An unidentified man who refused to give his name was picked up in
Cooper Creek by special agents of the sheriff's office, according to
Sheriff Duff. It was said the man was recently noticed in this area
and had been watched continually. It was--
Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart pounded. That was all he needed
to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold
ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the very edge of the hills.
He smiled. Already he had discovered the exact time and place. Now he
needed only to go back, perhaps to November, to Cooper Creek--
He walked back through the main section of town, past the library, past
the grocery store. It would not be hard; the hard part was over. He
would go there; rent a room, prepare to wait until the man appeared.
He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway, loaded down
with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her pass. The woman glanced
at him. Suddenly her face turned white. She stared, her mouth open.
Conger hurried on. He looked back. What was wrong with her? The woman
was still staring; she had dropped the packages to the ground. He
increased his speed. He turned a second corner and went up a side
street. When he looked back again the woman had come to the entrance of
the street and was starting after him. A man joined her, and the two of
them began to run toward him.
He lost them and left the town, striding quickly, easily, up into the
hills at the edge of town. When he reached the cage he stopped. What had
happened? Was it something about his clothing? His dress?
He pondered. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.
Conger sat before the wheel. For a moment he waited, his hands resting
lightly on the control. Then he turned the wheel, just a little,
following the control readings carefully.
The grayness settled down around him.
But not for very long.
* * * * *
The man looked him over critically. "You better come inside," he said.
"Out of the cold."
"Thanks." Conger went gratefully through the open door, into the
living-room. It was warm and close from the heat of the little kerosene
heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered
dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.
"It's a good room," the woman said. "I'm Mrs. Appleton. It's got heat.
You need that this time of year."
"Yes." He nodded, looking around.
"You want to eat with us?"
"What?"
"You want to eat with us?" The man's brows knitted. "You're not a
foreigner, are you, mister?"
"No." He smiled. "I was born in this country. Quite far west, though."
"California?"
"No." He hesitated. "In Oregon."
"What's it like up there?" Mrs. Appleton asked. "I hear there's a lot of
trees and green. It's so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself."
"That's the Middle West," the man said to her. "You ain't no foreigner."
"Oregon isn't foreign, either," Conger said. "It's part of the United
States."
The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger's clothing.
"That's a funny suit you got on, mister," he said. "Where'd you get
that?"
Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. "It's a good suit," he said.
"Maybe I better go some other place, if you don't want me here."
They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. "We
just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always
warning us about them."
"The Reds?" He was puzzled.
"The government says they're all around. We're supposed to report
anything strange or unusual, anybody doesn't act normal."
"Like me?"
They looked embarrassed. "Well, you don't look like a Red to me," the
man said. "But we have to be careful. The _Tribune_ says--"
Conger half listened. It was going to be easier than he had thought.
Clearly, he would know as soon as the Founder appeared. These people, so
suspicious of anything different, would be buzzing and gossiping and
spreading the story. All he had to do was lie low and listen, down at
the general store, perhaps. Or even here, in Mrs. Appleton's boarding
house.
"Can I see the room?" he said.
"Certainly." Mrs. Appleton went to the stairs. "I'll be glad to show it
to you."
They went upstairs. It was colder upstairs, but not nearly as cold as
outside. Nor as cold as nights on the Martian deserts. For that he was
grateful.
* * * * *
He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of
vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in
the open refrigerator counters.
Ed Davies came toward him. "Can I help you?" he said. The man was a
little oddly dressed, and with a beard! Ed couldn't help smiling.
"Nothing," the man said in a funny voice. "Just looking."
"Sure," Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was
wheeling her cart up.
"Who's he?" she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if
it were sniffing. "I never seen him before."
"I don't know."
"Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a
beard. Must be something the matter with him."
"Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who--"
"Wait." Mrs. Hacket stiffened. "Didn't that--what was his name? The
Red--that old one. Didn't he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard."