“Well,” Anderson said slowly, “some sf writers believe in it. I think Alf Van Vogt does,” He smiled at Fermeti.

“But don’t you understand?” Fermeti demanded. “You described us in an article—you accurately described our Bureau and its interstellar Project!”

After a pause, Anderson murmured, “Gosh, I’ll be darned. No, I didn’t know that. Um, thanks a lot for telling me.”

Turning to Tozzo, Fermeti said, “Obviously we’ll have to recast our entire concept of the mid twentieth century.” He looked weary.

Tozzo said, “For our purposes their ignorance doesn’t matter. Because the pre-cognitive ability was there anyhow, whether they recognized it or not.” That, to him, was perfectly clear.

Anderson, meanwhile, had wandered off a little and stood now inspecting the display window of a nearby gift store. “Interesting bric-a-brac in there. I ought to pick up something for Karen while I’m here. Would it be all right—” He turned questioningly to Fermeti. “Could I step in there for a moment and look around?”

“Yes, yes,” Fermeti said irritably.

Poul Anderson disappeared inside the gift shop, leaving the three of them to argue the meaning of their discovery.

“What we’ve got to do,” Fermeti said, “is sit him down in the situation familiar to him: before a typewriter. We must persuade him to compose an article on deprivation of mass and its subsequent restoration. Whether he himself takes the article to be factual or not has no bearing; it still will be. The Smithsonian must have a workable twentieth century typewriter and 8 1/2 by 11 white sheets of paper. Do you agree?”

Tozzo, meditating, said, “I’ll tell you what I think. It was a cardinal error to permit him to go into that gift shop.”

“Why is that?” Fermeti said.

“I see his point,” Gilly said excitedly. “We’ll never see Anderson again; he’s skipped out on us through the pretext of gift-shopping for his wife.”

Ashen-faced, Fermeti turned and raced into the gift ship. Tozzo and Gilly followed.

The store was empty. Anderson had eluded them; he was gone.

As he loped silently out the back door of the gift shop, Poul Anderson thought to himself, I don’t believe they’ll get me. At least not right away. I’ve got too much to do while I’m here, he realized. What an opportunity! When I’m an old man I can tell Astrid’s children about this.

Thinking of his daughter Astrid reminded him of one very simple fact, however. Eventually he had to go back to 1954. Because of Karen and the baby. No matter what he found here—for him it was temporary.

But meanwhile… first I’ll go to the library, any library, he decided. And get a good look at history books that’ll tell me what took place in the intervening years between 1954 and now.

I’d like to know, he said to himself, about the Cold War, how the U.S. and Russia came out. And—space explorations. I’ll bet they put a man on Luna by 1975. Certainly, they’re exploring space now; heck, they even have a time-dredge so they must have that.

Ahead Poul Anderson saw a doorway. It was open and without hesitation he plunged into it. Another shop of some kind, but this one larger than the gift shop.

“Yes sir,” a voice said, and a bald-headed man—they all seemed to be bald-headed here—approached him. The man glanced at Anderson’s hair, his clothes… however the clerk was polite; he made no comment. “May I help you?” he asked.

“Um,” Anderson said, stalling. What did this place sell, anyhow? He glanced around. Gleaming electronic objects of some sort. But what did they do?

The clerk said, “Haven’t you been nuzzled lately, sir?”

“What’s that?” Anderson said. Nuzzled?

“The new spring nuzzlers have arrived, you know,” the clerk said, moving toward the gleaming spherical machine nearest him. “Yes,” he said to Poul, “you do strike me as very, very faintly introve—no offense meant, sir, I mean, it’s legal to be introved.” The clerk chuckled. “For instance, your rather odd clothing… made it yourself, I take it? I must say, sir, to make your own clothing is highly introve. Did you weave it?” The clerk grimaced as if tasting something bad.

“No,” Poul said, “as a matter of fact it’s my best suit.”

“Heh, heh,” the clerk said. “I share the joke, sir; quite witty. But what about your head? You haven’t shaved your head in weeks.”

“Nope,” Anderson admitted. “Well, maybe I do need a nuzzler.” Evidently everyone in this century had one; like a TV set in his own time, it was a necessity, in order for one to be part of the culture.

“How many in your family?” the clerk said. Bringing out a measuring tape, he measured the length of Poul’s sleeve.

“Three,” Poul answered, baffled.

“How old is the youngest?”

“Just born,” Poul said.

The clerk’s face lost all its color. “Get out of here,” he said quietly. “Before I call for the polpol.”

“Um, what’s that? Pardon?” Poul said, cupping his ear and trying to hear, not certain he had understood.

“You’re a criminal,” the clerk mumbled. “You ought to be in Nachbaren Slager.”

“Well, thanks anyhow,” Poul said, and backed out of the store, onto the sidewalk; his last glimpse was of the clerk still staring at him.

“Are you a foreigner?” a voice asked, a woman’s voice. At the curb she had halted her vehicle. It looked to Poul like a bed; in fact, he realized, it was a bed. The woman regarded him with astute calm, her eyes dark and intense. Although her glistening shaved head somewhat upset him, he could see that she was attractive.

“I’m from another culture,” Poul said, finding himself unable to keep his eyes from her figure. Did all the women dress like this here in this society? Bare shoulders, he could understand. But not—

And the bed. The combination of the two was too much for him. What kind of business was she in, anyhow? And in public. What a society this was… morals had changed since his own time.

“I’m looking for the library,” Poul said, not coming too close to the vehicle which was a bed with motor and wheels, a tiller for steering.

The woman said, “The library is one bight from here.”

“Um,” Poul said, “what’s a ‘bight’?”

“Obviously, you’re wanging me,” the woman said. All visible parts of her flushed a dark red. “It’s not funny. Any more than your disgustingly hairy head is. Really, both your wanging and your head are not amusing, at least not to me.” And yet she did not go on; she remained where she was, regarding him somberly. “Perhaps you need help,” she decided. “Perhaps I should pity you. You know of course that the polpol could pick you up any time they want.”

Poul said, “Could I, um, buy you a cup of coffee somewhere and we could talk? I’m really anxious to find the library.”

“I’ll go with you,” the woman agreed. “Although I have no idea what ‘coffee’ is. If you touch me I’ll nilp at once.”

“Don’t do that,” Poul said, “it’s unnecessary; all I want to do is look up some historical material.” And then it occurred to him that he could make good use of any technical data he could get his hands on.

What one volume might he smuggle back to 1954 which would be of great value? He racked his brains. An almanac. A dictionary… a school text on science which surveyed all the fields for laymen; yes, that would do it. A seventh grade text or a high school text. He could rip the covers off, throw them away, put the pages inside his coat.

Poul said, “Where’s a school? The closest school.” He felt the urgency of it, now. He had no doubt that they were after him, close behind.

“What is a ‘school’?” the woman asked.

“Where your children go,” Poul said.

The woman said quietly, “You poor sick man.”