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their door to fetch their wastepaper basket, I saw the clocks, arrayed, on the bureau, on the windowsill, and by the nightstand, small and large clocks, all set to this hour of the late morning, ticking like a roomful of insects.
    So many clocks. But why? I wondered. Mr. Smith had said he was a thinker .
    I took the wastebasket down to the incinerator. Inside the basket, as I was dumping it, I found one of her handkerchiefs. I fondled it for a moment, smelling the flower fragrance. Then I tossed it onto the fire.
    It did not burn.
    I poked at it and pushed it far back in the fire.
    But the handkerchief would not burn.
    In my room I took out my cigar lighter and touched it to the handkerchief. It would not burn, nor could I tear it.
    And then I considered their clothing. I realized why it had seemed peculiar. The cut was regular for men and women in this season, but in their coats and shirts and dresses and shoes, there was not one blessed seam anywhere!
    They came back out later that afternoon to walk in the garden. Peering from my high window I saw them standing together, holding hands, talking earnestly.
    It was then that the terrifying thing happened.
    A roar filled the sky. The woman looked into the sky, screamed, put her hands to her face, and collapsed. The man’s face turned white, he stared blindly at the sun, and he fell to his knees calling to his wife to get up, get up, but she lay there, hysterically.
    By the time I got downstairs to help, they had vanished. They had evidently run around one side of the house while I had gone around the other. The sky was empty, the roar had dwindled.
    Why, I thought, should a simple, ordinary sound of a plane flying unseen in the sky cause such terror?
    The airplane flew back a minute later and on the wings it said: COUNTY FAIR! ATTEND! RACING! FUN!
    That’s nothing to be afraid of, I thought.
    I passed their room at nine-thirty and the door was open. On the walls I saw three calendars lined up with the date August 18, 2035, prominently circled.
    â€œGood evening,” I said pleasantly. “Say, you have a lot of nice calendars there. Come in mighty handy.”
    â€œYes,” they said.
    I went on to my room and stood in the dark before turning on the light and wondered why they should need three calendars, all with the year 2035. It was crazy, but they were not. Everything about them was crazy except themselves, they were clean, rational people with beautiful faces, but it began to move in my mind, the calendars, the clocks, the wristwatches they wore, worth a thousand dollars each if I ever saw a wristwatch, and they, themselves, constantly looking at the time. I thought of the handkerchief that wouldn’t burn and the seamless clothing, and the sentence “I’ve always hated Westercott.”
    I’ve always hated Westercott.
    Lionel Westercott. There wouldn’t be two people in the world with an unusual name like that. Lionel Westercott. I said it softly to myself in the summer night. It was a warm evening, with moths dancing softly, in velvet touches, on my screen. I slept fitfully, thinking of my comfortable job, this good little town, everything peaceful, everyone happy, and these two people in the next room, the only people in the town, in the world, it seemed, who were not happy. Their tired mouths haunted me. And sometimes the tired eyes, too tired for ones so young.
    I must have slept a bit, for at two o’clock, as usual, I was wakened by her crying, but this time I heard her call out, “Where are we, where are we, how did we get here, where are we?” And his voice, “Hush, hush, now, please,” and he soothed her.
    â€œAre we safe, are we safe, are we safe?”
    â€œYes, yes, dear, yes.”
    And then the sobbing.
    Perhaps I could have thought a lot of things. Most minds would turn to murder, fugitives from justice. My mind did not turn that way. Instead I lay in the dark, listening to her cry, and it broke my