Farther down on the same side of the street on which he stood, he saw something that looked faintly promising. He walked down to it, and found a window full of odd-looking primitive objects, the nature of some of which he could not guess. But there were knives among them, and a sign said, in ancient spelling, "Jewelry Bought and Sold." On an impulse he walked in. A man in another queer garment--some kind of cloth upper, with a white linen thing beneath it and a ribbon tied around his neck--looked up without surprise at Mikel's literally untimely garb, and said: "Yes, sir?" Mikel drew out the knife. "Very valuable," he said. "An heirloom. How much will you give me?" The man shrank back, not as if he were afraid of the knife, but as if he were suddenly afraid of Mikel. "You kidding me?" he asked. "Or is this a stick-up?" Mikel was not sure what the words meant, so he merely shook his head. "Then are you nuts? There's nothing valuable about that thing. It's just an ordinary kitchen knife." "Not valuable?" Mikel's face fell. "But look--wooden handle, steel blade." "So what? Every knife has a wooden handle and a steel blade." "You will not give me money for it?" "Of course not. We don't buy junk." There was no use arguing. One age's antique is another age's junk. Mikel sighed and departed quietly. How was he to get food and shelter for a week? He went back to the park and sat down again on a bench. He put the knife back in his pouch. This was what came of panicking for the first time in his humdrum life. A sudden image of the redheaded girl came before his mind--her green eyes and her smile. That girl--she was so pretty--and she had smiled at him, whom girls never noticed. And then she had been killed. Now that it was too late, he wished he had stayed, whatever might have happened to him. He wanted to help, to avenge her; he wanted to be home again. His stomach reminded him sharply that he had had no lunch. He had never heard how long a man could go without eating. Could he even live through the week? He sat there disconsolately, his eyes fixed on the ground. On his wrist was sealed the little gadget that was his only means of ever seeing 2839 again. Somebody came and sat down beside him. Deep in thought, he did not even glance up. A voice said, "Can you tell me what time it is? My watch is broken and there's no clock around here." "Watch"--that meant "to be alert." "Clock"--that was an ancient time-measuring device, he thought. The only way Mikel knew to tell the time was to glance at the ceiling of any room, or if he were outdoors to tune in on his miniature tridimens gadget, attached to his belt. He dialed it now, but there was no response. Of course not--it wouldn't work across perhaps a thousand years. "I'm sorry," he answered. "I can't." He turned as he spoke. He jumped violently.