Miriam Allen De Ford

“ Then if it was such a great antique they'd not only have the guy's fingerprints but they'd also find out who knew her that worked in a museum or had a chance to steal it from one. That's elementary homicide procedure."
"You see," said Mikel, "this also you won't believe. But our police are not conditioned to take care of killings. This is the first time in my whole life that I have ever even heard of one, except by accident. The psychologists wouldn't allow anyone to grow up who had murderous tendencies that couldn't be sublimated." ”

“ You have given me good advice. I know now it is my duty to take the knife back with me, and give it to the police. I shall tell them also about looking for somebody in a museum, as you suggested. But there will be no fingerprints—I washed the knife in that fountain, when I hoped to sell it. I forgot it must exist in my era, or the murder could not have occurred.
"But that is not my big problem now. I have no money of your time. How shall I live until I can go home?" ”

“ There's nothing valuable about that thing. It's just an ordinary kitchen knife."
"Not valuable?" Mikel's face fell. "But look—wooden handle, steel blade."
"So what? Every knife has a wooden handle and a steel blade."
"You will not give me money for it?"
"Of course not. We don't buy junk."
There was no use arguing. One age's antique is another age's junk. Mikel sighed and departed quietly. How was he to get food and shelter for a week?
He went back to the park and sat down again on a bench. He put the knife back in his pouch. ”

“ The restaurant had a long counter of some white substance, with stools fixed before it. Only one man sat there eating, but behind it stood another man dressed in white, with a white cap on his head. Mikel perched himself on the nearest stool.
"Hamburger, coffee, please," he said, and laid Beti's money beside him on the counter.
The other customer looked up and eyed him sharply, but the man behind the counter merely yelled "One on a bun!" through a hole in the wall. "Mustard?" he asked, "Onions? Cream?"
"No, Citizen. Hamburger, coffee," Mikel repeated, flustered. ”

“ He wanted to help, to avenge her; he wanted to be home again.
His stomach reminded him sharply that he had had no lunch. He had never heard how long a man could go without eating. Could he even live through the week? ”

“ Nobody was looking at him; everybody was still yelling at everybody else, and the sweating guards were trying to line people up and blocking the doors so that they could not get away. Mikel ran to the corridor back of the counters, which the ticket-sellers used, and saw that the company door to the Teleport was open. ”

“ That will be creds 500, please." "You mean you want a ticket for here in Los, for a week six years ago in February? Why, yes, it's a little unusual, but—oh, certainly, I understand—a second honeymoon. Congrats, Citizen—not many couples stay together that long! Just a min, while I look up the rate for two."
The queue seemed endless, and crowds of travelers who already had their tickets were pushing their way through the doors back of the ticket-office to the Teleport itself, together with the friends who were seeing them off. ”

“ Certainly this was not his Los—his giant city stretching from Mex to Sanfran without a break. This was a little place of probably not much more than two million inhabitants. Well, here he was for a week, and he'd better find out how he was going to eat and sleep. Properly equipped time travelers had money of the right period, but the cred checks in his pouch would do him no good now. What did he have on him that could be exchanged for board and lodging?
Only one object of undoubted value. The knife. ”