II

Thomas Cole was sharpening a knife with his whetstone when the tornado

hit.

The knife belonged to the lady in the big green house. Every time Cole

came by with his Fixit cart the lady had something to be sharpened.

Once in awhile she gave him a cup of coffee, hot black coffee from an

old bent pot. He liked that fine; he enjoyed good coffee.

The day was drizzly and overcast. Business had been bad. An automobile

had scared his two horses. On bad days less people were outside and he

had to get down from the cart and go to ring doorbells.

But the man in the yellow house had given him a dollar for fixing his

electric refrigerator. Nobody else had been able to fix it, not even

the factory man. The dollar would go a long way. A dollar was a lot.

He knew it was a tornado even before it hit him. Everything was

silent. He was bent over his whetstone, the reins between his knees,

absorbed in his work.

He had done a good job on the knife; he was almost finished. He spat

on the blade and was holding it up to see--and then the tornado came.

All at once it was there, completely around him. Nothing but grayness.

He and the cart and horses seemed to be in a calm spot in the center

of the tornado. They were moving in a great silence, gray mist

everywhere.

And while he was wondering what to do, and how to get the lady's knife

back to her, all at once there was a bump and the tornado tipped him

over, sprawled out on the ground. The horses screamed in fear,

struggling to pick themselves up. Cole got quickly to his feet.

_Where was he?_

The grayness was gone. White walls stuck up on all sides. A deep light

gleamed down, not daylight but something like it. The team was pulling

the cart on its side, dragging it along, tools and equipment falling

out. Cole righted the cart, leaping up onto the seat.

And for the first time saw the people.

Men, with astonished white faces, in some sort of uniforms. Shouts,

noise and confusion. And a feeling of danger!

Cole headed the team toward the door. Hoofs thundered steel against

steel as they pounded through the doorway, scattering the astonished

men in all directions. He was out in a wide hall. A building, like a

hospital.

The hall divided. More men were coming, spilling from all sides.

Shouting and milling in excitement, like white ants. Something cut

past him, a beam of dark violet. It seared off a corner of the cart,

leaving the wood smoking.

Cole felt fear. He kicked at the terrified horses. They reached a big

door, crashing wildly against it. The door gave--and they were

outside, bright sunlight blinking down on them. For a sickening second

the cart tilted, almost turning over. Then the horses gained speed,

racing across an open field, toward a distant line of green, Cole

holding tightly to the reins.

Behind him the little white-faced men had come out and were standing

in a group, gesturing frantically. He could hear their faint shrill

shouts.

But he had got away. He was safe. He slowed the horses down and began

to breathe again.

The woods were artificial. Some kind of park. But the park was wild

and overgrown. A dense jungle of twisted plants. Everything growing in

confusion.

The park was empty. No one was there. By the position of the sun he

could tell it was either early morning or late afternoon. The smell of

the flowers and grass, the dampness of the leaves, indicated morning.

It had been late afternoon when the tornado had picked him up. And the

sky had been overcast and cloudy.

Cole considered. Clearly, he had been carried a long way. The

hospital, the men with white faces, the odd lighting, the accented

words he had caught--everything indicated he was no longer in

Nebraska--maybe not even in the United States.

Some of his tools had fallen out and gotten lost along the way. Cole

collected everything that remained, sorting them, running his fingers

over each tool with affection. Some of the little chisels and wood

gouges were gone. The bit box had opened, and most of the smaller bits

had been lost. He gathered up those that remained and replaced them

tenderly in the box. He took a key-hole saw down, and with an oil rag

wiped it carefully and replaced it.

Above the cart the sun rose slowly in the sky. Cole peered up, his

horny hand over his eyes. A big man, stoop-shouldered, his chin gray

and stubbled. His clothes wrinkled and dirty. But his eyes were clear,

a pale blue, and his hands were finely made.

He could not stay in the park. They had seen him ride that way; they

would be looking for him.

Far above something shot rapidly across the sky. A tiny black dot

moving with incredible haste. A second dot followed. The two dots were

gone almost before he saw them. They were utterly silent.

Cole frowned, perturbed. The dots made him uneasy. He would have to

keep moving--and looking for food. His stomach was already beginning

to rumble and groan.

Work. There was plenty he could do: gardening, sharpening, grinding,

repair work on machines and clocks, fixing all kinds of household

things. Even painting and odd jobs and carpentry and chores.

He could do anything. Anything people wanted done. For a meal and

pocket money.

Thomas Cole urged the team into life, moving forward. He sat hunched

over in the seat, watching intently, as the Fixit cart rolled slowly

across the tangled grass, through the jungle of trees and flowers.

* * * * *

Reinhart hurried, racing his cruiser at top speed, followed by a

second ship, a military escort. The ground sped by below him, a blur

of gray and green.

The remains of New York lay spread out, a twisted, blunted ruin

overgrown with weeds and grass. The great atomic wars of the twentieth

century had turned virtually the whole seaboard area into an endless

waste of slag.

Slag and weeds below him. And then the sudden tangle that had been

Central Park.

Histo-research came into sight. Reinhart swooped down, bringing his

cruiser to rest at the small supply field behind the main buildings.

Harper, the chief official of the department, came quickly over as

soon as Reinhart's ship landed.

"Frankly, we don't understand why you consider this matter important,"

Harper said uneasily.

Reinhart shot him a cold glance. "I'll be the judge of what's

important. Are you the one who gave the order to bring the bubble back

manually?"

"Fredman gave the actual order. In line with your directive to have

all facilities ready for--"

Reinhart headed toward the entrance of the research building. "Where

is Fredman?"

"Inside."

"I want to see him. Let's go."

Fredman met them inside. He greeted Reinhart calmly, showing no

emotion. "Sorry to cause you trouble, Commissioner. We were trying to

get the station in order for the war. We wanted the bubble back as

quickly as possible." He eyed Reinhart curiously. "No doubt the man

and his cart will soon be picked up by your police."

"I want to know everything that happened, in exact detail."

Fredman shifted uncomfortably. "There's not much to tell. I gave the

order to have the automatic setting canceled and the bubble brought

back manually. At the moment the signal reached it, the bubble was

passing through the spring of 1913. As it broke loose, it tore off a

piece of ground on which this person and his cart were located. The

person naturally was brought up to the present, inside the bubble."

"Didn't any of your instruments tell you the bubble was loaded?"

"We were too excited to take any readings. Half an hour after the

manual control was thrown, the bubble materialized in the observation

room. It was de-energized before anyone noticed what was inside. We

tried to stop him but he drove the cart out into the hall, bowling us

out of the way. The horses were in a panic."

"What kind of cart was it?"

"There was some kind of sign on it. Painted in black letters on both

sides. No one saw what it was."

"Go ahead. What happened then?"

"Somebody fired a Slem-ray after him, but it missed. The horses

carried him out of the building and onto the grounds. By the time we

reached the exit the cart was half way to the park."

Reinhart reflected. "If he's still in the park we should have him

shortly. But we must be careful." He was already starting back toward

his ship, leaving Fredman behind. Harper fell in beside him.

Reinhart halted by his ship. He beckoned some Government guards over.

"Put the executive staff of this department under arrest. I'll have

them tried on a treason count, later on." He smiled ironically as

Harper's face blanched sickly pale. "There's a war going on. You'll be

lucky if you get off alive."

Reinhart entered his ship and left the surface, rising rapidly into

the sky. A second ship followed after him, a military escort. Reinhart

flew high above the sea of gray slag, the unrecovered waste area. He

passed over a sudden square of green set in the ocean of gray.

Reinhart gazed back at it until it was gone.

Central Park. He could see police ships racing through the sky, ships

and transports loaded with troops, heading toward the square of green.

On the ground some heavy guns and surface cars rumbled along, lines of

black approaching the park from all sides.

They would have the man soon. But meanwhile, the SRB machines were

blank. And on the SRB machines' readings the whole war depended.

About noon the cart reached the edge of the park. Cole rested for a

moment, allowing the horses time to crop at the thick grass. The

silent expanse of slag amazed him. What had happened? Nothing stirred.

No buildings, no sign of life. Grass and weeds poked up occasionally

through it, breaking the flat surface here and there, but even so, the

sight gave him an uneasy chill.

Cole drove the cart slowly out onto the slag, studying the sky above

him. There was nothing to hide him, now that he was out of the park.

The slag was bare and uniform, like the ocean. If he were spotted--

A horde of tiny black dots raced across the sky, coming rapidly

closer. Presently they veered to the right and disappeared. More

planes, wingless metal planes. He watched them go, driving slowly on.

Half an hour later something appeared ahead. Cole slowed the cart

down, peering to see. The slag came to an end. He had reached its

limits. Ground appeared, dark soil and grass. Weeds grew everywhere.

Ahead of him, beyond the end of the slag, was a line of buildings,

houses of some sort. Or sheds.

Houses, probably. But not like any he had ever seen.

The houses were uniform, all exactly the same. Like little green

shells, rows of them, several hundred. There was a little lawn in

front of each. Lawn, a path, a front porch, bushes in a meager row

around each house. But the houses were all alike and very small.

Little green shells in precise, even rows. He urged the cart

cautiously forward, toward the houses.

No one seemed to be around. He entered a street between two rows of

houses, the hoofs of his two horses sounding loudly in the silence. He

was in some kind of town. But there were no dogs or children.

Everything was neat and silent. Like a model. An exhibit. It made him

uncomfortable.

A young man walking along the pavement gaped at him in wonder. An

oddly-dressed youth, in a toga-like cloak that hung down to his knees.

A single piece of fabric. And sandals.

Or what looked like sandals. Both the cloak and the sandals were of

some strange half-luminous material. It glowed faintly in the

sunlight. Metallic, rather than cloth.

A woman was watering flowers at the edge of a lawn. She straightened

up as his team of horses came near. Her eyes widened in

astonishment--and then fear. Her mouth fell open in a soundless _O_

and her sprinkling can slipped from her fingers and rolled silently

onto the lawn.

Cole blushed and turned his head quickly away. The woman was scarcely

dressed! He flicked the reins and urged the horses to hurry.

Behind him, the woman still stood. He stole a brief, hasty look

back--and then shouted hoarsely to his team, ears scarlet. He had seen

right. She wore only a pair of translucent shorts. Nothing else. A

mere fragment of the same half-luminous material that glowed and

sparkled. The rest of her small body was utterly naked.

He slowed the team down. She had been pretty. Brown hair and eyes,

deep red lips. Quite a good figure. Slender waist, downy legs, bare

and supple, full breasts--. He clamped the thought furiously off. He

had to get to work. Business.

Cole halted the Fixit cart and leaped down onto the pavement. He

selected a house at random and approached it cautiously. The house was

attractive. It had a certain simple beauty. But it looked frail--and

exactly like the others.

He stepped up on the porch. There was no bell. He searched for it,

running his hand uneasily over the surface of the door. All at once

there was a click, a sharp snap on a level with his eyes. Cole glanced

up, startled. A lens was vanishing as the door section slid over it.

He had been photographed.

While he was wondering what it meant, the door swung suddenly open. A

man filled up the entrance, a big man in a tan uniform, blocking the

way ominously.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

"I'm looking for work," Cole murmured. "Any kind of work. I can do

anything, fix any kind of thing. I repair broken objects. Things that

need mending." His voice trailed off uncertainly. "Anything at all."

"Apply to the Placement Department of the Federal Activities Control

Board," the man said crisply. "You know all occupational therapy is

handled through them." He eyed Cole curiously. "Why have you got on

those ancient clothes?"

"Ancient? Why, I--"

The man gazed past him at the Fixit cart and the two dozing horses.

"What's that? What are those two animals? _Horses?_" The man rubbed

his jaw, studying Cole intently. "That's strange," he said.

"Strange?" Cole murmured uneasily. "Why?"

"There haven't been any horses for over a century. All the horses were

wiped out during the Fifth Atomic War. That's why it's strange."

Cole tensed, suddenly alert. There was something in the man's eyes, a

hardness, a piercing look. Cole moved back off the porch, onto the

path. He had to be careful. Something was wrong.

"I'll be going," he murmured.

"There haven't been any horses for over a hundred years." The man came

toward Cole. "Who are you? Why are you dressed up like that? Where did

you get that vehicle and pair of horses?"

"I'll be going," Cole repeated, moving away.

The man whipped something from his belt, a thin metal tube. He stuck

it toward Cole.

It was a rolled-up paper, a thin sheet of metal in the form of a tube.

Words, some kind of script. He could not make any of them out. The

man's picture, rows of numbers, figures--

"I'm Director Winslow," the man said. "Federal Stockpile Conservation.

You better talk fast, or there'll be a Security car here in five

minutes."

Cole moved--fast. He raced, head down, back along the path to the

cart, toward the street.

Something hit him. A wall of force, throwing him down on his face. He

sprawled in a heap, numb and dazed. His body ached, vibrating wildly,

out of control. Waves of shock rolled over him, gradually diminishing.

He got shakily to his feet. His head spun. He was weak, shattered,

trembling violently. The man was coming down the walk after him. Cole

pulled himself onto the cart, gasping and retching. The horses jumped

into life. Cole rolled over against the seat, sick with the motion of

the swaying cart.

He caught hold of the reins and managed to drag himself up in a

sitting position. The cart gained speed, turning a corner. Houses flew

past. Cole urged the team weakly, drawing great shuddering breaths.

Houses and streets, a blur of motion, as the cart flew faster and

faster along.

Then he was leaving the town, leaving the neat little houses behind.

He was on some sort of highway. Big buildings, factories, on both

sides of the highway. Figures, men watching in astonishment.

After awhile the factories fell behind. Cole slowed the team down.

What had the man meant? Fifth Atomic War. Horses destroyed. It didn't

make sense. And they had things he knew nothing about. Force fields.

Planes without wings--soundless.

Cole reached around in his pockets. He found the identification tube

the man had handed him. In the excitement he had carried it off. He

unrolled the tube slowly and began to study it. The writing was

strange to him.

For a long time he studied the tube. Then, gradually, he became aware

of something. Something in the top right-hand corner.

A date. October 6, 2128.

Cole's vision blurred. Everything spun and wavered around him.

October, 2128. Could it be?

But he held the paper in his hand. Thin, metal paper. Like foil. And

it had to be. It said so, right in the corner, printed on the paper

itself.

Cole rolled the tube up slowly, numbed with shock. Two hundred years.

It didn't seem possible. But things were beginning to make sense. He

was in the future, two hundred years in the future.

While he was mulling this over, the swift black Security ship appeared

overhead, diving rapidly toward the horse-drawn cart, as it moved

slowly along the road.