What if it was all on the level? Oswego City, New America. There wasn't any such place. Not yet, there wasn't. But sometime in the future? And what better way of merchandising than selling goods at different times in history, goods that fit right in with the times? You wouldn't want to flood the market, of course, but you could make a tidy profit. In money? Hell no. Hadn't the building agent said Forsythe was an antique dealer? Stoves, refrigerators, sports cars. In some future age they would be valuable as ... antiques. Forsythe said he had been a huckster all his life. Where? And when? Maybe hucksters like Forsythe had peddled stainless steel swords and shields to the Roman legions. And maybe a huckster had stopped by to see Gutenberg about a small matter of printing paper.... And in his own age, hidden among all the ads for quack remedies and miraculous gadgets, there were a few ads that were genuine. Some people probably had carburetors that ran on water and some office workers pens that never wore out and maybe some high school girl used a lipstick that was going to last her the rest of her life. And a time machine would explain where Forsythe got the carburetors and other goods without having them delivered through the streets, and it explained how he got rid of the stoves and refrigerators and goods that came into his office. Manning suddenly wished that Forsythe hadn't taken off. The man had something now that would be a sure fire sale. And people needed it desperately, far more than they needed gadgets or carburetors or pens or hairbrushes. Wheeler's voice was buzzing on the phone. "_What do we do with the case now, Fred?_" Manning glanced out the window again. It was a beautiful day, the clouds were black velvet and the rain drops were diamonds. He looked down at the small vial in his hand. The label read: _Forsythe's Cancer Cure_. The real McCoy. Manning lifted the phone and spoke into it. "We don't have a case any more, Ray." He paused, then said: "I just swallowed Exhibit A."