young."

"O.K., so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he
screws everything up. But the way things are, there's no way of making a
get. So you'll have to get some other patsy. Not me."

"I am afraid you have no alternative," Brett-James said gently. "Without
us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, you do not even speak the language."

"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand summa the big words you eggheads
use, but I get by O.K."

Brett-James said, "Amer-English is no longer the language spoken by the
man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only students of such subjects any
longer speak such tongues as Amer-English, French, Russian or the many
others that once confused the race with their limitations as a means 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--whoos