of communication." "You mean there's no place in the whole world where they talk American?" Joe demanded, aghast. Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed in a museum. It had been more easily procured than the ammunition to fit it, but that problem too had been solved. The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of what they had planned. Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the others were on the verge of chickening out. He knew it wouldn't have taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn't any answer though. If they allowed him to call it off today, they'd talk themselves into it again before the week was through. Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable, warm feeling that came to him on occasions like this. He said, "You're sure this guy talks American, eh?" Warren Brett-James said, "Quite sure. He is a student of history." "And he won't think it's funny I talk American to him, eh?" "He'll undoubtedly be intrigued." They pulled up before a large apartment building that overlooked the area once known as Wilmington. Joe was coolly efficient now. He pulled out the automatic, held it down below his knees and threw a shell into the barrel. He eased the hammer down, thumbed on the safety, stuck the weapon back in his belt and beneath the jacketlike garment he wore. He said, "O.K. See you guys later." He left them and entered the building. An elevator—he still wasn't used to their speed in this era—whooshed him to the penthouse duplex occupied by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy. There were two persons in the reception room but they left on Joe's arrival, without bothering to look at him more than glancingly. He spotted the screen immediately and went over and stood before it. The screen lit and revealed a heavy-set, dour of countenance man seated at a desk. He looked
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