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Crocker to the girl Jean, then on to Stroud in his warden’s uniform. Crocker, unless Nick was a very poor judge of ages, was in his early twenties, Jean even younger. They could not be as old as Stroud’s uniform suggested. But—
    “Something bothers you, my boy?” It was the Vicar. And without thinking Nick asked his question baldly:
    “Do you mind telling me, sir—how long have you been here?”
    The Vicar smiled wearily. “That—that may be impossible. We tried to keep a record in the beginning, but after they captured us and brought us here—” He shrugged. “By a matter of seasons, I should judge about four years. The raid hit Minton Parva the evening of July 24, 1942. I think we all have reason to remember that. We were in the crypt shelter of the church. Mrs. Clapp is, was, my housekeeper. Lady Diana had come to see me about the hospital fund. Jean and Barry were on their way down to the station to take the train back, they were both returning from leave. And Stroud had come to check up on our supplies—when the alert sounded and we all went into the crypt. There was a sound—frankly, Shaw, we all believed it was the end. And then—somehow we were out of the church, out of even the England that we knew . . .”
    He hesitated. Those tired but very keen eyes had been watching Nick’s face. Now the Vicar’s expression changed.
    “You know something, don’t you, my boy? Something that is disturbing you. What is it?”
    “Time, sir. You say you think you have been here about four years. But today is—was—July 21, 1985.”
    He expected the Vicar to challenge him on that. It was not believable, not if Hadlett had been speaking the truth. And Nick was sure he had.
    “July 21, 1985,” repeated the Vicar slowly. “No, I do not doubt you, my boy, as I think you are expecting. It is too apt, it bears out all the old tales. But—1985—forty-three years—What happened there—forty years back?”
    “Forty years what? . . .” Crocker lounged over to them. He had been more intent on the motorbike than he had on their conversation, but now he looked at Hadlett alertly. “What is this about forty years?”
    “Tell him your date,” the Vicar said to Nick as if his saying it would make the deeper impression.
    “The date today—it’s July 21, 1985,” Nick returned. Hadlett had accepted that without question, but would the others?
    “Nineteen eighty-five,” repeated the pilot blankly. “But—it’s impossible—Padre, it’s about 1946, unless we counted wrong, and a man can’t tick off forty years that way without knowing it!”
    It was Lady Diana who had listened this time. “Adrian, then you were right. It’s like the old tales, isn’t it? Over forty—” She looked beyond them to where the water curled around the stones in the even flowing Run. “Ninety-eight—but I’m not, Adrian, I’m no older—”
    “That, too, was part of those same old tales, Diana,” he said.
    “No!” Crocker protested. “This kid has it all wrong, he’s one of Them maybe. How do we know—” He was backing away from Nick, the sling again in his hand. “He’s working for Them , sent to break us down with a story like that!”
    “Here—what’s goin’ on?” Stroud bore down on them. “What’s this talk about Them ?”
    Crocker burst out with his accusation. And there was open anger in his voice as he turned on the Warden. “We brought these two here—next They will be coming! Tell us that we’ve been here forty-plus years! That’s a lie no one’s going to believe.”
    “Now, then.” Stroud’s hand was on Crocker’s shoulder. “Take a reef on that there tongue of yours, Barry. These don’t smell like the Herald do they? An’ when did the flying devils use bait? They zooms right in an’ takes what they wants, no frills about it. All right, you say it’s 1985 back there—what happened to the war?”
    Stroud’s rumble had drawn them all. They made a semicircle, looking at Nick, some with