A burly outdoorish man strode by them, and Tozzo saw that this was Jack Vance. Vance, he decided, looked more like a big game hunter than anything else … we must beware of him, Tozzo decided. If we got into any altercation Vance could take care of us easily.

He noticed now that Gilly was talking to the blonde-wigged girl in the green leotards. “MURRAY LEINSTER?” Gilly was asking. “The man whose paper on parallel time is still at the very forefront of theoretical studies; isn’t he—”

“I dunno,” the girl said, in a bored tone of voice.

A group had gathered about a figure opposite them; the central person whom everybody was listening to was saying, “…all right, if like Howard Browne you prefer air travel, fine. But I say it’s risky. I don’t fly. In fact even riding in a car is dangerous. I generally lie down in the back.” The man wore a short-cropped wig and a bow tie; he had a round, pleasant face but his eyes were intense.

It was Ray Bradbury, and Tozzo started toward him at once.

“Stop!” Gilly whispered angrily. “Remember what we came for.”

And, past Bradbury, seated at the bar, Tozzo saw an older, care-weathered man in a brown suit wearing small glasses and sipping a drink. He recognized the man from drawings in early Gernsback publications; it was the fabulously unique pre-cog from the New Mexico region, Jack Williamson.

“I thought Legion of Time was the finest novel-length science-fiction work I ever read,” an individual, evidently another pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to Jack Williamson, and Williamson was nodding in pleasure.

“That was originally going to be a short story,” Williamson said. “But it grew. Yes, I like that one, too.”

Meanwhile Gilly had wandered on, into an adjoining room. He found, at a table, two women and a man in deep conversation. One of the women, dark-haired and handsome, with bare shoulders, was—according to her identification plate—Evelyn Paige. The taller woman he discovered was the renowned Margaret St. Clair, and Gilly at once said:

“Mrs. St. Clair, your article entitled The Scarlet Hexapodin the September 1959 was one of the finest—” And then he broke off.

Because Margaret St. Clair had not written that yet. Knew in fact nothing about it. Flushing with nervousness, Gilly backed away.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Excuse me; I became confused.”

Raising an eyebrow, Margaret St. Clair said, “In the September 1959 issue, you say? What are you, a man from the future?”

“Droll,” Evelyn Paige said, “but let’s continue.” She gave Gilly a hard stare from her black eyes. “Now Bob, as I understand what you’re saying—” She addressed the man opposite her, and Gilly saw now to his delight that the dire-looking cadaverous individual was none other than Robert Bloch.

Gilly said, “Mr. Bloch, your article in Galaxy: Sabbatical, was—”

“You’ve got the wrong person, my friend,” Robert Bloch said. “I never wrote any piece entitled Sabbatical.”

Good Lord, Gilly realized. I did it again; Sabbatical is another work which has not been written yet. I had better get away from here. He moved back toward Tozzo… and found him standing rigidly.

Tozzo said, “I’ve found Anderson.”

At once, Gilly turned, also rigid.

Both of them had carefully studied the pictures provide by the Library of Congress. There stood the famous pre-cog, tall and slender and straight, even a trifle thin, with curly hair—or wig—and glasses, a warm glint of friendliness in his eyes. He held a whiskey glass in one hand, and he was discoursing with several other pre-cogs. Obviously he was enjoying himself.

“Urn, uh, let’s see,” Anderson was saying, as Tozzo and Gilly came quietly up to join the group. “Pardon?” Anderson cupped his ear to catch what one of the other pre-cogs was saying. “Oh, uh, yup, that’s right.” Anderson nodded. “Yup, Tony, uh, I agree with you one hundred per cent.”

The other pre-cog, Tozzo realized, was the superb Tony Boucher, whose pre-cognition of the religious revival of the next century had been almost supernatural. The word-by-word description of the Miracle in the Cave involving the robot… Tozzo gazed at Boucher with awe, and then he turned back to Anderson.

“Poul,” another pre-cog said. “I’ll tell you how the Italians intended to get the British to leave if they did invade in 1943. The British would stay at hotels, the best, naturally. The Italians would overcharge them.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Anderson said, nodding and smiling, his eyes twinkling. “And then the British, being gentlemen, would say nothing—”

“But they’d leave the next day,” the other pre-cog finished, and all in the group laughed, except for Gilly and Tozzo.

“Mr. Anderson,” Tozzo said tensely, “we’re from an amateur pre-cog organization at Battlecreek, Michigan and we would like to photograph you beside our model of a time-dredge.”

“Pardon?” Anderson said, cupping his ear.

Tozzo repeated what he had said, trying to be audible above the background racket. At last Anderson seemed to understand.

“Oh, um, well, where is it?” Anderson asked obligingly.

“Downstairs on the sidewalk,” Gilly said. “It was too heavy to bring up.”

“Well, uh, if it won’t take too awfully long,” Anderson said, “which I doubt it will.” He excused himself from the group and followed after them as they started toward the elevator.

“It’s steam-engine building time,” a heavy-set man called to them as they passed. “Time to build steam engines, Poul.”

“We’re going downstairs,” Tozzo said nervously.

“Walk downstairs on your heads,” the pre-cog said. He waved goodbye goodnaturedly, as the elevator came and the three of them entered it.

“Kris is jolly today,” Anderson said.

“And how,” Gilly said, using one of his phrases.

“Is Bob Heinlein here?” Anderson asked Tozzo as they descended. “I understand he and Mildred Clingerman went off somewhere to talk about cats and nobody has seen them come back.”

“That’s the way the ball bounces,” Gilly said, trying out another twentieth century phrase.

Anderson cupped his ear, smiled hesitantly, but said nothing.

At last, they emerged on the sidewalk. At the sight of their time-dredge, Anderson blinked in astonishment.

“I’ll be gosh darned,” he said, approaching it. “That’s certainly imposing. Sure, I’d, uh, be happy to pose beside it.” He drew his lean, angular body erect, smiling that warm, almost tender smile that Tozzo had noticed before. “Uh, how’s this?” Anderson inquired, a little timidly.

With an authentic twentieth century camera taken from the Smithsonian, Gilly snapped a picture. “Now inside,” he requested, and glanced at Tozzo.

“Why, uh, certainly,” Poul Anderson said, and stepped up the stairs and into the dredge. “Gosh, Karen would, uh, like this,” he said as he disappeared inside. “I wish to heck she’d come along.”

Tozzo followed swiftly. Gilly slammed the hatch shut, and, at the control board, Tozzo, with the instruction manual in hand, punched buttons.

The turbines hummed, but Anderson did not seem to hear them; he was engrossed in staring at the controls, his eyes wide.

“Gosh,” he said.

The time-dredge passed back to the present, with Anderson still lost in his scrutiny of the controls.