”
“No.” He smiled. “I was born in this country. Quite far west, though.”
“California?”
“No.” He hesitated. “In Oregon.”
“What’s it like up there?” Mrs. Appleton asked. “I hear there’s a lot of trees and green. It’s so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself.”
“That’s the Middle West,” the man said to her. “You ain’t no foreigner.”
“Oregon isn’t foreign, either,” Conger said. “It’s part of the United States.”
The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger’s clothing.
“That’s a funny suit you got on, mister,” he said. “Where’d you get that?”
Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. “It’s a good suit,” he said. “Maybe I better go some other place, if you don’t want me here.”
They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. “We just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always warning us about them.”
“The