THE
SKULL

"What" is this opportunity?" Conger asked. "Go ahead. I'm interested."

The room was quiet; everyone’s eyes were on Conger—still in the dull prison uniform. The Speaker leaned in slowly.

"Before you went to prison, your trading business was doing really well—all illegal—all very profitable. Now you have nothing, except the likelihood of another six years in a cell."

Conger frowned.

"There’s a specific situation, very important to this Council, that needs your unique skills. It’s also something you might find intriguing. You were a hunter, right? You’ve done a lot of trapping, hiding in the bushes, waiting at night for your prey? I suppose hunting must give you a sense of satisfaction, the chase, the stalking—"

Conger sighed. His lips twisted. "All right," he said. "Skip that. Get to the point. Who do you want me to kill?"

The Speaker smiled. "Everything in the right order," he said gently.

The car coasted to a halt. It was night; there were no lights anywhere along the street. Conger peered outside. "Where are we? What is this place?"

The guard's hand pressed into his arm. "Come on. Through that door."

Conger stepped down onto the damp sidewalk. The guard followed him quickly, and then the Speaker. Conger took a deep breath of the cold air. He looked at the faint outline of the building looming in front of them.

"I know this place. I've seen it before." He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dark. Suddenly, he became alert. "This is—"

"Yes. The First Church." The Speaker walked toward the steps. "We're expected."

"Expected? Here?"

"Yeah." The Speaker climbed the stairs. "You know we're not allowed in their churches, especially with guns!" He paused. Two armed soldiers stood ahead, one on each side.

"All good?" The Speaker glanced up at them. They nodded. The Church door was open. Conger could see other soldiers inside, standing around, young soldiers with wide eyes, staring at the icons and holy images.

"I get it," he said.

"It was necessary," the Speaker said. "As you know, we've had a lot of bad luck in the past with our relationship with the First Church."

"This won’t be useful."

"But it's worth it. You'll see."

They walked through the hall and entered the main chamber where the altar piece was located, along with the kneeling spots. The Speaker barely looked at the altar as they went past. He opened a small side door and motioned for Conger to join him.

"In here. We need to hurry. The faithful will be arriving soon."

Conger walked in, squinting. They were in a small room with a low ceiling and dark wooden panels. There was a scent of ashes and burning spices filling the air. He sniffed. "What’s that smell?"

"Cups on the wall. I don't know." The Speaker crossed impatiently to the other side. "According to our information, it's hidden here by this—"

Conger looked around the room. He saw books and papers, holy signs and images. A strange, low shiver ran through him.

"Does my job involve anyone from the Church? If it does—"

The Speaker turned, shocked. "Do you really believe in the Founder? Is it possible, a hunter, a killer—"

"No. Of course not. All their talk about accepting death, non-violence—"

"What's going on, then?"

Conger shrugged. "I’ve been taught not to associate with people like them. They have unusual abilities. And you can’t reason with them."

The Speaker looked at Conger thoughtfully. "You're mistaken. It's not anyone here that we're targeting. We've realized that killing them just tends to increase their numbers."

"Then why are we here? Let's go."

"No. We came for something important. Something you'll need to identify your guy. Without it, you won't be able to find him." A hint of a smile crossed the Speaker's face. "We don't want you to kill the wrong person. It's too important."

"I don't make mistakes." Conger's chest puffed up. "Listen, Speaker—"

"This is a strange situation," the Speaker said. "You see, the person you're looking for—the person we're sending you to find—can only be identified by specific objects here. They are the only clues, the only way to recognize them. Without those—"

"What are these?"

He walked over to the Speaker. The Speaker shifted to one side. "Look," he said. He pushed a sliding wall aside, revealing a dark square opening. "In there."

Conger crouched down, looking inside. He frowned. "A skull! A skeleton!"

"The man you're looking for has been dead for two hundred years," the Speaker said. "This is all that's left of him. And this is all you have to find him."

For a long time, Conger said nothing. He stared down at the bones, barely visible in the wall's recess. How could a man who died centuries ago be killed? How could he be hunted and brought down?

Conger was a hunter, a man who had lived however he wanted, wherever he wanted. He had survived by trading, bringing in furs and pelts from the Provinces on his own ship, riding at high speeds and slipping through the customs line around Earth.

He had hunted in the vast mountains of the moon. He had moved through deserted Martian cities. He had explored—

The Speaker said, "Soldier, take these items and have them put in the car. Make sure you don’t lose any of them."

The soldier opened the cupboard, cautiously reaching inside, sitting back on his heels.

"It is my hope," the Speaker continued softly to Conger, "that you will show your loyalty to us now. There are always ways for citizens to redeem themselves, to display their commitment to their community. I think this could be a great opportunity for you. I seriously doubt a better one will come along. And for your efforts, there will definitely be some compensation, of course."

The two men stared at each other; Conger, lanky and messy, the Speaker looking sharp in his uniform.

"I get you," Conger said. "I mean, I get this part about the chance. But how can a guy who has been dead for two hundred years be—"

"I'll explain later," the Speaker said. "We need to hurry!" The soldier had left with the bones, wrapped in a blanket that he held carefully in his arms. The Speaker walked to the door. "Come on. They've already realized that we've broken in here, and they'll be here any minute."

They rushed down the wet steps to the waiting car. A moment later, the driver elevated the car into the air, above the rooftops.

The Speaker got comfortable in the seat.

"The First Church has a fascinating history," he said. "I assume you're familiar with it, but I'd like to discuss a few points that are relevant to us.

"It was in the 20th century that the Movement started—during one of the recurring wars. The Movement grew quickly, tapping into the widespread feeling of hopelessness, the understanding that each war was only leading to more war, with no end in sight. The Movement offered a straightforward solution to the problem: Without military preparations—arms—there could be no war. And without machinery and complicated scientific systems, there could be no arms."

"The Movement argued that you can't stop war by preparing for it. They claimed that humanity was being overtaken by machinery and technology, that it was slipping from our control, driving us into bigger and bigger wars. They called for the downfall of society, chanting against factories and science! If we face a few more wars, there won't be much of the world left."

"The Founder was an unknown person from a small town in the American Midwest. We don’t even know his name. All we know is that one day he showed up, sharing a message of non-violence and non-resistance; no fighting, no paying taxes for weapons, no research except for medicine. Live your life quietly, take care of your garden, avoid public affairs; focus on your own life. Be unremarkable, unknown, poor. Give away most of your stuff, leave the city. At least, that’s what came out of his message to the people."

The car fell and landed on a roof.

"The Founder preached this doctrine, or the core of it; it's unclear how much the followers have added on their own. The local authorities arrested him right away, of course. They seemed certain he was serious; he was never let go. He was executed, and his body was buried secretly. It appeared that the cult was over."

The Speaker smiled. "Unfortunately, some of his followers claimed to have seen him after he died. The rumor spread; he had overcome death, he was divine. It took hold and grew. And here we are today, with a First Church, blocking all social progress, harming society, sowing the seeds of chaos—"

"But the wars," Conger said. "About them?"

"The wars? Well, there were no more wars. It's important to recognize that the end of war was mainly due to the widespread practice of non-violence. But we can look at war more objectively today. What was so terrible about it? War had significant selective value, aligning perfectly with the ideas of Darwin, Mendel, and others. Without war, the vast number of unskilled, incompetent people, lacking training or intelligence, is allowed to grow and expand without limit. War helped to reduce their numbers; like storms, earthquakes, and droughts, it was nature's way of culling the unfit."

"Without war, the less educated parts of humanity have grown way out of proportion. They pose a threat to the educated minority, those with scientific knowledge and training, the ones who are capable of guiding society. They have no respect for science or a rational, scientific society. And this Movement aims to support and enable them. Only when scientists are in complete control can the—"

He checked his watch and then kicked the car door open. "I'll fill you in on the rest as we walk."

They crossed the dark roof. “Surely you now know who those bones belonged to, who we’re after. He’s been dead for two centuries now, this clueless man from the Midwest, this Founder. The tragedy is that the authorities back then acted too slowly. They let him speak, let his message spread. He was allowed to preach, to start his cult. And once something like that gets going, there’s no stopping it.

"But what if he had died before he preached? What if none of his teachings had ever been shared? It took only a moment for him to say them, and we know that. They say he spoke just once, just one time. Then the authorities showed up and took him away. He didn’t resist; it was a small incident."

The Speaker looked at Conger.

"Small, but we're facing the consequences of it today."

They went into the building. Inside, the soldiers had already arranged the skeleton on a table. The soldiers stood around it, their young faces focused.

Conger walked over to the table, pushing past them. He bent down, staring at the bones. "So these are his remains," he said quietly. "The Founder. The Church has kept them hidden for two hundred years."

"Exactly," the Speaker said. "But now we have them. Let's head down the hall."

They walked across the room to a door. The Speaker opened it. Technicians looked up. Conger saw machinery whirring and moving; there were benches and retorts. In the middle of the room was a shining crystal cage.

The Speaker handed a Slem-gun to Conger. "The key thing to remember is that the skull has to be saved and brought back—for comparison and evidence. Aim low—at the chest."

Conger weighed the gun in his hands. "It feels good," he said. "I know this gun—I mean, I've seen them before, but I've never used one."

The Speaker nodded. "You will be trained on how to use the gun and how to operate the cage. You’ll get all the information we have on the time and location. The exact spot is a place called Hudson's field, around 1960 in a small community just outside Denver, Colorado. And remember—the only way you’ll identify the person is by the skull. There are noticeable features of the front teeth, particularly the left incisor—”

Conger listened absentmindedly. He was watching two men in white carefully wrapping the skull in a plastic bag. They tied it up and carried it into the glass case. "And what if I make a mistake?"

"Choose the wrong guy? Then find the right one. Don't return until you manage to reach this Founder. And you can't wait for him to start talking; that's what we need to avoid! You have to take action first. Take risks; go for it as soon as you think you’ve found him. He’ll be someone out of the ordinary, likely a newcomer in the area. Apparently, he wasn’t known."

Conger listened faintly.

"Do you think you have everything you need now?" the Speaker asked.

"Yeah. I think so." Conger stepped into the crystal cage and sat down, putting his hands on the wheel.

"Good luck," the Speaker said.

"We'll be waiting for the outcome. There's some philosophical doubt about whether you can change the past. This should settle the question once and for all."

Conger pressed the buttons on the cage controls.

"By the way," the Speaker said. "Don't try to use this cage for anything outside of your job. We have a constant trace on it. If we want it back, we can get it back. Good luck."

Conger said nothing. The cage was locked. He raised his finger and touched the control wheel. He turned the wheel gently.

He kept staring at the plastic bag as the room outside disappeared.

For a long time, there was absolutely nothing. Nothing beyond the crystal web of the cage. Thoughts raced through Conger's mind, chaotically. How would he recognize the man? How could he be sure, ahead of time? What had he looked like? What was his name? How had he behaved before he spoke? Would he be an average person, or some weird, eccentric character?

Conger picked up the Slem-gun and held it against his cheek. The metal of the gun was cool and smooth. He practiced adjusting the sight. It was a beautiful gun, the kind of gun he could easily fall in love with. If he had owned a gun like this in the Martian desert—during the long nights when he had lain there, cramped and numb with cold, waiting for things that moved through the darkness—

He set the gun down and adjusted the meter readings in the cage. The swirling mist was starting to thicken and settle. Suddenly, shapes flickered and danced around him.

Colors, sounds, and movements flowed through the crystal wire. He shut off the controls and stood up.

He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air was fresh and bright. A few cars drove along a road. In the distance were some flat fields. Conger went to the door and stepped outside. He took a deep breath of the air. Then he went back inside the cage.

He stood in front of the mirror on the shelf, checking out his looks. He had trimmed his beard—they hadn't gotten him to shave it off—and his hair was tidy. He was wearing clothes from the mid-twentieth century, with the quirky collar and coat, and shoes made of animal hide. He had cash from that era in his pocket. That was crucial. Nothing else was necessary.

Nothing, except for his skill, his unique cleverness. But he had never used it like this before.

He walked down the road toward the town.

The first things he noticed were the newspapers on the stands. April 5, 1961. He wasn’t too far off. He looked around him. There was a gas station, a repair shop, some bars, and a dime store. Down the street was a grocery store and some public buildings.

A few minutes later, he walked up the stairs of the small public library and went through the doors into the cozy interior.

The librarian smiled and looked up.

"Good afternoon," she said.

He smiled, not saying anything because his words wouldn't sound right; they might come out accented and strange. He walked over to a table and sat down next to a pile of magazines. For a moment, he flipped through them. Then he stood up again. He crossed the room to a large rack against the wall. His heart started to pound.

Newspapers—weeks at a time. He took a stack of them over to the table and started to look through them quickly. The print was weird, the letters unusual. Some of the words were unfamiliar.

He set the papers aside and looked further. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He brought the Cherrywood Gazette to the table and opened it to the first page. He found what he wanted:

He finished the article. It was unclear and didn't provide much information. He needed more. He took the Gazette back to the shelves and then, after a brief pause, went up to the librarian.

"More?" he asked. "More papers. Old ones?"

She frowned. "How old? Which documents?"

"Months old. And—before."

"Is it the Gazette? This is everything we have. What do you need? What are you searching for? Maybe I can assist you."

He was quiet.

"You might find older issues at the Gazette office," the woman said, taking off her glasses. "Why don't you check there? But if you tell me what you're looking for, maybe I can help you—"

He went outside.

The Gazette office was located on a side street; the sidewalk was uneven and damaged. He walked in. A heater was glowing in the corner of the small office. A stocky man stood up and slowly approached the counter.

"What do you need, mister?" he asked.

"Old papers. A month. Or more."

"Wait, you want to buy them?"

"Yes." He held out some of the money he had. The man stared.

"Sure," he said. "Sure. Just a second." He quickly left the room. When he returned, he was struggling to carry a bunch of stuff, his face flushed. "Here are some," he grunted. "I grabbed what I could find. It covers the whole year. And if you want more—"

Conger took the papers outside. He sat by the road and started looking through them.

What he wanted was four months ago, in December. It was a minor detail, so insignificant that he almost overlooked it. His hands shook as he read it, using the small dictionary for some of the outdated terms.

Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart raced. That was all he needed to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the edge of the hills. He smiled. He had already figured out the exact time and place. Now he just needed to go back, maybe to November, to Cooper Creek—

He walked back through the main area of town, past the library, past the grocery store. It wouldn't be difficult; the tough part was done. He would go there, rent a room, and get ready to wait until the man showed up.

He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway, weighed down with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her through. The woman glanced at him. Suddenly her face went pale. She stared, her mouth open.

Conger hurried on. He glanced back. What was wrong with her? The woman was still staring; she had dropped the packages on the ground. He picked up his pace. He turned another corner and went up a side street. When he looked back again, the woman had reached the entrance of the street and was starting to follow him. A man joined her, and the two of them began to run toward him.

He lost them and left the town, walking briskly and effortlessly up into the hills at the town's edge. When he reached the cage, he stopped. What had happened? Was it something about his clothes? His outfit?

He thought for a moment. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.

Conger sat in front of the wheel. For a moment, he paused, his hands lightly resting on the controls. Then he turned the wheel slightly, closely monitoring the control readings.

The grayness surrounded him.

But not for long.

The man examined him closely. "You should come inside," he said. "Away from the cold."

"Thanks." Conger walked gratefully through the open door into the living room. It was warm and stuffy from the heat of the small kerosene heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her floral dress, came out of the kitchen. She and the man looked him over critically.

"It's a nice room," the woman said. "I'm Mrs. Appleton. It has heating. You really need that this time of year."

"Yeah." He nodded, looking around.

"You want to join us for a meal?"

"What’s up?"

"You want to eat with us?" The man's brows furrowed. "You're not a foreigner, are you, man?"

"No." He smiled. "I was born in this country. Pretty far to the west, though."

"California?"

"No." He paused. "In Oregon."

"What's it like up there?" Mrs. Appleton asked. "I hear there are a lot of trees and greenery. It's so empty here. I'm from Chicago, actually."

"That's the Midwest," the man said to her. "You're not a foreigner."

"Oregon isn't foreign, either," Conger said. "It's part of the United States."

The man nodded absentmindedly. He was staring at Conger's outfit.

"That's a funny suit you're wearing, man," he said. "Where did you get that?"

Conger was feeling lost. He shifted awkwardly. "It's a nice suit," he said. "Maybe I should go somewhere else if you don't want me here."

They both raised their hands in protest. The woman smiled at him. "We just have to be careful of those Reds. You know, the government is always warning us about them."

"The Reds?" He was confused.

"The government says they're everywhere. We're supposed to report anything weird or out of the ordinary, anyone who doesn't act like normal."

"Do you like me?"

They looked embarrassed. "Well, you don't seem like a Red to me," the man said. "But we have to be careful. The Tribune says—"

Conger half-listened. It was going to be easier than he had expected. He would definitely know as soon as the Founder showed up. These people, so wary of anything unfamiliar, would be buzzing and gossiping and sharing the news. All he had to do was stay low and listen, maybe down at the general store, or even here in Mrs. Appleton's boarding house.

"Can I check out the room?" he asked.

"Sure." Mrs. Appleton headed for the stairs. "I'd be happy to show it to you."

They went upstairs. It was colder upstairs, but not nearly as cold as outside. Nor as cold as nights in the Martian deserts. For that, he was grateful.

He was walking slowly around the store, checking out the cans of vegetables and the frozen packages of fish and meat gleaming and spotless in the open refrigerator cases.

Ed Davies walked over to him. "Can I help you?" he asked. The man was dressed a bit unusually and had a beard! Ed couldn't help but smile.

"Nothing," the man said in a quirky voice. "Just checking things out."

"Sure," Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was pushing her cart up.

"Who is he?" she whispered, her sharp face turning, her nose twitching as if it were sniffing. "I've never seen him before."

"I don’t know."

"Looks funny to me. Why does he have a beard? No one else has a beard. There must be something wrong with him."

"Maybe he likes to grow a beard. I had an uncle who—"

"Wait." Mrs. Hacket tensed up. "Wasn't that—what was his name? The Red—that old guy. Didn’t he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard."

Ed laughed. "This isn't Karl Marx. I saw a picture of him once."

Mrs. Hacket was looking at him. "You really did?"

"Sure." He blushed a bit. "What's wrong with that?"

"I'd really like to know more about him," Mrs. Hacket said. "I think we should know more, for our own benefit."

"Hey, dude! Want a ride?"

Conger turned quickly, reaching for his belt. He relaxed. Two young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. "Want a ride? Sure."

Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet stepped on the gas, and the car sped down the highway.

"I appreciate the ride," Conger said cautiously. "I was walking between towns, but it’s further than I expected."

"Where are you from?" Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, petite, and had dark features, wearing her yellow sweater and blue skirt.

"From Cooper Creek."

"Cooper Creek?" Bill said. He frowned. "That's weird. I don't remember ever seeing you before."

"Why, do you come from there?"

"I was born there. I know everyone there."

"I just moved here. From Oregon."

"From Oregon? I didn't know people from Oregon had accents."

"Do I have an accent?"

"You use words strangely."

"How?"

"I don't know. Doesn't he, Lora?"

"You slur them," Lora said with a smile. "Keep talking. I'm interested in dialects." She glanced at him, showing her bright white teeth. Conger felt his heart tighten.

"I'm speech impaired."

"Oh." Her eyes got wide. "I'm sorry."

They stared at him with curiosity as the car glided along. Conger, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to ask them questions without appearing nosy. "I guess people from out of town don't come here often," he said. "Strangers."

"No," Bill said, shaking his head. "Not really."

"I bet I'm the first outsider in a long time."

"Sounds good to me."

Conger paused. "A friend of mine—someone I know—might be passing through here. Where do you think I could—" He stopped. "Is there anyone who’s definitely going to see him? Someone I could ask to make sure I don’t miss him if he shows up?"

They were confused. "Just stay alert. Cooper Creek isn't that big."

"Nope. That's correct."

They drove in silence. Conger studied the outline of the girl. She was probably the boy's girlfriend. Maybe she was his practice wife. Had trial marriage been around for that long? He couldn’t remember. But surely such an attractive girl would be someone's girlfriend by now; she looked about sixteen. He might ask her sometime if they ever met again.

The next day, Conger took a walk along the main street of Cooper Creek. He walked by the general store, the two gas stations, and then the post office. At the corner, he found the soda fountain.

He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, chatting with the clerk. She was laughing, swaying back and forth.

Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat next to her.

"I’m sorry," he said. "Am I interrupting?"

"No." She shook her head. Her eyes were big and dark. "Not at all."

The clerk walked over. "What do you need?"

Conger stared at the chocolate. "Just like what she has."

Lora was watching Conger, her arms crossed, elbows resting on the counter. She smiled at him. "By the way, you don't know my name. It's Lora Hunt."

She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, unsure of what to do with it. "Conger is my name," he said quietly.

"Conger? Is that your last name or your first name?"

"Last or first?" He paused. "Last. Omar Conger."

"Omar?" She laughed. "That's like the poet, Omar Khayyam."

"I don't know him. I know very little about poets. We restored very few pieces of art. Usually, only the Church has been interested enough—" He paused. She was staring. He blushed. "Where I come from," he finished.

"The Church? Which church are you talking about?"

"The Church." He was confused. The chocolate arrived and he started to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.

"You're an interesting person," she said. "Bill didn't like you, but he never likes anything different. He's just so... ordinary. Don't you think that when a person gets older, they should become more open-minded?"

Conger agreed.

"He says that foreign people should stay where they belong and not come here. But you’re not really that foreign. He’s talking about Asians; you know."

Conger nodded.

The screen door swung open behind them. Bill stepped into the room. He gazed at them. "Well," he said.

Conger turned. "Hey."

"Alright." Bill took a seat. "Hey, Lora." He was looking at Conger. "I didn't think I'd see you here."

Conger tensed up. He could feel the boy's hostility. "Is there a problem with that?"

"No. It's fine."

There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. "Come on, let’s go."

"Go?" She was shocked. "Why?"

"Just go!" He took her hand. "Come on! The car's outside."

"Why, Bill Willet," Lora said. "You're jealous!"

"Who is this guy?" Bill asked. "Do you know anything about him? Just look at him, his beard—"

She snapped. "So what? Just because he doesn't drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!"

Conger assessed the boy. He was big—big and strong. He was probably part of some civil control group.

"Sorry," Conger said. "I’ll leave."

"What's your deal in town?" Bill asked. "What are you up to? Why are you hanging around Lora?"

Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. "No reason. I'll catch you later."

He turned away and froze. Bill had moved. Conger's fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.

He squeezed. The room jumped around him. He was shielded by the lining of his clothes, the plastic covering inside.

"My God—" Lora raised her hands. Conger swore. He hadn't intended any of it for her. But it would fade. There was only a half-amp of it. It would tingle.

Tingle and freeze.

He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost at the corner when Bill slowly emerged, leaning against the wall like a drunk. Conger kept going.

As Conger walked, feeling restless, in the night, a figure appeared in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.

"Who is it?" came a man's voice. Conger waited, tense.

"Who is it?" the man asked again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.

"It's me," he said.

"Who am I?"

"Conger is my name. I'm staying at the Appleton's place. Who are you?"

The man walked slowly toward him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.

"I'm Sheriff Duff. I believe you're the person I need to speak with. You were at Bloom's today around three o'clock?"

"Bloom's?"

"The fountain. Where the kids hang out." Duff walked up next to him, shining his light in Conger's face. Conger blinked.

"Turn that away," he said.

A pause. "Okay." The light flickered down. "You were there. Some trouble started between you and the Willet kid. Is that correct? You had an issue over his girl—"

"We had a discussion," Conger said cautiously.

"Then what happened next?"

"Why?"

"I'm just curious. I've heard you did something."

"Did something? What did you do?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm thinking. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all passed out. Couldn't move."

"How are they doing now?"

"Okay."

It was silent.

"Well?" Duff asked. "What was it? A bomb?"

"A bomb?" Conger laughed. "No. My cigarette lighter caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited."

"Why did everyone faint?"

Vapors.

Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.

"If you say so," he replied. "Anyway, there wasn't any real damage done." He moved away from Conger. "And that Willet is a troublemaker."

"Good night, then," Conger said. He walked past the Sheriff.

"One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you leave, do you mind if I check your ID?"

"No. Not at all." Conger reached into his pocket. He held out his wallet. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historical documents, artifacts from the era, and all the paperwork they thought would be important.

Duff handed it back. "Alright. Sorry to bother you." The light turned off.

When Conger got to the house, he saw the Appletons gathered around the TV. They didn't look up when he walked in. He hung back 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 looked him over. "The first of December."

"December 1st! Wow, it was just November!"

They were all staring at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century, they still used the old twelve-month system. November went straight into December; there was no Quartember in between.

He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! December 2nd! Tomorrow!

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks."

He walked up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been captured on December 2nd, according to the newspapers. Tomorrow, just twelve hours from now, the Founder would come out to address the people and then be taken away.

The day was warm and sunny. Conger's shoes crunched on the melting snow. He walked on, through the trees weighed down with white. He climbed a hill and walked down the other side, sliding as he went.

He paused to take a look around. Everything was quiet. There was no one in sight. He pulled a slender rod from his waist and turned its handle. For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a shimmer in the air.

The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It was nice 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 stretched out all the way to the edge of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer of snow.

Here, the Founder would arrive. Here, he would talk to them. And here the authorities would take him.

Only he would be dead before they arrived. He would be dead before he even had a chance to speak.

Conger went back to the crystal globe. He pushed the door open and walked in. He took the Slem-gun off the shelf and secured the bolt in place. It was all set, ready to fire. For a moment, he thought about it. Should he take it with him?

No. It could take hours for the Founder to arrive, and what if someone approached him in the meantime? Once he saw the Founder walking toward the field, then he could go and grab the gun.

Conger looked at the shelf. There was the tidy plastic package. He took it down and opened it.

He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. Despite himself, a chill rushed through him. This was the man’s skull, the skull of the Founder, who was still alive, who would come here today, who would stand on the field not fifty yards away.

What if he could see this, his own skull, yellow and worn down? Two hundred years old. Would he still talk? Would he say anything if he could see it, the grinning, old skull? What would he even have to say, to share with the people? What message could he bring?

What action wouldn't be pointless when a man can see his own aged, yellowed skull? It's better for them to enjoy their temporary lives while they still have them to enjoy.

A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in few causes or movements. Instead, he would advocate for the opposite—

A noise. Conger put the skull back on the shelf and picked up the gun. Something was moving outside. He rushed to the door, his heart racing. Was it him? Was it the Founder, wandering alone in the cold, searching for a spot to talk? Was he thinking about his words, selecting his phrases?

What if he could see what Conger had kept!

He pushed the door open, gun in hand.

Lora!

He looked at her. She was wearing a wool jacket and boots, her hands tucked in her pockets. A cloud of steam escaped from her mouth and nostrils. Her chest was rising and falling.

Silently, they looked at each other. Finally, Conger lowered the gun.

"What is it?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

She pointed. She couldn't seem to talk. He frowned; what was wrong with her?

"What is it?" he asked. "What do you want?" He looked where she was pointing. "I don't see anything."

"They're on their way."

"They? Who? Who's coming?"

"They are. The police. During the night, the Sheriff had the state police send out cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There are about sixty of them coming. Some from town, some from behind." She stopped, gasping. "They said—they said—"

"What is it?"

"They said you were some sort of a Communist. They said—"

Conger eel went into the cage. He placed the gun on the shelf and stepped back out. He jumped down and went to the girl.

"Thanks. You came here to tell me that? You don't believe it?"

"I have no idea."

"Did you come by yourself?"

"No. Joe drove me in his truck. From town."

"Joe? Who's that?"

"Joe French. The plumber. He's a friend of my dad's."

"Let's go." They walked across the snow, up the ridge, and onto the field. The small panel truck was parked halfway across the field. A stocky man was sitting behind the wheel, smoking his pipe. He straightened up when he noticed the two of them approaching.

"Are you the one?" he asked Conger.

"Yes. Thanks for the heads-up."

The plumber shrugged. "I don’t know anything about this. Lora says you’re fine." He turned around. "You might want to know that some more of them are coming. Not to warn you—just curious."

"More of them?" Conger glanced toward the town. Dark figures were making their way across the snow.

"People from the town. You can't keep this kind of thing a secret, not in a small town. We all listen to the police radio; they heard it just like Lora did. Someone picked up on it, passed it around—"

The shapes were getting closer. Conger could make out a couple of them. Bill Willet was there, with some guys from the high school. The Appletons were back there, hanging behind.

"Even Ed Davies," Conger whispered.

The storekeeper was working in the field, alongside three or four other men from the town.

"All super curious," French said. "Well, I guess I'm heading back to town. I don't want my truck shot full of holes. Come on, Lora."

She was looking up at Conger, wide-eyed.

"Come on," French said again. "Let's go. You definitely can't stay here, you know."

"Why?"

"There might be a shooting. That's what everyone came to see. You know that, right, Conger?"

"Yep."

"You got a gun? Or don’t you care?" French smiled a bit. "They've caught a lot of people over the years, you know. You won't be alone."

He cared, for sure! He had to stay here, on the field. He couldn't let them take him away. Any minute the Founder would show up, would step onto the field. Would he be one of the townspeople, standing quietly at the edge of the field, waiting, watching?

Or maybe he was Joe French. Or maybe one of the cops. Any one of them might feel inspired to speak up. And the few words shared today were going to matter for a long time.

And Conger had to be there, ready when the first word was spoken!

"I care," he said. "You should head back to town. Bring the girl with you."

Lora got in stiffly beside Joe French. The plumber started the engine. "Look at them, just standing there," he said. "Like vultures. Waiting to see someone get hurt."

The truck drove off, Lora sat rigid and quiet, now scared. Conger watched for a moment. Then he ran back into the woods, weaving between the trees, heading toward the ridge.

He could escape, of course. Anytime he wanted, he could get away. All he had to do was jump into the crystal cage and turn the handles. But he had a job, an important job. He needed to be here, in this place, at this time.

He got to the cage and opened the door. He stepped inside and grabbed the gun from the shelf. The Slem-gun would handle them. He loaded it to full capacity. The chain reaction from it would wipe them all out, the police, the onlookers, the twisted people—

They wouldn't take him! Before they could get to him, all of them would be dead. He would get away. He would escape. By the end of the day, they would all be dead if that’s what they wanted, and he—

He spotted the skull.

Suddenly, he set the gun down. He picked up the skull and turned it over. He examined the teeth, then walked over to the mirror.

He held the skull up, looking in the mirror. He pressed the skull against his cheek. Next to his own face, the grinning skull leered back at him, beside his skull, against his living flesh.

He showed his teeth. And he understood.

It was his own skull that he held. He was the one who would die. He was the Founder.

After a while, he set the skull down. He stood at the controls for a few minutes, just fiddling with them. He could hear the sound of motors outside, the muted noise of men. Should he go back to the present, where the Speaker was waiting? He could escape, of course—

Getaway?

He turned to face the skull. There it was, his skull, yellowed with age. Escape? Escape, after he had held it in his own hands?

What did it matter if he delayed it for a month, a year, ten years, or even fifty? Time meant nothing. He had enjoyed chocolate with a girl who was born a hundred and fifty years before him. Escape? Maybe, just for a little while.

But he could not really escape, no more than anyone else had ever escaped, or ever would.

Only, he had held it in his hands, his own bones, his own skull.

They didn't.

He stepped out the door and walked across the field, empty-handed. There were many of them hanging around, gathered together, waiting. They anticipated a good fight; they knew he had something. They had heard about the incident at the fountain.

And there were tons of police—police with guns and tear gas, moving quietly across the hills and ridges, between the trees, getting closer and closer. It was an old story in this century.

One of the guys threw something at him. It landed in the snow by his feet, and he looked down. It was a rock. He smiled.

"Come on!" one of them shouted. "Don't you have any bombs?"

"Throw a bomb! You with the beard! Throw a bomb!"

"Give it to them!"

"Toss a few A Bombs!"

They started laughing. He smiled. He placed his hands on his hips. They quickly fell silent, realizing he was about to speak.

"I'm sorry," he said plainly. "I don't have any bombs. You're mistaken."

There was a lot of whispering.

"I have a gun," he continued. "A really good one. Made with technology that's even more advanced than yours. But I’m not going to use that, either."

They were confused.

"Why not?" someone shouted. At the edge of the group, an older woman was watching. He felt a sudden jolt. He had seen her before. Where?

He remembered. The day at the library. As he turned the corner, he saw her. She noticed him and was shocked. At the time, he didn’t understand why.

Conger grinned. So he would escape death, the man who right now was willingly facing it. They were laughing, laughing at a guy with a gun who wasn’t using it. But through a strange twist of science, he would show up again a few months later, after his bones had been buried under the floor of a jail.

And so, in a way, he would escape death. He would die, but then, after a few months, he would come back to life, briefly, for an afternoon.

An afternoon. But long enough for them to see him, to understand that he was still alive. To know that somehow he had come back to life.

And then, finally, he would show up again after two hundred years had gone by. Two centuries later.

He would be reborn, actually born in a small trading village on Mars. He would grow up learning how to hunt and trade—

A police car pulled up at the edge of the field and stopped. The crowd stepped back a bit. Conger lifted his hands.

"I have a strange paradox for you," he said. "Those who take lives will lose their own. Those who kill will die. But the one who sacrifices his own life will live again!"

They laughed softly, a bit nervously. The police were coming out, walking toward him. He smiled. He had said everything he wanted to say. It was a clever little paradox he had come up with. They would think about it and remember it.

Smiling, Conger anticipated a certain death.

THE END