He knew now what had happened. Apparently he had landed somewhere in his own future, shortly after his own death. Someone else had taken over the bureau, and he, Mahler had been forgotten. He suddenly realized with a little shock that at that very moment his ashes were probably posing in an urn at the Appalachia Crematorium.

When he got to the chief of the bureau, he would simply and calmly explain exactly what had happened and ask for permission to go back ten or twenty or thirty years to the time in which he belonged. Once there, he could turn the two-way rig over to the proper authorities and resume his life from his point of departure. When that happened, the jumpers would no longer be sent to the Moon, and there would be no further need for Inflexible Mahler.

But, he suddenly realized, if he’d already done that why was there still a clearance bureau? An uneasy fear began to, grow in him.

“Hurry up and finish that report,” Mahler told the medic.

“I don’t know what the rush is,” the medic complained. “Unless you like it on the Moon.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Mahler said confidently. “If I told you who I am, you’d think twice about—”

“Is this thing your time rig?” the medic asked unexpectedly. “Not really. I mean—yes, yes it is,” Mahler said. “And be careful with it. It’s the world’s only two-way rig.”

“Really, now!” said the medic. “Two ways, eh?”

“Yes. And if you’ll take me to your chief—”

“Just a minute. I’d like to show this to the head medic.”

In a few moments the medic returned. “All right, we’ll go to the chief now. I’d advise you not to bother arguing with him. You can’t win. You should have stayed in your own age.”

Two guards appeared and jostled Mahler down the familiar corridor to the brightly lit little office where he bad spent eight years of his life. Eight years on the other side of the fence!