"No. Not at all." Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they felt would be relevant. Duff handed it back. "Okay. Sorry to bother you." The light winked off. When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the door. "Can I ask you something?" he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. "Can I ask you—what's the date?" "The date?" She studied him. "The first of December." "December first! Why, it was just November!" They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century they still used the old twelve-month system. November fed directly into December; there was no Quartember between. He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow! "Thanks," he said. "Thanks." He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away. The day was warm and bright. Conger's shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went. The He stopped to look around. Everything was silent. There was no one in sight. He brought a thin rod from his waist and turned the handle of it. For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a shimmering in the air. The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was good to see it again. After all, it was his only way back. He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, his hands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to the beginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of snow.
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