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One day he comes to the beauty parlour dressed in old clothes, his beard rough, his hair a mess, crushing his old hat in hands with broken nails and cracked cuticles. He wants another chance to prove his love for her. Theda means to order him to leave, but she sees tears in his eyes. The sight makes tears spring to her own, and one of her contact lenses is washed out. As they crawl around looking for it, they touch hands …
    Dick finishes by relating his own story. He has become a successful, gruff but kind-hearted dermatologist. Night calls keep him from thinkingtoo much about Dolly, who has entered a hospital to kick her habit. Nine months drag by, and then one Spring day she walks weakly to the gate. There he is, grinning shyly, carrying one of her old batons. They run to embrace one another. She gives her old baton an expert twirl!
    ‘Darling,’ he says huskily, ‘it’s time to go home.’

I S T HERE D EATH ON O THER P LANETS ?
     
    I could have gone back to Earth, thought Peter, hurrying through the fog-shrouded evening. I could have hitch-hiked to California and drunk cokes at big, fluorescent-lighted drive-ins.
    Under every street light Peter paused, looking back. And always the short man with sunglasses was there. One street light behind him.
    The gutters of Centerville, capital of the planet Lumpkin, were littered with every variety of garbage. Up to a few hours ago, Peter thought, I was part of that garbage. And now? Now I am a spy, an agent of the U.S. government.
    ‘Me a spy? Here on Lumpkin? I can’t do it! I don’t even look like a spy. I’m only a pace bum. Look, my clothes are canvas from a space ship. My belt is a bit of tarred rope.’
    The man in the green hat sighed. ‘You’ll do. As the great
n
-tuple agent Waldmir said, “More than anyone else, a spy must look like anyone else.”’ The face was invisible beneath the brim of the green hat; Peter saw only a row of jagged lower teeth. ‘Now here’s the plan: Lumpkin wants war with the U.S., and they’re ready to attack. All they need is for their computer to give the word. When the auspices are right, they’ll launch enough missiles to turn the United States of Earth into a fireball.
    ‘Your job is to steal the gizmo that programs the computer. It’s a small device, easily concealed in this satchel. You’re to deliver it at the rocket terminal to a man called Adrian. He’ll be wearing a green hat like this, and he runs the postcard concession. Got it?’
    ‘Where do I get it, though? And how?’
    ‘It’s locked up in the War Department’s safe.’ The man handed Peter a package of cigarettes. ‘This is in reality a time machine. You’ll simply project yourself into the future, watch yourself open the safe, and thus learn the combination. Then you come back into the present and open the safe. Got it?’
    ‘Seems to me there’s a paradox there somewhere,’ mused Peter, scratching his unshaven chin. ‘But go on. What happens after I deliver it?’
    ‘Once we have the gizmo – which closely resembles a rare old phonograph record, they say – we’ll be able to re-program their computer. We’ll fool it into believing the war is over, and that the U.S. has won. Our troops will land at once, and our army of trained tourists will follow, to punish the rebellious Lumpkinites.’ The man ran his tongue over the jagged teeth in a gesture of keen anticipation. ‘But you’d better get started. There isn’t much time.’
    The little man in sunglasses was still behind him. Ahead was a sign:
    ‘A NNIE’S E ARTHSIDE B AR . Your home away from home – No Credit.’ Gratefully Peter ducked into the ill-lit, evil-smelling taproom. How well he knew this derelict retreat – and its lovely proprietress.
    Annie came to his table and leaned over him, her raven hair brushing his cheek. Her slender alabaster throat worked with unspoken emotion, as huskily she breathed, ‘No Credit.’
    ‘Annie, you’ve got to hide me.’
    But no, already