“Thanks,” Poul said tautly, as the slime mold resumed its slow forward motion along the sidewalk. “But there are things I want to do—”

“I am on my way to the zoo,” the slime mold continued. An unkind thought came to Poul.

“Please,” the slime mold said. “Your anachronistic twentieth century humor is not appreciated. I am not an inhabitant of the zoo; it is for life forms of low mental order such as Martian glebs and trawns. Since the initiation of interplanetary travel, zoos have become the center of—”

Poul said, “Could you lead me to the space terminal?” He tried to make his request sound casual.

“You take a dreadful risk,” the slime mold said, “in going to any public place. The polpol watch constantly.”

“I still want to go.” If he could board an interplanetary ship, if he could leave Earth, see other worlds—

But they would erase his memory; all at once he realized that, in a rush of horror. I’ve got to make notes, he told himself. At once!

“Do, um, you have a pencil?” he asked the slime mold. “Oh, wait; I have one. Pardon me.” Obviously the slime mold didn’t.

On a piece of paper from his coat pocket—it was convention material of some sort—he wrote hurriedly, in brief, disjointed phrases, what had happened to him, what he had seen in the twenty-first century. Then he quickly stuck the paper back in his pocket.

“A wise move,” the slime mold said. “And now to the spaceport, if you will accompany me at my slow pace. And, as we go, I will give you details of Terra’s history from your period on.” The slime mold moved down the sidewalk. Poul accompanied it eagerly; after all, what choice did he have? “The Soviet Union. That was tragic. Their war with Red China in 1983 which finally involved Israel and France… regrettable, but it did solve the problem of what to do with France—a most difficult nation to deal with in the latter half of the twentieth century.”

On his piece of paper Poul jotted that down, too.

“After France had been defeated—” The slime mold went on, as Poul scratched against time.

Fermeti said, “We must glin, if we’re to catch Anderson before he boards a ship.” And by “glin” he did not mean glinning a little; he meant a full search with the cooperation of the polpol. He hated to bring them in, and yet their help now seemed vital. Too much time had passed and Anderson had not yet been found.

The spaceport lay ahead, a great disk miles in diameter, with no vertical obstructions. In the center was the Burned Spot, seared by years of tail-exhausts from landing and departing ships. Fermeti liked the spaceport, because here the denseness of the close-packed buildings of the city abruptly ceased. Here was openness, such as he recalled from childhood… if one dared to think openly of childhood.

The terminal building was set hundreds of feet beneath the rexeroid layer built to protect the waiting people in case of an accident above. Fermeti reached the entrance of the descent ramp, then halted impatiently to wait for Tozzo and Gilly to catch up with him.

“I’ll nilp,” Tozzo said, but without enthusiasm. And he broke the band on his wrist with a single decisive motion.

The polpol ship hovered overhead at once.

“We’re from the Emigration Bureau,” Fermeti explained to the polpol lieutenant. He outlined their Project, described—reluctantly—their bringing Poul Anderson from his time-period to their own.

“Hair on head,” the polpol lieutenant nodded. “Quaint duds. Okay, Mr. Fermeti; we’ll glin until we find him.” He nodded, and his small ship shot off.

“They’re efficient,” Tozzo admitted.

“But not likeable,” Fermeti said, finishing Tozzo’s thought.

“They make me uncomfortable,” Tozzo agreed. “But I suppose they’re supposed to.”

The three of them stepped onto the descent ramp—and dropped at breathtaking speed to level one below. Fermeti shut his eyes, wincing at the loss of weight. It was almost as bad as takeoff itself. Why did everything have to be so rapid, these days? It certainly was not like the previous decade, when things had gone leisurely.

They stepped from the ramp, shook themselves, and were approached instantly by the building’s polpol chief.

“We have a report on your man,” the gray-uniformed officer told them.

“He hasn’t taken off?” Fermeti said. “Thank God.” He looked around.

“Over there,” the officer said, pointing.

At a magazine rack, Poul Anderson was looking intently at the display. It took only a moment for the three Emigration Bureau officials to surround him.

“Oh, uh, hello,” Anderson said. “While I was waiting for my ship I thought I’d take a look and see what’s still in print.”

Fermeti said, “Anderson, we require your unique abilities. I’m sorry, but we’re taking you back to the Bureau.”

All at once Anderson was gone. Soundlessly, he had ducked away; they saw his tall, angular form become smaller as he raced for the gate to the field proper.

Reluctantly, Fermeti reached within his coat and brought out a sleep-gun. “There’s no other choice,” he murmured, and squeezed.

The racing figure tumbled, rolled. Fermeti put the sleep-gun away and in a toneless voice said, “He’ll recover. A skinned knee, nothing worse.” He glanced at Gilly and Tozzo. “Recover at the Bureau, I mean.”

Together, the three of them advanced toward the prone figure on the floor of the spaceport waiting room.

“You may return to your own time-continuum,” Fermeti said quietly, “when you’ve given us the mass-restoration formula.” He nodded, and a Bureau workman approached, carrying the ancient Royal typewriter.

Seated in the chair across from Fermeti in the Bureau’s inner business office, Poul Anderson said, “I don’t use a portable.”

“You must cooperate,” Fermeti informed him. “We have the scientific know-how to restore you to Karen; remember Karen and remember your newly-born daughter at the Congress in San Francisco’s Sir Francis Drake Hotel. Without full cooperation from you, Anderson, there will be no cooperation from the Bureau. Surely, with your pre-cog ability you can see that.”

After a pause Anderson said, “Urn, I can’t work unless I have a pot of fresh coffee brewing around me at all times, somewhere.”

Curtly, Fermeti signaled. “We’ll obtain coffee beans for you,” he declared. “But the brewing is up to you. We’ll also supply a pot from the Smithsonian collection and there our responsibility ends.”

Taking hold of the carriage of the typewriter, Anderson began to inspect it. “Red and black ribbon,” he said. “I always use black. But I guess I can make do.” He seemed a trifle sullen. Inserting a sheet of paper, he began to type. At the top of the page appeared the words:

“You say If bought it?” he asked Fermeti.

“Yes,” Fermeti replied tensely.

Anderson typed:

“He starts at the beginning,” Fermeti said bitingly. “Well, if there’s no alternative we’ll simply have to bear with him.” Musingly, he murmured, “I wonder how long it takes… I wonder how fast he writes. As a pre-cog he can see what’s coming next; it should help him to do it in a hurry.” Or was that just wishful thinking?

“Have the coffee beans arrived yet?” Anderson asked, glancing up.

“Any time now,” Fermeti said.