"Besides," added Edgar, becoming aware of Marta's look, "Greencastle is a fine town and right up with the times. I think a garage will do a fine business there." Jim was inclined to be reluctant, but Emma gave him a side-wise kick and said of course they'd come home and settle. She gave Edgar a big hug and a kiss and he beamed on everybody for the rest of the evening. A few months later, Jim's weak eyes caused him to pass a colonel without saluting and, within days, he had a medical discharge. Emma and the garage were waiting in Greencastle, so Jim took the first train. In '19 and in '21, Emma produced grandsons, delighting everyone and especially Edgar. Emma herself was thoroughly puzzled when the boys reached the age for bedtime stories; she discovered that they were not particularly interested in tales of bold knights and fair ladies. She would have been happy to recite the legends of Arthur every night, but the boys, it seemed, preferred even poor poetry to a good, stirring joust. Edgar privately decided that Jim's poetry gene had proved more dominant than his own, which was perhaps just as well. Though not interested in making a fortune, Edgar nevertheless did well financially, using his knowledge of the '20s as an investment guide. Jim's garage prospered and he opened another, while his father-in-law multiplied his spare cash in the stock market. In July of 1929, Edgar suddenly retrenched for both of them, went bearish and arranged to sell short a number of important shares. The entire family protested that he was losing his mind, but Edgar was firm. By November first, they were amazed, horrified and rich. The following year, Emma gave Jim the daughter he had wanted. And, within three years, it was apparent to Edgar that tiny Susan carried the gene. From the first time Grandpa experimentally told her a story of the '90s, she wanted no others. Her mother found this also rather difficult to understand, but at least the '90s were in the past, which was better than poetry. * * * * * On a day in 1935, Edgar found himself pondering with a fierce intentness he had not used since 1959, when he built the time machine. Today, August fifth, was his 66th birthday--but it was also the day he was born. It was impossible _not_ to wonder. Forty-two years ago (or twenty-four from now), he had not bothered to think about possible consequences, so strong and simple had been his urge to go back. But today--would he, the father of one and grandfather of three, be wiped out the instant Edgar Evans was born? Or would no baby of that name be born in the tiny Oklahoma town? He had been born in the morning and when this particular morning passed like any other, Edgar felt considerably better. _Cogito, ergo sum_, he thought. "I think, therefore I am--a comforting philosophy. But what about the baby?"