[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
His name was Mikel Skot. He was thirty-four, five-feet-ten and lean,with decent features and all his hair and quite nice brown eyes.But somehow he always seemed to give the impression of being ofindeterminate age, and slightly dusty. He lived alone, he gravitatedbetween his job and his lodgings, and since the age of fourteen he hadnever known a girl well enough to call her by her first name.
For twelve years, ever since 2827, he had sold tickets at one ofthe windows of Time Travel Tours, Unlimited. If raises hadn't beenautomatic, he would never have had one, though he was punctual,faithful, honest, quick and accurate. Even the other ticket-sellersstill called him Citizen Skot.
He had never budged from his cozy era—even though, as an employee, hewas entitled to take any tour he wished, on his semi-annual vacation,at no cost to him beyond the planetary sales tax—nor had he ever lefthis native city, let alone his native planet. He was too shy even torealize he was lonely.
This morning there was the usual rush. Staggered vacations meant thatany time of the year was the busy season for TTT. Skillfully MikelSkot arranged tours and calculated rates.
"Two weeks in Rome, 45 B.C.? That will be creds 850, Citizen. You getyour costume and equipment in Room 104, right off the Teleport. Yes,I'm sure they'll have a Latin language-transformer you can hire.""England in 1600, one month, reservation in the name of Chas Rusl. Yes,I have it right here. That will be creds 500, please." "You mean youwant a ticket for here in Los, for a week six years ago in February?Why, yes, it's a little unusual, but—oh, certainly, I understand—asecond honeymoon. Congrats, Citizen—not many couples stay togetherthat long! Just a min, while I look up the rate for two."
The queue seemed endless, and crowds of travelers who already hadtheir tickets were pushing their way through the doors back of theticket-office to the Teleport itself, together with the friends whowere seeing them off. If Mikel had had a moment to spare, which hehadn't, he might have wondered, as so often before, at the numbers ofpeople everybody except himself seemed to know.
The morning wore on, and he was beginning to think longingly of 13:30o'clock, when his lunchtime relief would arrive and he could sit in aquiet corner of an Autocaf and watch the tridimens screen for the day'snews while he ate his favorite vitatabs and smoked a healthcig.
Then everything happened all at once.
The girl standing at his ticket-window was a redhead. Her eyes weregreen, with little dancing amber lights in them, and she smiled at himas if he were the kind of man girls do smile at, and not ineffectualMikel Skot.
"Can you tell me," she began, in a warm, slightly husky voice.
Then she screamed loudly and collapsed.
There were shouts and jostling and milling around, and somebody leanedover the counter and abruptly thrust something into his hand. He stoodthere dazed, grabbing the object, whatever it was. Then he leaned overthe counter. The girl was lying there, very still. On one side of her apool of blood was slowly forming on the floor.
The guards were coming from all directions, trying to get some kind ofquiet and order into the excited throng. Mikel looked down at the thingin his hand.
It was a knife, a steel knife with a wooden handle. It was obviously anantique, and of great value. And it was smeared with fresh blood.
Mikel Skot lo