Here and there was a garment that bore a resemblance to a dress or jacket or pair of trousers, but for the most part the people simply had chunks of cloth wrapped about them in a most careless fashion. Several would have been arrested for indecent exposure had they appeared anywhere except on Humanac's screen. However, they seemed indifferent to this--and to all else. A singularly attractive girl, in a costume that would have made a Cretan blush, didn't even get a second glance from, a young Adonis who passed her on the walk. Nor did she bestow one on him. The park bench held more interest for her, so she sat down on it. Peccary studied her more closely, then straightened with a start. * * * * * "I'll be damned," he said. "That's Jenny Cheever!" Staghorn continued to leer at the girl. "So you know her?" "I know her father. He owns the local variety store. She's only twenty today, and there she is a hundred years from now, not a day older." "Only her image, Dr. Peccary," Staghorn murmured. "Only her image. But a very pretty one." Peccary came to his feet, unable to control his irritation any longer. "I won't believe it!" he said. "Somehow a piece of misinformation has been fed into that machine. Its calculations are all wrong!" Staghorn refused to be perturbed. "But you just said you recognize the girl on the bench. I'd say that Humanac has to be working with needle-point accuracy to put recognizable people into a prediction." "Then shift the scene! For all I know this part of town was turned into an insane asylum fifty years from now." The use of the past tense when speaking of a future event was not ungrammatical in the presence of Humanac. "Do you have the volume up?" "Certainly. Can't you hear the birds twittering?" "But I can't hear anyone talking." "Perhaps it's a day of silence." Staghorn took another long look at the girl on the parkbench and then turned to the controls, using the fine adjustment on the geographical locator. The screen flickered, blinked, and the scene changed. The two men studied it. "Recognize it?" said Staghorn. Peccary gave an affirmative grunt. "That's the Jefferson grammar school on Elm Street. I'm surprised it's still there. But, lord, as long as they haven't built a new one, you'd think they'd at least keep the old one repaired." "Very shabby," Staghorn agreed. It was. Large areas of the exterior plaster had fallen away. Windows were shattered, and here and there the broken slats of Venetian blinds stuck through them. The shrubbery around the building was dead; weeds had sprung up through the cracks in the asphalt in the big play yard. There was no sign of children. "Where is everyone?" Peccary demanded. "You must have the time control set for a Sunday or holiday." "It's Tuesday," Staghorn said. Then both were silent because at that moment a child appeared, a boy of about eleven. * * * * *