He looked at the other things. The ticket stub. What good was a ticket stub? It was creased and bent, folded over, again and again. He couldn’t go anyplace with that. A stub didn’t take you anywhere. It only told you where you had been.
Where you had been!
He bent down, peering at it, smoothing the creases. The printing had been torn through the middle. Only part of each word could be made out.
He smiled. That was it. Where he had been. He could fill in the missing letters. It was enough. There was no doubt: he had foreseen this, too. Three of the seven trinkets used. Four left. Stuartsville, Iowa. Was there such a place? He looked out the window of the bus. The Intercity rocket station was only a block or so away. He could be there in a second. A quick sprint from the bus, hoping the Police wouldn’t be there to stop him—
But somehow he knew they wouldn’t. Not with the other four things in his pocket. And once he was on the rocket he would be safe. Intercity was big, big enough to keep free of the SP. Jennings put the remaining trinkets back into his pocket and stood up, pulling the bellcord.
A moment later he stepped gingerly out onto the sidewalk.
The rocket let him off at the edge of town, at a tiny brown field. A few disinterested porters moved about, stacking luggage, resting from the heat of the sun.
Jennings crossed the field to the waiting room, studying the people around him. Ordinary people, workmen, businessmen, housewives. Stuartsville was a small middle Western town. Truck drivers. High school kids.
He went through the waiting room, out onto the street. So this was where Rethrick’s Plant was located—perhaps. If he had used the stub correctly. Anyhow, something was here, or he wouldn’t have included the stub with the other trinkets.
Stuartsville, Iowa. A faint plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind, still vague and nebulous. He began to walk, his hands in his pockets, looking around him. A newspaper office, lunch counters, hotels, poolrooms, a barber shop, a television repair shop. A rocket sales store with huge showrooms of gleaming rockets. Family size. And at the end of the block the Portola Theater.
The town thinned out. Farms, fields. Miles of green country. In the sky above a few transport rockets lumbered, carrying farm supplies and equipment back and forth. A small, unimportant town. Just right for Rethrick Construction. The Plant would be lost here, away from the city, away from the SP.
Jennings walked back. He entered a lunchroom, BOB’S PLACE. A young man with glasses came over as he sat down at the counter, wiping his hands on his white apron.
“Coffee,” Jennings said.
“Coffee.” The man brought the cup. There were only a few people in the lunchroom. A couple of flies buzzed, against the window.
Outside in the street shoppers and farmers moved leisurely by.
“Say,” Jennings said, stirring his coffee. “Where can a man get work around here? Do you know?”
“What kind of work?” The young man came back, leaning against the counter.
“Electrical wiring. I’m an electrician. Television, rockets, computers. That sort of stuff.”
“Why don’t you try the big industrial areas? Detroit. Chicago. New York.”
Jennings shook his head. “Can’t stand the big cities. I never liked cities.”
The young man laughed. “A lot of people here would be glad to work in Detroit. You’re an electrician?”
“Are there any plants around here? Any repair shops or plants?”
“None that I know of.” The young man went off to wait on some men that had come in. Jennings sipped his coffee. Had he made a mistake? Maybe he should go back and forget about Stuartsville, Iowa. Maybe he had made the wrong inference from the ticket stub. But the ticket meant something, unless he was completely wrong about everything. It was a little late to decide that, though.
The young man came back. “Is there any kind of work I can get here?” Jennings said. “Just to tide me over.”
“There’s always farm work.”
“How about the retail repair shops? Garages. TV.”
“There’s a TV repair shop down the street. Maybe you might get something there. You could try. Farm work pays good. They can’t get many men, anymore. Most men in the military. You want to pitch hay?”
Jennings laughed. He paid for his coffee. “Not very much. Thanks.”
“Once in a while some of the men go up the road and work. There’s some sort of Government station.”
Jennings nodded. He pushed the screen door open, stepping outside onto the hot sidewalk. He walked aimlessly for a time, deep in thought, turning his nebulous plan over and over. It was a good plan; it would solve everything, all his problems at once. But right now it hinged on one thing: finding Rethrick Construction. And he had only one clue, if it really was a clue. The ticket stub, folded and creased, in his pocket. And a faith that he had known what he was doing.
A Government station. Jennings paused, looking around him. Across the street was a taxi stand, a couple of cabbies sitting in their cabs, smoking and reading the newspaper. It was worth a try, at least. There wasn’t much else to do. Rethrick would be something else, on the surface. If it posed as a Government project no one would ask any questions. They were all too accustomed to Government projects working without explanation, in secrecy.
He went over to the first cab. “Mister,” he said, “can you tell me something?”
The cabbie looked up. “What do you want?”
“They tell me there’s work to be had, out at the Government station. Is that right?”
The cabbie studied him. He nodded.
“What kind of work is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do they do the hiring?”
“I don’t know.” The cabbie lifted his paper.
“Thanks.” Jennings turned away.
“They don’t do any hiring. Maybe once in a long while. They don’t take many on. You better go someplace else if you’re looking for work.”
“All right.”
The other cabbie leaned out of his cab. “They use only a few day laborers, buddy. That’s all. And they’re very choosy. They don’t hardly let anybody in. Some kind of war work.”
Jennings pricked up his ears. “Secret?”
“They come into town and pick up a load of construction workers. Maybe a truck full. That’s all. They’re real careful who they pick.”
Jennings walked back toward the cabbie. “That right?”
“It’s a big place. Steel wall. Charged. Guards. Work going on day and night. But nobody gets in. Set up on top of a hill, out the old Henderson Road. About two miles and a half.” The cabbie poked at his shoulder. “You can’t get in unless you’re identified. They identify their laborers, after they pick them out. You know.”
Jennings stared at him. The cabbie was tracing a line on his shoulder. Suddenly Jennings understood. A flood of relief rushed over him.
“Sure,” he said. “I understand what you mean. At least, I think so.” He reached into his pocket, bringing out the four trinkets. Carefully, he unfolded the strip of green cloth, holding it up. “Like this?”
The cabbies stared at the cloth. “That’s right,” one of them said slowly, staring at the cloth. “Where did you get it?”
Jennings laughed. “A friend.” He put the cloth back in his pocket. “A friend gave it to me.”
He went off, toward the Intercity field. He had plenty to do, now that the first step was over. Rethrick was here, all right. And apparently the trinkets were going to see him through. One for every crisis. A pocketful of miracles, from someone who knew the future!
But the next step couldn’t be done alone. He needed help. Somebody else was needed for this part. But who? He pondered, entering the Intercity waiting room. There was only one person he could possibly go to. It was a long chance, but he had to take it. He couldn’t work alone, here on out. If the Rethrick plant was here then Kelly would be too…