By Clifford D. Simak
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Although, actually, it made little difference. She'd not remember me. I'd met Philip's wife only once or twice. We said good night and I sat dazed in the booth. Philip dead—shot down by an arrow. Arrows were not used today to get rid of people. Nor were, for that matter, such things as sea serpents or a den of rattlesnakes. I stooped down and fumbled around, picking up the money I had dropped. Something was tapping at the door of the booth and I looked up. The bartender had his face pressed against the window and when he saw me look up, he quit his tapping and waved his hand at me.
Woodman. " "I know where it is. " "No," I said. "I think time may be important. We can take turns driving. " "Just drive slowly down the main street. It's the only street there is—the state highway. I'll be watching for you. " "I feel foolish," she said. " "Melodramatic," I suggested. "I suppose you could call it that. " "I'll be there," she said, "in half an hour.
That was the lure and the pull of a place like Pilot Knob— the comfortable feeling that you knew what other people were thinking and were able to join with them in a comfortable sort of talk, to sit around the spittle-scarred stove hi the store and talk about when the northern flight would be coming through, or about how the fish had started to bite down in Proctor's Slough, or how the last rain had helped the corn or how the violent storm of the night before had put down all the oats and barley.