Kemp was not what Jesse had expected. In Jesse’s experience wealthy men tended to wear their authority in plain sight, an expectation of obedience as conspicuous as a Sunday hat. August Kemp was the right age for such a man: hard to tell with future people, but Jesse pegged him at fifty years or more by the grain of his skin. But he was lean as a whippet hound and tan as a cowherd, and his clothes seemed not only informal but unserious: denim trousers and a shirt on which pictures of tropical fruit were printed. His white hair was abundant, and he wore it loosely. His teeth were conspicuously perfect. He displayed them in a broad smile.

“Mr. Cullum, I don’t want to embarrass you with praise for your handling of the apparent attempt on President Grant’s life. I understand the president has already thanked you, and you know you have the gratitude of the City of Futurity.”

“Yes, sir, I appreciate that,” Jesse said.

“The gunman is in custody, and we’ve had time to interrogate him. Mr. Barton can fill you in on the details.”

Barton cleared his throat and said, “The suspect is one Obie Stedmann of Calhoun’s Landing, Louisiana. A few months ago there was an encounter between what Stedmann calls his ‘rifle club’ and federal troops, a shoot-out that left fifteen dead, two of them soldiers and the rest of them Stedmann’s buddies. The army claims it prevented a lynching. Stedmann calls it murder and blames Reconstruction in general and Grant in particular. When he read in the papers that Grant would be visiting the City, he started to make plans. He traveled to Chicago, spent a night there, then came to Futurity Station, where he spent a week prior to Grant’s arrival. We don’t know what he did during that time, but we know what he didn’t do. He didn’t make an attempt on Grant when Grant’s Pullman car arrived at Futurity Station. Probably because it wasn’t possible. Guests bound for the City are escorted from their train to the coaches by a security detail, and Grant’s security was tight as a drumhead. We believe that’s why Stedmann decided to take Grant from inside the City.”

“Which would have been a problem for him,” Kemp interjected, “because it’s not easy to buy a ticket on short notice. We’re generally booked up at least six months in advance.”

“It’s not easy,” Barton said, “but it’s not impossible. Tickets come up for resale if guests cancel. We have a generous rebooking program, but not everyone takes advantage of it. Tickets can be resold. And while we discourage scalping, despite our best efforts, it happens. Stedmann managed to buy himself a ticket, though it must have cost him a small fortune.”

“He bought something else, too,” Jesse said. “A pistol, if I’m not mistaken.”

Kemp nodded as if Jesse had said something wise. Barton said, “You saw it yourself. A clip-loading handgun, not of contemporary design.”

A Glock 19, specifically, Jesse thought.

“We’ve gone to great lengths,” August Kemp said, “to keep a careful boundary between the City and this world. It was part of the design of the City from the beginning. Our concerns are both pragmatic and ethical. We want to protect locals from ideas and technology that might be destabilizing or dangerous out of their context. And we want to protect the City from misunderstanding and needless litigation. Obviously, the boundary is going to be a little porous no matter what we do. We permit a limited trade in authorized souvenirs, and if one of our Tower One visitors is out on tour and misplaces a smartphone or a wristwatch, so be it. No great harm done. But a weapon? Every handgun we allow through the Mirror is itemized and assigned to a member of the security detail. No unauthorized carries are permitted. Zero tolerance. Finding such a weapon inside the City would have been bad enough. The possibility that Stedmann bought it at the railway depot is shocking, absolutely unacceptable.”

Elizabeth said, “Have you got anything out of Stedmann about the gun?”

Barton said, “He gave us his backstory, but he won’t say anything about buying the weapon. So here’s what we want you and Jesse to do for us. First, you head out to Futurity Station and see if you can reconstruct Stedmann’s movements. Your focus should be on the purchase of the weapon—who was the vendor? Are there more weapons being sold? Contraband other than weapons?”

Kemp addressed Elizabeth directly: “The details are in your inbox. This is your first trip into the field, isn’t it?”

“I worked transit a few time between here and the railroad,” Elizabeth said. “So I’ve been out of the gates. But basically, yes.”

“We’ll get you suitable clothing, but you’ll need to take cues from Jesse when it comes to deportment. Are you good with that?”

“I had the orientation sessions—”

“And that’s great,” Kemp said. “But a little brushup is always helpful. And Jesse’s a native. Remember that. It’s his world out there, not yours.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Jesse, are we on the same wavelength here?” Kemp registered Jesse’s blank expression and said, “Are we in agreement?”

“I think so.”

“That’s wonderful. Elizabeth, again, we texted you details. Jesse, I probably don’t need to tell you this duty comes with a pay raise.”

“That’s very kind,” Jesse said.

“You’re one of our most loyal local employees and one of the least troublesome. And that’s the attitude you need to take into the field. Do you have any other questions before we break this up?

Jesse thought about it. “We’re working as a team. Elizabeth and me, I mean. And I need to help her pass as local. Correct?”

“Right.”

“But if the gun was smuggled out of the City, the trail might lead right back to Tower One. And I’m happy to follow it. The trouble is, I’m conspicuous here. Twice today I got pegged as a local, and your clerks all peer at me like I’m Lazarus come forth. What am I doing wrong? Can you tell me that?”

August Kemp looked at Barton, who looked back at Kemp. Neither spoke. Finally Elizabeth said, “It’s your beard.”

“There are men with beards here.”

“Not like yours. You look like a refugee from ZZ Top. You look like Zack Galifianakis auditioning for a Civil War comedy. Don’t guys in 1876 ever shave?”

“Some do,” Jesse said stiffly. “And not all your men are beardless.”

“Right. With a little trim you could pass in both worlds.”

Kemp said, “We’ve got a styling salon in Tower One. Off hours, it’s available for staff. I’ll book you an appointment. You’ll need to learn to find your way around Tower One in any case, since we’re moving you here for the duration of this assignment.”

“I thank you,” Jesse said uncertainly.

“Any other questions?”

Plenty, Jesse thought. But none he could bring himself to ask right now.

“And, oh,” Kemp said, “I understand you need a new pair of Oakleys. Did you stop by the supply room?”

“I did,” Jesse said. “They’re all out of Oakleys.”

“I’ll look into it,” August Kemp said.

3

The clothes Jesse was issued for his trip to the railroad depot were strangely made.

He had to wear them even so. The last “authentic” items of clothing he had owned were the trousers, shirt, and flannel underwear he had been wearing when he arrived at the City, and the first thing the City had done was to send them for delousing. Today—given that he was supposed to pass as a modestly successful businessman—a drifter’s shabby pants wouldn’t do. So he had been instructed to report to the supply room to be fitted for passable substitutes.

Which they had given him, and which he had put on this very morning. And judging by the reflection in the mirror in his dormitory room, he did look more or less like the sort of modestly successful shopkeeper he had often passed in the streets of San Francisco. Except that the shirt was too perfectly clean. And the collar was too white. And the waistcoat felt slick, as if the cotton had been woven too closely. Add to that his recent shave and haircut, and he felt both newly minted and altogether ridiculous.