in 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.