Blaine went up to her desk. “I'd like to see someone about my act,” he told her.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “We’re all filled.”

“This is a very special act.”

“I'm really terribly sorry. Perhaps next week.”

“Look,” Blaine said, “My act is really unique. You see, I'm a man from the past.”

“I don't care if you’re the ghost of Scott Memvale,” she said sweetly. “We’re filled. Try us next week.

Blaine turned to go. A short, stocky man breezed past him, nodding to the receptionist.

“Morning, Miss Thatcher.”

“Morning, Mr. Barnex.”

Barnex! One of the agents! Blaine hurried after him and grabbed his sleeve.

Mr. Barnex,“ he said, ”I have an act —“

“Everybody has an act,” Barnex said wearily.

“But this act is unique!”

“Everybody's act is unique,” Barnex said. “Let go my sleeve, friend. Try us next week.”

“I'm from the past!” Blaine cried, suddenly feeling foolish. Barnex turned and stared at him. He looked at though he might be on the verge of calling the police, or Bellevue. But Blaine plunged recklessly on.

“I really am!” he said. “I have absolute proof. The Rex Corporation snatched me out of the past. Ask them!”

“Rex?” Barnex said. “Yeah, I head something about that snatch over at Lindy's… Hmm. Come into my office, Mister —”

“Blaine, Tom Blaine.” He followed Barnex into a tiny, cluttered cubicle. “Do you think you can use me?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Barnex said, motioning Blaine to a chair. “It depends. Tell me, Mr. Blaine, what period of the past are you from?”

“In 1958. I have an intimate knowledge of the nineteen thirties, forties and fifties. By way of stage experience I did some acting in college, and a professional actress friend of mine once told me I had a natural way of —”

“1958? That's 20th Century?”

“Yes, that's right.”

The agent shook his head. “Too bad. Now if you'd been a 6th Century Swede or a 7th Century Jap, I could have found work for you. I've had no difficulty booking appearances for our 1st Century Roman or our 4th Century Saxon, and I could use a couple more like them. But it's damned hard finding anyone from those early centuries, now that time travel is illegal. And B.C. is completely out.”

“But what about the 20th Century?” Blaine asked.

“It's filled.”

“Filled?”

“Sure. Ben Therler from 1953 gets all the available stage appearances.”

“I see,” Blaine said, getting slowly to his feet. “Thanks anyhow, Mr. Barnex.”

“Not at all,” Barnex said, “Wish I could help. If you'd been from any time or place before the 11th Century, I could probably book you. But there's not much interest in recent stuff like the 19th and 20th Centuries… Say, why don't you go see Therler? It isn't likely, but maybe he can use an understudy or something.” He scrawled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Blaine. Blaine took it, thanked him again, and left. In the street he stood for a moment, cursing his luck. His one unique and indisputable talent, his novelty value, had been usurped by Ben Therler of 1953! Really, he thought, time travel should be kept more exclusive. It just wasn't fair to drop a man here and then ignore him.

He wondered what sort of man Therler was. Well, he'd find out. Even if Therler didn't need an understudy, it would be a pleasure and relief to talk to someone from home. And Therler, who had lived here longer, might have some ideas on what a 20th century man could do in 2110.

He flagged a helicab and gave him the address. In fifteen minutes he was in Therler's apartment building, pressing the doorbell.

The door was opened by a sleek, chubby, complacent-looking man wearing a dressing gown.

“You the photographer?” he asked. “You’re too early.”

Blaine shook his head. “Mr. Therler, you've never met me before. I'm from your own century. I'm from 1958.”

“Is that so?” Therler asked, with obvious suspicion.

“It's the truth,” Blaine said, “I was snatched by the Rex Corporation. You can check my story with them.”

Therler shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what is it you want?”

“I was hoping you might be able to use an understudy or something —”

“No, no, I never use an understudy,” Therler said, starting to close the door.

“I didn't think so,” Blaine said. “The real reason I came was just to talk to you. It gets pretty lonely being out of one's century. I wanted to talk to someone from my own age. I thought maybe you'd feel that way, too.”

“Me? Oh!” Therler said, smiling with sudden stage warmth. “Oh, you mean about the good old twentieth century! I'd love to talk to you about it sometime, pal. Little old New York! The Dodgers and Yankees, the hansoms in the park, the roller-skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza. I sure miss it all! Boy! But I'm afraid I'm a little busy now.”

“Certainly,” Blaine said. “Some other time.”

“Fine! I'd really love to!” Therler said, smiling even more brilliantly. “Call my secretary, will you, old man? Schedules, you know. Well have a really great old gab some one of these days. I suppose you could use a spare dollar or two —”

Blaine shook his head.

“Then, ‘bye,” Therler said heartily. “And do call soon.”

Blaine hurried out of the building. It was bad enough being robbed of you novelty value; it was worse being robbed by an out-and-out phony, a temporal fraud who'd never been within a hundred years of 1953. The Rockefeller roller — skating rink! And even that slip hadn't been necessary. Everything about the man screamed counterfeit. But sadly, Blaine was probably the only man in 2110 who could detect the imposture.

That afternoon Blaine purchased a change of clothing and a shaving kit. He found a room in a cheap hotel on Fifth Avenue. For the next week, he continued looking for work.

He tried the restaurants, but found that human dishwashers were a thing of the past. At the docks and spaceports, robots were doing most of the heavy work. One day he was tentatively approved for a position as package-wrapping inspector at Gimbel-Macy's. But the personnel department, after carefully studying his personality profile, irritability index and suggestibility rating, vetoed him in favor of a dull-eyed little man from Queens who held a master's degree in package design.

Blaine was wearily returning to his hotel one evening when he recognized a face in the dense crowd. It was a man he would have known instantly, anywhere. He was about Blaine's age, a compact, redheaded, snub-nosed man with slightly protruding teeth and a small red blotch on his neck. He carried himself with a certain jaunty assurance, the unquenchable confidence of a man for whom something always turns up.

“Ray!” Blaine shouted. “Ray Melhill!” He pushed through the crowd and seized him by the arm, “Ray! How'd you get out?”

The man pulled his arm away and smoothed the sleeve of his jacket. “My name is not Melhill,” he said.

“It's not? Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” he said, starting to move away.

Blaine stepped in front of him. “Wait a minute. You look exactly like him, even down to the radiation scar. Are you sure you aren't Ray Melhill, a flow-control man off the spaceship Bremen?”

“Quite certain,” the man said coldly. “You have confused me with someone else, young man.”

Blaine stared hard as the man started to walk away. Then he reached out, caught the man by a shoulder and swung him around.

“You dirty body-thieving bastard!” Blaine shouted, his big right fist shooting out.

The man who so exactly resembled Melhill was knocked back against a building, and slid groggily to the pavement. Blaine started for him, and people moved quickly out of his way.

“Berserker!” a woman screamed, and someone else took up the cry. Blaine caught sight of a blue uniform shoving through the crowd toward him.

A flat-hat! Blaine ducked into the crowd. He turned a corner quickly, then another, slowed to a walk and looked back. The policeman was not in sight. Blaine started walking again to his hotel.