Spring had come and almost gone when I wandered into the little Maine
town which was my destination. It lay out of the way, with forested
hills behind it and the sea at its foot. Most of the houses were old,
solidly built, almost like parts of the land, and the inhabitants were
slow-spoken, steady folk, fishermen and artisans and the like, settled
here and at home with the darkling woods and the restless sea and the
high windy sky. I walked down a narrow street with a cool salt breeze
ruffling my hair and decided that I liked Portsboro. It reminded me of
my own home, twenty light-years away on the wide beaches of Kealvigh.
I made my way to Nat Hawkins' store and asked for work like any
drifter. But when we were alone in the back room, I told him, "I'm
Conrad Haugen. Mike Riley said you'd be looking for me."
He nodded calmly. "I've been expecting you. You can work here a few
days, sleep at my house, and we'll run the tests after dark."
He was old for an Earthling, well over sixty, with white hair and lined
leathery face. But his blue eyes were as keen and steady, his gnarled
hands as strong and sure as those of any young man. He spoke softly
and steadily, around the pipe which rarely left his mouth, and there
was a serenity in him which I could hardly associate with anarch
fanaticism. But the first night he led me into his cellar, and through
a well-hidden trapdoor to a room below, and there he had a complete
psychological laboratory.