kerosene heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.
“It’s a good room,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Appleton. It’s got heat. You need that this time of year.”
“Yes.” He nodded, looking around.
“You want to eat with us?”
“What?”
“You want to eat with us?” The man’s brows knitted. “You’re not a foreigner, are you, mister?”
“No.” He smiled. “I was born in this country. Quite far west, though.”
“California?”
“No.” He hesitated. “In Oregon.”
“What’s it like up there?” Mrs. Appleton asked. “I hear there’s a lot of trees and green. It’s so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself.”
“That’s the Middle West,” the man said to her. “You ain’t no foreigner.”
“Oregon isn’t foreign, either,” Conger said. “It’s part of the United States.”
The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger’s clothing.
“That’s a funny suit you got on, mister,” he said. “Where’d you get that?”
Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. “It’s a good suit,” he said. “Maybe I better go some other place, if you don’t want me here.”
They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. “We just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always warning us about them.”
“The Reds?” He was puzzled.
“The government says they’re all around. We’re supposed to report anything strange or unusual, anybody doesn’t act normal.”
“Like me?”
They looked embarrassed. “Well, you don’t look like a Red to me,” the man said. “But we have to be careful. The Tribune says—”
Conger half listened. It was going to be easier than he had thought. Clearly, he would know as soon as the Founder appeared. These people, so suspicious of anything different, would be buzzing and gossiping and spreading the story. All he had to do was lie low and listen, down at the general store, perhaps. Or even here, in Mrs. Appleton’s boarding house.
“Can I see the room?” he said.
“Certainly.” Mrs. Appleton went to the stairs. “I’ll be glad to show it to you.”
They went upstairs. It was colder upstairs, but not nearly as cold as outside. Nor as cold as nights on the Martian deserts. For that he was grateful.
He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in the open refrigerator counters.
Ed Davies came toward him. “Can I help you?” he said. The man was a little oddly dressed, and with a beard! Ed couldn’t help smiling.
“Nothing,” the man said in a funny voice. “Just looking.”
“Sure,” Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was wheeling her cart up.
“Who’s he?” she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if it were sniffing. “I never seen him before.”
“I don’t know.”
“Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a beard. Must be something the matter with him.”
“Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who—”
“Wait.” Mrs. Hacket stiffened. “Didn’t that—what was his name? The Red—that old one. Didn’t he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard.”
Ed laughed. “This ain’t Karl Marx. I saw a photograph of him once.”
Mrs. Hacket was staring at him. “You did?”
“Sure.” He flushed a little. “What’s the matter with that?”
“I’d sure like to know more about him,” Mrs. Hacket said. “I think we ought to know more, for our own good.”
“Hey, mister! Want a ride?”
Conger turned quickly, dropping his hand to his belt. He relaxed. Two young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. “A ride? Sure.”
Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet pushed the gas and the car roared down the highway.
“I appreciate a ride,” Conger said carefully. “I was taking a walk between towns, but it was farther than I thought.”
“Where are you from?” Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, small and dark, in her yellow sweater and blue skirt.
“From Cooper Creek.”
“Cooper Creek?” Bill said. He frowned. “That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“Why, do you come from there?”
“I was born there. I know everybody there.”
“I just moved in. From Oregon.”
“From Oregon? I didn’t know Oregon people had accents.”
“Do I have an accent?”
“You use words funny.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t he, Lora?”
“You slur them,” Lora said, smiling. “Talk some more. I’m interested in dialects.” She glanced at him, white-teethed. Conger felt his heart constrict.
“I have a speech impediment.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”
They looked at him curiously as the car purred along. Conger for his part was struggling to find some way of asking them questions without seeming curious. “I guess people from out of town don’t come here much,” he said. “Strangers.”
“No.” Bill shook his head. “Not very much.”
“I’ll bet I’m the first outsider for a long time.”
“I guess so.”
Conger hesitated. “A friend of mine—someone I know, might be coming through here. Where do you suppose I might—” He stopped. “Would there be anyone certain to see him? Someone I could ask, make sure I don’t
