The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories by Philip K. Dick

office, according to Sheriff Duff. It was said the man was recently noticed in this area and had been watched continually. It was—
     
    Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart pounded. That was all he needed to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the very edge of the hills. He smiled. Already he had discovered the exact time and place. Now he needed only to go back, perhaps to November, to Cooper Creek—
    He walked back through the main section of town, past the library, past the grocery store. It would not be hard; the hard part was over. He would go there; rent a room, prepare to wait until the man appeared.
    He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway loaded down with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her pass. The woman glanced at him. Suddenly her face turned white. She stared, her mouth open.
    Conger hurried on. He looked back. What was wrong with her? The woman was still staring; she had dropped the packages to the ground. He increased his speed. He turned a second corner and went up a side street. When he looked back again the woman had come to the entrance of the street and was starting after him. A man joined her, and the two of them began to run toward him.
    He lost them and left town, striding quickly, easily, up into the hills at the edge of town. When he reached the cage he stopped. What had happened? Was it something about his clothing? His dress?
    He pondered. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.
    Conger sat before the wheel. For a moment he waited, his hands resting lightly on the control. Then he turned the wheel, just a little, following the control readings carefully.
    The grayness settled down around him.
    But not for very long.
     
    The man looked him over critically. “You better come inside,” he said. “Out of the cold.”
    “Thanks.” Conger went gratefully through the open door, into the living room. It was warm and close from the heat of the little kerosene heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.
    “It’s a good room,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Appleton. It’s got heat. You need that this time of year.”
    “Yes.” He nodded, looking around.
    “You want to eat with us?”
    “What?”
    “You want to eat with us?” The man’s brows knitted. “You’re not a foreigner, are you, mister?”
    “No.” He smiled. “I was born in this country. Quite far west, though.”
    “California?”
    “No.” He hesitated. “Oregon.”
    “What’s it like up there?” Mrs. Appleton asked. “I hear there’s a lot of trees and green. It’s so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself.”
    “That’s the Middle West,” the man said to her. “You ain’t no foreigner.”
    “Oregon isn’t foreign, either,” Conger said. “It’s part of the United States.”
    The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger’s clothing.
    “That’s a funny suit you got on, mister,” he said. “Where’d you get that?”
    Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. “It’s a good suit,” he said. “Maybe I better go some other place, if you don’t want me here.”
    They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. “We just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always warning us about them.”
    “The Reds?” He was puzzled.
    “The government says they’re all around. We’re supposed to report anything strange or unusual, anybody doesn’t act normal.”
    “Like me?”
    They looked embarrassed. “Well, you don’t look like a Red to me,” the man said. “But we have to be careful. The Tribune says—”
    Conger half listened. It was going to be easier than he had thought. Clearly, he would know as soon as the Founder appeared. These people, so suspicious of anything different, would be buzzing and gossiping and spreading the story. All he had to do was