“Why?”
“Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”
“Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”
“Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard—”
She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”
Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.
“Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”
“What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”
Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”
He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.
He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.
“My God—” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.
Tingle, and paralyze.
He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.
“Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Who is ‘me’?”
“Conger is my name. I’m staying at the Appleton’s place. Who are you?”
The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.
“I’m Sheriff Duff. I think you’re the person I want to talk to. You were in Bloom’s today, about three o’clock?”
“Bloom’s?”
“The fountain. Where the kids hang out.” Duff came up beside him, shining his light into Conger’s face. Conger blinked.
“Turn that thing away,” he said.
A pause. “All right.” The light flickered to the ground. “You were there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that right? You had a beef over his girl—”
“We had a discussion,” Conger said carefully.
“Then what happened?”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious. They say you did something.”
“Did something? Did what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m wondering. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn’t move.”
“How are they now?”
“All right.”
There was silence.
“Well?” Duff said. “What was it? A bomb?”
“A bomb?” Conger laughed. “No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited.”
“Why did they all pass out?”
“Fumes.”
Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.
“If you say so,” he said. “Anyhow, there wasn’t any real harm done.” He stepped back from Conger. “And that Willet is a trouble-maker.”
“Good night, then,” Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.
“One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don’t mind if I look at your identification, do you?”
“No. Not at all.” Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they felt would be relevant.
Duff handed it back. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” The light winked off.
When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the door.
“Can I ask you something?” he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. “Can I ask you—what’s the date?”
“The date?” She studied him. “The first of December.”
“December first! Why, it was just November!”
They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century they still used the old twelve-month system. November fed directly into December; there was no Quartember between.
He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks.”
He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.
The day was warm and bright. Conger’s shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.
He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in sight. He brought a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it. For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air.
The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.
He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, his hands on his hips. Hudson’s field was spread out, all the way to the beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of snow.
Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here the authorities would take him.
Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he even spoke.
Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door and stepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the bolt into place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment he considered. Should he have it with him?
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone approached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming toward the field, then he could go and get the gun.
Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. He took it down and unwrapped it.
He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, a cold feeling rushed through him. This was the man’s skull, the skull of the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, who would stand on the field not fifty yards away.
What if he could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Two centuries old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it, the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tell the people? What message could he bring?
What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his own aged, yellowed