Ray Bradbury’s first textbook to be serialized, he realized as he examined the journal. The Fisher of Men, it was called, and in it the great Los Angeles pre-cog had anticipated the ghastly Gutmanist political revolution which was to sweep the inner planets. Bradbury had warned against Gutman, but the warning had gone—of course—unheeded. Now Gutman was dead and the fanatical supporters had dwindled to the status of random terrorists. But had the world listened to Bradbury—

“Why the frown?” Fermeti asked him. “Don’t you want to go?”

“Yes,” Tozzo said thoughtfully. “But it’s a terrible responsibility. These are no ordinary men.”

“That is certainly the truth,” Fermeti said, nodding.

III

Twenty-four hours later, Aaron Tozzo stood surveying himself in his mid twentieth century clothing and wondering if Anderson would be deceived, if he actually could be duped into entering the dredge.

The costume certainly was perfection itself. Tozzo had even been equipped with the customary waist-length beard and handlebar mustache so popular circa 1950 in the United States. And he wore a wig.

Wigs, as everyone knew, had at that time swept the United States as the fashion note par excellence; men and women had both worn huge powdered perukes of bright colors, reds and greens and blues and of course dignified grays. It was one of the most amusing occurrences of the twentieth century.

Tozzo’s wig, a bright red, pleased him. Authentic, it had come from the Los Angeles Museum of Cultural History, and the curator had vouched for it being a man’s, not a woman’s. So the fewest possible chances of detection were being taken. Little risk existed that they would be detected as members of another, future culture entirely.

And yet, Tozzo was still uneasy.

However, the plan had been arranged; now it was time to go. With Gilly, the other member selected, Tozzo entered the time-dredge and seated himself at the controls. The Department of Archaeology had provided a full instruction manual, which lay open before him. As soon as Gilly had locked the hatch, Tozzo took the bull by the horns (a twentieth century expression) and started up the dredge.

Dials registered. They were spinning backward into time, back to 1954 and the San Francisco Pre-Cog Congress.

Beside him, Gilly practiced mid twentieth century phrases from a reference volume. “Diz muz be da blace…” Gilly cleared his throat. “Kilroy was here,” he murmured. “Wha’ hoppen? Like man, let’s cut out; this ball’s a drag.” He shook his head. “I can’t grasp the exact sense of these phrases,” he apologized to Tozzo. “Twenty-three skidoo.”

Now a red light glowed; the dredge was about to conclude its journey. A moment later its turbines halted.

They had come to rest on the sidewalk outside the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in downtown San Francisco.

On all sides, people in quaint archaic costumes dragged along on foot. And, Tozzo saw, there were no monorails; all the visible traffic was surface-bound. What a congestion, he thought, as he watched the automobiles and buses moving inch by inch along the packed streets. An official in blue waved traffic ahead as best he could, but the entire enterprise, Tozzo could see, was an abysmal failure.

“Time for phase two,” Gilly said. But he, too, was gaping at the stalled surface vehicles. “Good grief,” he said, “look at the incredibly short skirts of the women; why, the knees are virtually exposed. Why don’t the women die of whisk virus?”

“I don’t know,” Tozzo said, “but I do know we’ve got to get into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel.”

Carefully, they opened the port of the time-dredge and stepped out. And then Tozzo realized something. There had been an error. Already.

The men of this decade were clean-shaven.

“Gilly,” he said rapidly, “we’ve got to shed our beards and mustaches.” In an instant he had pulled Gilly’s off, leaving his bare face exposed. But the wig; that was correct. All the men visible wore head-dress of some type; Tozzo saw few if any bald men. The women, too, had luxurious wigs ... or were they wigs? Could they perhaps be natural hair?

In any case, both he and Gilly now would pass. Into the Sir Francis Drake, he said to himself, leading Gilly along.

They darted lithely across the sidewalk—it was amazing how slowly the people of this time-period walked—and into the inexpressibly old-fashioned lobby of the hotel. Like a museum, Tozzo thought as he glanced about him. I wish we could linger… but they could not.

“How’s our identification?” Gilly said nervously. “Is it passing inspection?” The business with the facehair had upset him.

On each of their lapels they carried the expertly made false identification. It worked. Presently they found themselves ascending by a lift, or rather elevator, to the correct floor.

The elevator let them off in a crowded foyer. Men, all clean-shaven, with wigs or natural hair, stood in small clusters everywhere, laughing and talking. And a number of attractive women, some of them in garments called leotards, which were skin-tight, loitered about smilingly. Even though the styles of the times required their breasts to be covered, they were a sight to see.

Sotto voce, Gilly said, “I am stunned. In this room are some of the—”

“I know,” Tozzo murmured. Their Project could wait, at least a little while. Here was an unbelievably golden opportunity to see these pre-cogs, actually to talk to them and listen to them…

Here came a tall, handsome man in a dark suit that sparkled with tiny specks of some unnatural material, some variety of synthetic. The man wore glasses and his hair, everything about him, had a tanned, dark look. The name on his identification … Tozzo peered.

The tall, good-looking man was A. E. van Vogt.

“Say,” another individual, perhaps a pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to van Vogt, stopping him. “I read both versions of your World of Null A and I still didn’t quite get that about it being him; you know, at the end. Could you explain that part to me? And also when they started into the tree and then just—”

van Vogt halted. A soft smile appeared on his face and he said. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret. I start out with a plot and then the plot sort of folds up. So then I have to have another plot to finish the rest of the story.”

Going over to listen, Tozzo felt something magnetic about van Vogt. He was so tall, so spiritual. Yes, Tozzo said to himself; that was the word, a healing spirituality. There was a quality of innate goodness which emanated from him.

All at once van Vogt said, “There goes a man with my pants.” And without a further word to the enthusiast, stalked off and disappeared into the crowd.

Tozzo’s head swam. To actually have seen and heard A. E. van Vogt—

“Look,” Gilly was saying, plucking at his sleeve. “That enormous, genial-looking man seated over there; that’s Howard Browne, who edited the pre-cog journal Amazing at this time-period.”

“I have to catch a plane,” Howard Browne was saying to anyone who would listen to him. He glanced about him in a worried anxiety, despite his almost physical geniality.

“I wonder,” Gilly said, “if Doctor Asimov is here.”

We can ask, Tozzo decided. He made his way over to one of the young women wearing a blonde wig and green leotards. “WHERE IS DOCTOR ASIMOV?” he asked clearly in the argot of the times.

“Who’s to know?” the girl said.

“Is he here, miss?”

“Naw,” the girl said.

Gilly again plucked at Tozzo’s sleeve. “We must find Poul Anderson, remember? Enjoyable as it is to talk to this girl—”

“I’m inquiring about Asimov,” Tozzo said brusquely. After all, Isaac Asimov had been the founder of the entire twenty-first century positronic robot industry. How could he not be here?