"I read it, of course--what I could read of it. Only a relatively small section is in English. The rest is a cipher. And what I read seemed meaningless--quite unrelated to me. You've glanced through it; it's no more than a journal, irregularly kept, and so cryptic as to be little better than a code itself. And of course the dates; they range from the early eighteenth century through the early twentieth." "A sort of family record, maybe," I said. "Carried on generation after generation. Didn't it mention any names, or places?" "Look at it again, Legion," Foster said. "See if you notice anything odd--other than what we've already discussed." I thumbed through the book again. It was no more than an inch thick, but it was heavy--surprisingly heavy. There were a lot of pages--I shuffled through hundreds of closely written sheets and yet the book was less than half used. I read bits here and there: "May 4, 1746. The Voyage waf not a Succefs. I muft forfake thif avenue of Enquiry...." "October 23, 1790. Builded the weft Barrier a cubit higher. Now the fires burn every night. Is there no limit to their infernal perfiftence?" "January 19, 1831. I have great hopes for the Philadelphia enterprise. My greatest foe is impatience. All preparations for the Change are made, yet I confess I am uneasy...." * * * * * "There are plenty of oddities," I said. "Aside from the entries themselves. This is supposed to be old--but the quality of the paper and binding beats anything I've seen. And that handwriting is pretty fancy for a quill pen--" "There's a stylus clipped to the spine of the book," Foster said. "It was written with that." I looked, pulled out a slim pen, then looked at Foster. "Speaking of odd," I said. "A genuine antique early colonial ball-point pen doesn't turn up every day--" "Suspend your judgment until you've seen it all," Foster said. "And two-hundred years on one refill--that's not bad." I riffled through the pages, tossed the book onto the table. "Who's kidding who, Foster?" I said. "The book was described in detail in the official record, of which I have copies. They mention the paper and binding, the stylus, even quote some of the entries. The authorities worked over it pretty closely, trying to identify me. They reached the same conclusion as you--that it was the work of a crackpot; but they saw the same book you're looking at now." "So what? So it was faked up some time during the war--what does that prove? I'm ready to concede it's sixteen years old--" "You don't understand, Legion," Foster said. "I told you I work up in a military hospital in France. But it was an AEF hospital and the year was 1918." CHAPTER II I poured myself some more beer and glanced sideways at Foster. He didn't look like a nut.... "All I've got to say is," I said, "you're a hell of a spry-looking seventy."