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the hanged man to her good friend Clarabelle.
    The Sunday sun of afternoon slanted through the westward-facing windows, falling on the worn carpeting where the aged cat slept, tightly rolled into a ball. In the garden at the rear of the dowdy house on the dowdy street the catbird was calling sassily—perhaps preparing for a new inroad on the raspberry patch—but she paid it no attention.
    It had cost a deal of money, she thought, and a lot of work and letter writing and some traveling, but it had been worth it, she told herself, all the money and the time. For there was no one else in this little town who could trace back their blood as far as she—to the Revolution and beyond, back to English days and little English villages that lay sunken deep in time. And while there had been a horse thief and a hanged man and others of somewhat dubious character and undistinguished lineage, they had been offset by country squires and sturdy yeomen, with even the hint of an ancient castle somewhere in the background, although she never had quite honestly been able to authenticate the castle.
    And now, she thought, and now! She had carried her family research back as far as human ingenuity and records went. Now could she—would she dare—proceed in the opposite direction—forward into the future? She knew all the old ancestors and here, she told herself, was the opportunity to acquaint herself with all the new descendants. If these people were really what the radio hinted they might be, it surely could be done. But if it were to be done, she would have to do it, for there would be no records. She would have to go among them—those who came from the area of New England—and she would have to ask her questions and she might ask many different people before she got a clue. Are there, my dear, any Garsides or Lamberts or Lawrences in your family tree? Well, then, if you think so, but don’t really know, is there anyone who would? Oh, yes, my dear, of course it is most important—I cannot begin to tell you how important.
    She sat in the chair unstirring, while the cat slept on and the catbird screamed, feeling in her that strange sense of family that had driven her all these years, and which, given this new development, might drive her further yet.

11
    â€œSo,” said the President, leaning back in his chair, “as we have it so far, the Earth some five hundred years from now is being attacked by beings from out of space. It is impossible for the people of that day to cope with them and their only recourse is to retreat back into the past. Is that a fairly accurate summary of what you’ve told us?”
    Gale nodded. “Yes, sir, I would say it is.”
    â€œBut now that you are here—or a lot of you are here and more coming all the time—what happens now? Or have you had no opportunity to plan ahead?”
    â€œWe have plans,” said Gale, “but we will need some help.”
    â€œWhat I want to know,” said the Attorney General, “is why you came back to us. Why to this particular moment in time?”
    â€œBecause,” said Gale, “you have the technology that we need and the resources. We made a very thorough historical survey and this particular time slot, give or take ten years, seemed to suit our purpose best.”
    â€œWhat kind of technology are you thinking of?”
    â€œA technology that is capable of fabricating other time machines. We have the plans and the specifications and the labor force. We will need materials and your forbearance.…”
    â€œBut why more time machines?”
    â€œWe do not intend to stay here,” said Gale. “It would be unfair to do so. It would put too great a strain on your economy. As it is, we are putting a great strain upon it. But we could not stay up there in the future. I hope you understand that we had to leave.”
    â€œWhere will you be going?” asked the