I groaned, then caught myself. "No, I'm not in pain," I said. "But don't take me so literally, Foster." We rode along in silence for a while. "Say, Foster," I said. "Have you still got that notebook of yours?" Foster tried several pockets, came up with the book. He looked at it, turned it over, frowning. "You remember it?" I said, watching him. He shook his head slowly, then ran his finger around the circles embossed on the cover. "This pattern," he said. "It signifies...." "Go on, Foster," I said. "Signifies what?" "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't remember." I took the book and sat looking at it. It wouldn't do any good to turn myself in and tell them the whole story; they wouldn't believe me, and I wouldn't blame them. I didn't really believe it myself, and I'd lived through it. But then, maybe I was just imagining that Foster looked younger. After all, a good night's rest-- I looked at Foster, and almost groaned again. Twenty was stretching it; eighteen was more like it. I was willing to swear he'd never shaved in his life. "Foster," I said. "It's got to be in this book. Who you are, where you came from--It's the only hope I've got." "I suggest we read it, then," Foster said. "A bright idea," I said, "Why didn't I think of that?" I thumbed through the book to the section in English and read for an hour. Starting with the entry dated January 19, 1710, the writer had scribbled a few lines every few months. He seemed to be some kind of pioneer in the Virginia Colony. He bitched about prices, and the Indians, and the ignorance of the other settlers, and every now and then threw in a remark about the Enemy. He often took long trips, and when he got home, he bitched about those, too. "It's a funny thing, Foster," I said. "This is supposed to have been written over a period of a couple of hundred years, but it's all in the same hand. That's kind of odd, isn't it?" "Why should a man's handwriting change?" Foster said. "Well, it might get a little shaky there toward the last, don't you agree?" "Why is that?" "I'll spell it out, Foster," I said. "Most people don't live that long. A hundred years is stretching it, to say nothing of two." "This must be a very violent world, then," Foster said. "Skip it," I said. "You talk like you're just visiting. By the way; do you remember how to write?" Foster looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said. "I can write." I handed him the book and the stylus. "Try it," I said. Foster opened to a blank page, wrote, and handed the book back to me. "Always and always and always," I read. I looked at Foster. "What does that mean?" I looked at the words again, then quickly flipped to the pages written in English. I was no expert on penmanship, but this came up and cracked me right in the eye. The book was written in Foster's hand. * * * * * "It doesn't make sense," I was saying for the fortieth time. Foster nodded sympathetic agreement.