PLACEBO

The object appeared in the middle of Main Way, about fifty feet fromthe statue of Vachel Lindsay, and at least a hundred from anythingelse. It was much too big and complicated to have been hidden anywhere,and it hadn't any wheels, tracks, wings, or other visible means ofmovement.

Corrigan, looking the object over, decided that it could not havecome from any logical place in the world. Not being prejudiced, hethen thought a little about the illogical places, and the places thatweren't in the world. Corrigan decided that it must be another attemptat time travel, and he clucked his tongue sympathetically.

Well, someone had to break the news. Corrigan arose from the grass andwalked toward the object.

There was a young man sitting in the object, on a sort of highsaddle. He looked a little wild-eyed, and he seemed to be talking tohimself, as he pulled and twisted at the rows of controls in front ofhim. Corrigan, looking up at him, decided that he couldn't be veryhealthy, and that the stiff gray garments he wore must be extremelyuncomfortable.

"Greetings, traveler," Corrigan called.

"You're speaking Anglish!" the young man exclaimed. "Good! Maybe I canget some help here. What year is this?"

"1955, by most systems."

The young man turned a little paler.

"I've just left 1955," he said unhappily. "Four times, in fact. Fourdifferent 1955's. And each one's a bit worse. Now the machine won'twork."

"Your theory's wrong," Corrigan said calmly. "Hasn't it occurred to youyet that time travel might be impossible?"

The young man made a choked sound. He began to climb down from hisperch, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Corrigan as he did so.He saw Corrigan as a small brown man, dressed in loose blue trousers,barefooted, and with a puff of white hair that seemed never tohave been properly cut. The lawns and grassy roads, the bright andimpermanent-looking buildings, and Corrigan himself, all added up toone thing in the young man's mind.

"You're wrong," Corrigan said. "I'm not a lunatic, and this isn't anasylum. We don't have them."

The young man, on the ground now, stared at Corrigan in evident horror.

"Mind reading?"

"More or less," Corrigan said. "It saves time. For instance, you'reDarwin Lenner, and you'd like very much to get back to wherever youstarted from. In fact, you have to, or something unpleasant mighthappen to you, by your standards."

"I'd be absent without permission," Lenner admitted. "I ... I wish youwouldn't do that."

"Only when absolutely necessary," Corrigan smiled. "I'm a philosopherby trade, myself, not a mind reader. My name's Philip Corrigan, andI'd be very glad to help you on your way ... but I think it might be alittle difficult. We aren't really a very mechanically-minded peoplehere."

Lenner ran his hands through his hair. "I've got to get back. Isn'tthere anybody who knows something about time machines?"

Corrigan had been thinking swiftly. He had also been carrying on aconversation which Lenner could not possibly hear, with a man who wasseveral miles away.

"Burwell, he wants to go home."

"Fine. He ought to. Why doesn't he?"

"He lost his confidence. He thinks his machine's broken down."

"That kind, eh? I suppose the thing never really did work very well."

"Most of them don't. They go traveling around hit-or-miss t