He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air was crisp and bright. A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage. He stood before the mirror over the shelf, examining his features. He had trimmed his beard--they had not got him to cut it off--and his hair was neat. He was dressed in the clothing of the middle-twentieth century, the odd collar and coat, the shoes of animal hide. In his pocket was money of the times. That was important. Nothing more was needed. Nothing, except his ability, his special cunning. But he had never used it in such a way before. He walked down the road toward the town. The first things he noticed were the newspapers on the stands. April 5, 1961. He was not too far off. He looked around him. There was a filling station, a garage, some taverns, and a ten-cent store. Down the street was a grocery store and some public buildings. A few minutes later he mounted the stairs of the little public library and passed through the doors into the warm interior. The librarian looked up, smiling. "Good afternoon," she said. He smiled, not speaking because his words would not be correct; accented and strange, probably. He went over to a table and sat down by a heap of magazines. For a moment he glanced through them. Then he was on his feet again. He crossed the room to a wide rack against the wall. His heart began to beat heavily. Newspapers--weeks on end. He took a roll of them over to the table and began to scan them quickly. The print was odd, the letters strange. Some of the words were unfamiliar. He set the papers aside and searched farther. At last he found what he wanted. He carried the _Cherrywood Gazette_ to the table and opened it to the first page. He found what he wanted: PRISONER HANGS SELF An unidentified man, held by the county sheriff's office for suspicion of criminal syndicalism, was found dead this morning, by-- He finished the item. It was vague, uninforming. He needed more. He carried the _Gazette_ back to the racks and then, after a moment's hesitation, approached the librarian. "More?" he asked. "More papers. Old ones?" She frowned. "How old? Which papers?" "Months old. And--before." "Of the _Gazette_? This is all we have. What did you want? What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you." He was silent. "You might find older issues at the _Gazette_ office," the woman said, taking off her glasses. "Why don't you try there? But if you'd tell me, maybe I could help you--" He went out. The _Gazette_ office was down a side street; the sidewalk was broken and cracked. He went inside. A heater glowed in the corner of the small office. A heavy-set man stood up and came slowly over to the counter. "What did you want, mister?" he said. "Old papers. A month. Or more." "To buy? You want to buy them?"