"Who?" Hurley shouted, puffing gray cigar smoke in growing agitation. "What's going on?"
"A man knocked on my door," Courtland told him briefly. "He talked about some machinery, equipment I never heard of. Something called a swibble."
Around the room blank looks passed back and forth.
"Let's guess what a swibble is," Courtland continued grimly. "Anderson, you start. What would a swibble be?"
Anderson grinned. "A fish hook that chases down fish."
Parkinson volunteered a guess. "An English car with only one wheel."
Grudgingly, Hurley came next. "Something dumb. A machine for house-breaking pets."
"A new plastic bra," the legal stenographer suggested.
"I don't know," MacDowell muttered resentfully. "I never heard of anything like that."
"All right," Courtland agreed, again examining his watch. He was getting close to hysteria; an hour had passed and there was no sign of the repairman. "We don't know; we can't even guess. But someday, nine years from now, a man named Wright is going to invent a swibble, and it's going to become big business. People are going to make them; people are going to buy them and pay for them; repairmen are going to come around and service them."
The door opened and Pesbroke entered the apartment, overcoat over his arm, crushed Stetson hat clamped over his head. "Has he showed up again?" His ancient, alert eyes darted around the room. "You people look ready to go."
"No sign of him," Courtland said drearily. "Damn it – I sent him off; I didn't grasp it until he was gone." He showed Pesbroke the crumpled carbon.
"I see," Pesbroke said, handing it back. "And if he comes back you're going to tape what he says, and photograph everything he has in the way of equipment." He indicated Anderson and MacDowell. "What about the rest of them? What's the need of them?"
"I want people here who can ask the right questions," Courtland explained. "We won't get answers any other way. The man, if he shows up at all, will stay only a finite time. During that time, we've got to find out – -" He broke off as his wife came up beside him. "What is it?"
"The boys want to watch," Fay explained. "Can they? They promise they won't make any noise." She added wistfully, "I'd sort of like to watch, too."
"Watch, then," Courtland answered gloomily. "Maybe there won't be anything to see."
While Fay served coffee around, Courtland went on with his explanation. "First of all, we want to find out if this man is on the level. Our first questions will be aimed at tripping him up; I want these specialists to go to work on him. If he's a fake, they'll probably find it out."
"And if he isn't?" Anderson asked, an interested expression on his face. "If he isn't, you're saying…"
"If he isn't, then he's from the next decade, and I want him pumped for all he's worth. But -" Courtland paused. "I doubt if we'll get much theory. I had the impression that he's a long way down on the totem pole. The best we probably can do is get a run-down on his specific work. From that, we may have to assemble our picture, make our own extrapolations."
"You think he can tell us what he does for a living," Pesbroke said cannily, "but that's about it."
"We'll be lucky if he shows up at all," Courtland said. He settled down on the couch and began methodically knocking his pipe against the ashtray. "All we can do is wait. Each of you think over what you're going to ask. Try to figure out the questions you want answered by a man from the future who doesn't know he's from the future, who's trying to repair equipment that doesn't yet exist."
"I'm scared," the legal stenographer said, white-faced and wide-eyed, her coffee cup trembling.
"I'm about fed up," Hurley muttered, eyes fixed sullenly on the floor. "This is all a lot of hot air."
It was just about that time that the swibble repairman came again, and once more timidly knocked on the hall door.
The young repairman was flustered. And he was getting perturbed. "I'm sorry, sir," he began without preamble. "I can see you have company, but I've rechecked my route instructions and this is absolutely the right address." He added plaintively, "I tried some other apartments; nobody knew what I was talking about."
"Come in," Courtland managed. He stepped aside, got himself between the swibble repairman and the door, and ushered him into the living room.
"Is this the person?" Pesbroke rumbled doubtfully, his gray eyes narrowing.
Courtland ignored him. "Sit down," he ordered the swibble repairman. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Anderson and Hurley and MacDowell moving in closely; Parkinson threw down his Fortune and got quickly to his feet. In the kitchen, the sound of tape running through the recording head was audible… the room had begun moving into activity.
"I could come some other time," the repairman said apprehensively, eyeing the closing circle of people. "I don't want to bother you, sir, when you have guests."
Perched grimly on the arm of the couch, Courtland said, "This is as good a time as any. In fact, this is the best time." A wild flood of relief spilled over him: now they had a chance. "I don't know what got into me," he went on rapidly. "I was confused. Of course I have a swibble; it's set up in the dining room."
The repairman's face twitched with a spasm of laughter. "Oh, really," he choked. "In the dining room? That's about the funniest joke I've heard in weeks."
Courtland glanced at Pesbroke. What the hell was so funny about that? Then his flesh began to crawl; cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the palms of his hands. What the hell was a swibble? Maybe they had better find out right away – or not at all. Maybe they were getting into something deeper than they knew. Maybe – and he didn't like the thought – they were better off where they were.
"I was confused," he said, "by your nomenclature. I don't think of it as a swibble." Cautiously, he finished, "I know that's the popular jargon, but with that much money involved, I like to think of it by its legitimate title."
The swibble repairman looked completely confused; Courtland realized that he had made another mistake; apparently swibble was its correct name.
Pesbroke spoke up. "How long have you been repairing swibbles, Mr…" He waited, but there was no response from the thin, blank face. "What's your name, young man?" he demanded.
"My what?" The swibble repairman pulled jerkily away. "I don't understand you, sir."
Good Lord, Courtland thought. It was going to be a lot harder than he had realized – than any of them had realized.
Angrily, Pesbroke said, "You must have a name. Everybody has a name."
The young repairman gulped and stared down red-faced at the carpet. "I'm still only in service group four, sir. So I don't have a name yet."
"Let it go," Courtland said. What kind of a society gave out names as a status privilege? "I want to make sure you're a competent repairman," he explained. "How long have you been repairing swibbles?"
"For six years and three months," the repairman asserted. Pride took the place of embarrassment. "In junior high school I showed a straight-A record in swibble-maintenance aptitude." His meager chest swelled. "I'm a born swibble-man,"
"Fine," Courtland agreed uneasily; he couldn't believe the industry was that big. They gave tests in junior high school? Was swibble maintenance considered a basic talent, like symbol manipulation and manual dexterity? Had swibble work become as fundamental as musical talent, or as the ability to conceive spatial relationships?