"Time for phase two," Gilly said. But he, too, was gaping at the stalled surface vehicles. "Good grief," he said, "look at the incredibly short skirts of the women; why, the knees are virtually exposed. Why don't the women die of whisk virus?"
"I don't know," Tozzo said, "but I do know we've got to get into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel."
Carefully, they opened the port of the time-dredge and stepped out. And then Tozzo realized something. There had been an error. Already.
The men of this decade were clean-shaven.
"Gilly," he said rapidly, "we've got to shed our beards and mustaches." In an instant he had pulled Gilly's off, leaving his bare face exposed. But the wig; that was correct. All the men visible wore head-dress of some type; Tozzo saw few if any bald men. The women, too, had luxurious wigs… or were they wigs? Could they perhaps be natural hair?
In any case, both he and Gilly now would pass. Into the Sir Francis Drake, he said to himself, leading Gilly along.
They darted lithely across the sidewalk – it was amazing how slowly the people of this time-period walked – and into the inexpressibly old-fashioned lobby of the hotel. Like a museum, Tozzo thought as he glanced about him. I wish we could linger… but they could not.
"How's our identification?" Gilly said nervously. "Is it passing inspection?" The business with the facehair had upset him.
On each of their lapels they carried the expertly made false identification. It worked. Presently they found themselves ascending by a lift, or rather elevator, to the correct floor.
The elevator let them off in a crowded foyer. Men, all clean-shaven, with wigs or natural hair, stood in small clusters everywhere, laughing and talking. And a number of attractive women, some of them in garments called leotards, which were skin-tight, loitered about smilingly. Even though the styles of the times required their breasts to be covered, they were a sight to see.
Sotto voce, Gilly said, "I am stunned. In this room are some of the -"
"I know," Tozzo murmured. Their Project could wait, at least a little while. Here was an unbelievably golden opportunity to see these pre-cogs, actually to talk to them and listen to them…
Here came a tall, handsome man in a dark suit that sparkled with tiny specks of some unnatural material, some variety of synthetic. The man wore glasses and his hair, everything about him, had a tanned, dark look. The name on his identification… Tozzo peered.
The tall, good-looking man was A. E. van Vogt.
"Say," another individual, perhaps a pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to van Vogt, stopping him. "I read both versions of your World of Null A and I still didn't quite get that about it being him; you know, at the end. Could you explain that part to me? And also when they started into the tree and then just -"
van Vogt halted. A soft smile appeared on his face and he said. "Well, I'll tell you a secret. I start out with a plot and then the plot sort of folds up. So then I have to have another plot to finish the rest of the story."
Going over to listen, Tozzo felt something magnetic about van Vogt. He was so tall, so spiritual. Yes, Tozzo said to himself; that was the word, a healing spirituality. There was a quality of innate goodness which emanated from him.
All at once van Vogt said, "There goes a man with my pants." And without a further word to the enthusiast, stalked off and disappeared into the crowd.
Tozzo's head swam. To actually have seen and heard A. E. van Vogt -
"Look," Gilly was saying, plucking at his sleeve. "That enormous, genial-looking man seated over there; that's Howard Browne, who edited the pre-cog journal Amazing at this time-period."
"I have to catch a plane," Howard Browne was saying to anyone who would listen to him. He glanced about him in a worried anxiety, despite his almost physical geniality.
"I wonder," Gilly said, "if Doctor Asimov is here."
We can ask, Tozzo decided. He made his way over to one of the young women wearing a blonde wig and green leotards. "WHERE IS DOCTOR ASIMOV?" he asked clearly in the argot of the times.
"Who's to know?" the girl said.
"Is he here, miss?"
"Naw," the girl said.
Gilly again plucked at Tozzo's sleeve. "We must find Poul Anderson, remember? Enjoyable as it is to talk to this girl -"
"I'm inquiring about Asimov," Tozzo said brusquely. After all, Isaac Asimov had been the founder of the entire twenty-first century positronic robot industry. How could he not be here?
A burly outdoorish man strode by them, and Tozzo saw that this was Jack Vance. Vance, he decided, looked more like a big game hunter than anything else… we must beware of him, Tozzo decided. If we got into any altercation Vance could take care of us easily.
He noticed now that Gilly was talking to the blonde-wigged girl in the green leotards. "MURRAY LEINSTER?" Gilly was asking. "The man whose paper on parallel time is still at the very forefront of theoretical studies; isn't he -"
"I dunno," the girl said, in a bored tone of voice.
A group had gathered about a figure opposite them; the central person whom everybody was listening to was saying, "…all right, if like Howard Browne you prefer air travel, fine. But I say it's risky. I don't fly. In fact even riding in a car is dangerous. I generally lie down in the back." The man wore a short-cropped wig and a bow tie; he had a round, pleasant face but his eyes were intense.
It was Ray Bradbury, and Tozzo started toward him at once.
"Stop!" Gilly whispered angrily. "Remember what we came for."
And, past Bradbury, seated at the bar, Tozzo saw an older, care-weathered man in a brown suit wearing small glasses and sipping a drink. He recognized the man from drawings in early Gernsback publications; it was the fabulously unique pre-cog from the New Mexico region, Jack Williamson.
"I thought Legion of Time was the finest novel-length science-fiction work I ever read," an individual, evidently another pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to Jack Williamson, and Williamson was nodding in pleasure.
"That was originally going to be a short story," Williamson said. "But it grew. Yes, I like that one, too."
Meanwhile Gilly had wandered on, into an adjoining room. He found, at a table, two women and a man in deep conversation. One of the women, dark-haired and handsome, with bare shoulders, was – according to her identification plate – Evelyn Paige. The taller woman he discovered was the renowned Margaret St. Clair, and Gilly at once said:
"Mrs. St. Clair, your article entitled The Scarlet Hexapodin the September 1959 was one of the finest -" And then he broke off.
Because Margaret St. Clair had not written that yet. Knew in fact nothing about it. Flushing with nervousness, Gilly backed away.
"Sorry," he murmured. "Excuse me; I became confused."
Raising an eyebrow, Margaret St. Clair said, "In the September 1959 issue, you say? What are you, a man from the future?"
"Droll," Evelyn Paige said, "but let's continue." She gave Gilly a hard stare from her black eyes. "Now Bob, as I understand what you're saying -" She addressed the man opposite her, and Gilly saw now to his delight that the dire-looking cadaverous individual was none other than Robert Bloch.
Gilly said, "Mr. Bloch, your article in Galaxy: Sabbatical, was -"
"You've got the wrong person, my friend," Robert Bloch said. "I never wrote any piece entitled Sabbatical."
Good Lord, Gilly realized. I did it again; Sabbatical is another work which has not been written yet. I had better get away from here. He moved back toward Tozzo… and found him standing rigidly.
Tozzo said, "I've found Anderson."
At once, Gilly turned, also rigid.