called it disdainfully, “a stealer of other birds’ catches,” in urging the adoption of the turkey as the national emblem instead). If there was an S below the eagle—signifying the San Francisco Mint …
Ellery took out his little magnifying glass and searched out the mint mark. Disappointment washed over him. It was not S . It was CC .
Of course— CC , Carson City. The capital of Nevada had had its own mint in those days, when a flood of silver poured out of the nine-year-old state’s rich mines. And then as now Nevadans had favored hard coin over paper money … He checked the other coins. All bore the CC mint mark.
Ellery restacked them with great care in the same two perfect columns and closed the glass door of the china closet.
While not the priceless silver dollar of the 1873 San Francisco mintage, the 1873 CC was valuable enough. Each specimen, he guessed, would be worth about two hundred dollars now—perhaps more, considering their perfect condition. But again the question was: Who in Quenan would even think of stealing money? And what good would it do him if he succeeded? That the would-be thief had any knowledge of the coins’ numismatic value he discounted at once. No, to the Quenanite thief the coins would have, at the most, their face value. And to steal a handful of dollars invested with the taboo of sacred objects … Ellery shook his head. Whatever value these coins represented to the thief, it was not material. But what? He could not even guess.
He left the sanquetum, its shadows shifting weirdly with his movements, and locked and tried the door. Then he went seeking the Teacher at the school.
Gravely, Ellery returned the key.
“Where,” he asked the old man, “is the Chronicler to be found?”
The Chronicler provided an antic note to Ellery’s sojourn in the Valley. The old Quenanite sported a crop of curly, grizzled whiskers, rather short. No hair grew on his upper lip, which had sunken into his upper jaw from the long-time absence of incisors. This gave the lip a remarkable flexibility. He would suck it in with a rather startling noise, a combination smack-click ; this caused his lower lip to shoot forward, so that the total effect was of a sort of spitting, intelligent old monkey. The old man’s shoulders were frail and bowed; his head was bald except for a matted gray fringe, like a tonsure. I know, Ellery thought suddenly: he looks like that bust of Socrates.
For the occasion the Chronicler fished out of his robe an extraordinary device. Two pieces of glass had been fitted into a wooden frame, the ends of which were pierced for leathery thongs that ended in loops. Only when the old man fitted them to his eyes and slipped the loops over his ears did Ellery realize that they were hand-crafted spectacles. He seemed to have greater difficulty seeing through them than without them, so obviously the lenses had been salvaged from some mysterious out-world source and fitted into homemade frames. Perhaps they went with the office.
“Do I have your meaning, Elroï?” the Chronicler asked in a cracked tremolo. “Whence you come, the years have numbers, not names?”
“Yes.”
“Thunderation! And do the people ( smick! ) have numbers as well?
“No, names, unless they misbehave. Yes, this is our year 1944.”
“( Smick! ) 1944 what , Elroï?”
“A.D. That stands for Anno Domini . In the Year of Our Lord. Of the Christian era.”
“Ne-e-e-ever ( smick! ) heard-of-it.”
“Which year is it, Chronicler, according to the Quenan calendar?”
The Chronicler had been peering into a scroll taken at Ellery’s request from its repository jar in his record room. He looked up from the scroll at Ellery’s question, amazed.
“The year it is now ? ( Smick! ) Blessed be the Wor’d! How should I know?”
Half amused, half confused, “Who, then, should know?” Ellery asked.
“Why, no one! No one at all! ( Smick! ) A year’s got no name till it’s over, you know. How could it?
Ellery took out his little magnifying glass and searched out the mint mark. Disappointment washed over him. It was not S . It was CC .
Of course— CC , Carson City. The capital of Nevada had had its own mint in those days, when a flood of silver poured out of the nine-year-old state’s rich mines. And then as now Nevadans had favored hard coin over paper money … He checked the other coins. All bore the CC mint mark.
Ellery restacked them with great care in the same two perfect columns and closed the glass door of the china closet.
While not the priceless silver dollar of the 1873 San Francisco mintage, the 1873 CC was valuable enough. Each specimen, he guessed, would be worth about two hundred dollars now—perhaps more, considering their perfect condition. But again the question was: Who in Quenan would even think of stealing money? And what good would it do him if he succeeded? That the would-be thief had any knowledge of the coins’ numismatic value he discounted at once. No, to the Quenanite thief the coins would have, at the most, their face value. And to steal a handful of dollars invested with the taboo of sacred objects … Ellery shook his head. Whatever value these coins represented to the thief, it was not material. But what? He could not even guess.
He left the sanquetum, its shadows shifting weirdly with his movements, and locked and tried the door. Then he went seeking the Teacher at the school.
Gravely, Ellery returned the key.
“Where,” he asked the old man, “is the Chronicler to be found?”
The Chronicler provided an antic note to Ellery’s sojourn in the Valley. The old Quenanite sported a crop of curly, grizzled whiskers, rather short. No hair grew on his upper lip, which had sunken into his upper jaw from the long-time absence of incisors. This gave the lip a remarkable flexibility. He would suck it in with a rather startling noise, a combination smack-click ; this caused his lower lip to shoot forward, so that the total effect was of a sort of spitting, intelligent old monkey. The old man’s shoulders were frail and bowed; his head was bald except for a matted gray fringe, like a tonsure. I know, Ellery thought suddenly: he looks like that bust of Socrates.
For the occasion the Chronicler fished out of his robe an extraordinary device. Two pieces of glass had been fitted into a wooden frame, the ends of which were pierced for leathery thongs that ended in loops. Only when the old man fitted them to his eyes and slipped the loops over his ears did Ellery realize that they were hand-crafted spectacles. He seemed to have greater difficulty seeing through them than without them, so obviously the lenses had been salvaged from some mysterious out-world source and fitted into homemade frames. Perhaps they went with the office.
“Do I have your meaning, Elroï?” the Chronicler asked in a cracked tremolo. “Whence you come, the years have numbers, not names?”
“Yes.”
“Thunderation! And do the people ( smick! ) have numbers as well?
“No, names, unless they misbehave. Yes, this is our year 1944.”
“( Smick! ) 1944 what , Elroï?”
“A.D. That stands for Anno Domini . In the Year of Our Lord. Of the Christian era.”
“Ne-e-e-ever ( smick! ) heard-of-it.”
“Which year is it, Chronicler, according to the Quenan calendar?”
The Chronicler had been peering into a scroll taken at Ellery’s request from its repository jar in his record room. He looked up from the scroll at Ellery’s question, amazed.
“The year it is now ? ( Smick! ) Blessed be the Wor’d! How should I know?”
Half amused, half confused, “Who, then, should know?” Ellery asked.
“Why, no one! No one at all! ( Smick! ) A year’s got no name till it’s over, you know. How could it?
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