Both of them had carefully studied the pictures provide by the Library of Congress. There stood the famous pre-cog, tall and slender and straight, even a trifle thin, with curly hair – or wig – and glasses, a warm glint of friendliness in his eyes. He held a whiskey glass in one hand, and he was discoursing with several other pre-cogs. Obviously he was enjoying himself.
"Urn, uh, let's see," Anderson was saying, as Tozzo and Gilly came quietly up to join the group. "Pardon?" Anderson cupped his ear to catch what one of the other pre-cogs was saying. "Oh, uh, yup, that's right." Anderson nodded. "Yup, Tony, uh, I agree with you one hundred per cent."
The other pre-cog, Tozzo realized, was the superb Tony Boucher, whose pre-cognition of the religious revival of the next century had been almost supernatural. The word-by-word description of the Miracle in the Cave involving the robot… Tozzo gazed at Boucher with awe, and then he turned back to Anderson.
"Poul," another pre-cog said. "I'll tell you how the Italians intended to get the British to leave if they did invade in 1943. The British would stay at hotels, the best, naturally. The Italians would overcharge them."
"Oh, yes, yes," Anderson said, nodding and smiling, his eyes twinkling. "And then the British, being gentlemen, would say nothing -"
"But they'd leave the next day," the other pre-cog finished, and all in the group laughed, except for Gilly and Tozzo.
"Mr. Anderson," Tozzo said tensely, "we're from an amateur pre-cog organization at Battlecreek, Michigan and we would like to photograph you beside our model of a time-dredge."
"Pardon?" Anderson said, cupping his ear.
Tozzo repeated what he had said, trying to be audible above the background racket. At last Anderson seemed to understand.
"Oh, um, well, where is it?" Anderson asked obligingly.
"Downstairs on the sidewalk," Gilly said. "It was too heavy to bring up."
"Well, uh, if it won't take too awfully long," Anderson said, "which I doubt it will." He excused himself from the group and followed after them as they started toward the elevator.
"It's steam-engine building time," a heavy-set man called to them as they passed. "Time to build steam engines, Poul."
"We're going downstairs," Tozzo said nervously.
"Walk downstairs on your heads," the pre-cog said. He waved goodbye goodnaturedly, as the elevator came and the three of them entered it.
"Kris is jolly today," Anderson said.
"And how," Gilly said, using one of his phrases.
"Is Bob Heinlein here?" Anderson asked Tozzo as they descended. "I understand he and Mildred Clingerman went off somewhere to talk about cats and nobody has seen them come back."
"That's the way the ball bounces," Gilly said, trying out another twentieth century phrase.
Anderson cupped his ear, smiled hesitantly, but said nothing.
At last, they emerged on the sidewalk. At the sight of their time-dredge, Anderson blinked in astonishment.
"I'll be gosh darned," he said, approaching it. "That's certainly imposing. Sure, I'd, uh, be happy to pose beside it." He drew his lean, angular body erect, smiling that warm, almost tender smile that Tozzo had noticed before. "Uh, how's this?" Anderson inquired, a little timidly.
With an authentic twentieth century camera taken from the Smithsonian, Gilly snapped a picture. "Now inside," he requested, and glanced at Tozzo.
"Why, uh, certainly," Poul Anderson said, and stepped up the stairs and into the dredge. "Gosh, Karen would, uh, like this," he said as he disappeared inside. "I wish to heck she'd come along."
Tozzo followed swiftly. Gilly slammed the hatch shut, and, at the control board, Tozzo, with the instruction manual in hand, punched buttons.
The turbines hummed, but Anderson did not seem to hear them; he was engrossed in staring at the controls, his eyes wide.
"Gosh," he said.
The time-dredge passed back to the present, with Anderson still lost in his scrutiny of the controls.
IV
Fermeti met them. "Mr. Anderson," he said, "this is an incredible honor." He held out his hand, but now Anderson was peering through the open hatch past him, at the city beyond; he did not notice the offered hand.
"Say," Anderson said, his face twitching. "Um, what's, uh, this?"
He was staring at the monorail system primarily, Tozzo decided. And this was odd, because at least in Seattle there had been monorails back in Anderson's time… or had there been? Had that come later? In any case, Anderson now wore a massively perplexed expression.
"Individual cars," Tozzo said, standing close beside him. "Your monorails had only group cars. Later on, after your time, it was made possible for each citizen's house to have a monorail outlet; the individual brought his car out of its garage and onto the rail-terminal, from which point he joined the collective structure. Do you see?"
But Anderson remained perplexed; his expression in fact had deepened.
"Um," he said, "what do you mean 'my time'? Am I dead?" He looked morose now. "I thought it would be more along the lines of Valhalla, with Vikings and such. Not futuristic."
"You're not dead, Mr. Anderson," Fermeti said. "What you're facing is the culture-syndrome of the mid twenty-first century. I must tell you, sir, that you've been napped. But you will be returned; I give you both my personal and official word."
Andersen's jaw dropped, but he said nothing; he continued to stare.
Donald Nils, notorious murderer, sat at the single table in the reference room of the Emigration Bureau's interstellar speed-of-light ship and computed that he was, in Earth figures, an inch high. Bitterly, he cursed. "It's cruel and unusual punishment," he grated aloud. "It's against the Constitution." And then he remembered that he had volunteered, in order to get out of Nachbaren Slager. That goddam hole, he said to himself. Anyhow, I'm out of there.
And, he said to himself, even if I'm only an inch high I've still made myself captain of this lousy ship, and if it ever gets to Proxima I'll be captain of the entire lousy Proxima System. I didn't study with Gutman himself for nothing. And if that don't beat Nachbaren Slager, I don't know what does…
His second-in-command, Pete Bailly, stuck his head into the reference room. "Hey, Nils, I have been looking over the micro-repro of this particular old pre-cog journal Astounding like you told me, this Venus Equilateral article about matter transmission, and I mean even though I was the top vid repairman in New York City that don't mean I can build one of these things." He glared at Nils. "That's asking a lot."
Nils said tightly, "We've got to get back to Earth."
"You're out of luck," Bailly told him. "Better settle for Prox."
Furiously, Nils swept the micro-reproductions from the table, onto the floor of the ship. "That damn Bureau of Emigration! They tricked us!"
Bailly shrugged. "Anyhow we got plenty to eat and a good reference library and 3-D movies every night."
"By the time we get to Prox," Nils snarled, "we'll have seen every movie -" He calculated. "Two thousand times."
"Well, then don't watch. Or we can run them backwards. How's your research coming?"
"I got going the micro of an article in Space Science Fiction" Nils said thoughtfully, "called The Variable Man. It tells about faster-than-light transmission. You disappear and then reappear. Sonic guy named Cole is going to perfect it, according to the old-time pre-cog who wrote it." He brooded about that. "If we could build a faster-than-light ship we could return to Earth. We could take over."
"That's crazy talk," Bailly said.
Nils regarded him. "I'm in command."