The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.
He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was laughing, rocking back and forth.
Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat beside her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Am I intruding?”
“No.” She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. “Not at all.”
The clerk came over. “What do you want?”
Conger looked at the chocolate. “Same as she has.”
Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. “By the way. You don’t know my name. Lora Hunt.”
She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. “Conger is my name,” he murmured.
“Conger? Is that your last or first name?”
“Last or first?” He hesitated. “Last. Omar Conger.”
“Omar?” She laughed. “That’s like the poet, Omar Khayyam.”
“I don’t know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—” He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. “Where I come from,” he finished.
“The Church? Which church do you mean?”
“The Church.” He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.
“You’re an unusual person,” she said. “Bill didn’t like you, but he never likes anything different. He’s so—so prosaic. Don’t you think that when aperson gets older he should become—broadened in his outlook?”
Conger nodded.
“He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here. But you’re not so foreign. He means orientals; you know.”
Conger nodded.
The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared at them. “Well,” he said.
Conger turned. “Hello.”
“Well.” Bill sat down. “Hello, Lora.” He was looking at Conger. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. “Something wrong with that?”
“No. Nothing wrong with it.”
There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go?” She was astonished. “Why?”
“Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”
“Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”
“Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard—”
She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”
Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.
“Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”
“What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”
Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”
He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.
He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.
“My God—” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.
Tingle, and paralyze.
He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.
“Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Who is ‘me’?”
“Conger is my name. I’m staying at the Appleton’s place. Who are you?”
The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.
“I’m Sheriff Duff. I think you’re the person I want to talk to. You were in Bloom’s today, about three o’clock?”
“Bloom’s?”
“The fountain. Where the kids hang out.” Duff came up beside him, shining his light into Conger’s face. Conger blinked.
“Turn that thing away,” he said.
A pause. “All right.” The light flickered to the ground. “You were there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that right? You had a beef over his girl—”
“We had a discussion,” Conger said carefully.
“Then what happened?”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious. They say you did something.”
“Did something? Did what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m wondering. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn’t move.”
“How are they now?”
“All right.”
There was silence.
“Well?” Duff said. “What was it? A bomb?”
“A bomb?” Conger laughed. “No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited.”
“Why did they all pass out?”
“Fumes.”
Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.
“If you say so,” he said. “Anyhow, there wasn’t any real harm done.” He stepped back from Conger. “And that Willet is a trouble-maker.”
“Good night, then,” Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.
“One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don’t mind if I look at your identification, do you?”
“No. Not at all.” Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out.
The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they felt would be relevant.
Duff handed it back. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” The light winked off.
When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the door.
“Can I ask you something?” he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. “Can I ask you—what’s the date?”
“The date?” She studied him. “The first of December.”
“December first! Why, it was just November!”
They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century they still used the old twelve month system. November fed directly into December; there was no Quartember between them.
He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks.”
He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.
The day was warm and bright. Conger’s shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.
He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in sight. He brought out a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it. For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air.
The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.