Then his mind turned in sudden flight from the present, and he was in the winter of 1881. That was the year he had been in Chicago; he remembered things very clearly, even a red-haired girl. Yet the memory of her was not half so vivid as the memory of a storm which had moved down from Minnesota. He saw the whole map clear in his mind. Then he entered the elevator, and went down.

On the ground floor as he walked toward the door, someone greeted him:

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, sir,” he replied, blinking to clear away the little haze before his eyes. “I remember the face, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m the Chief Forecaster, sir.”

“Oh, of course. You look older.”

“Not since day before yesterday, I hope!”

(But the old man was thinking of 1902, and the bright youngster he had hired that year to sweep out the office and such things, over in the old building.)

“It is going to rain,” he said.

“Well, in that case you’ll want to stay, won’t you, and see the map made up.”

Then he remembered—that was what he had forgotten. He should have stayed, but now there was his pride.

“No, thank you, sir. No, thank you. I have some appointments.” And he walked out as stiffly as he could, into the morning darkness.

As he went along, he tapped now and then with his cane to be sure where he was. “It is going to rain,” he said to himself sometimes. “I know, I know.”

4

The Load-Dispatcher entered the Power-Light Building promptly a little before eight. His entry caused no flurry among the dozens of employees who were moving toward the elevators. Only, in one corner of the lobby two burly men were standing; there was a certain country-jake look about them, and they stood ill at ease—strangers to the city. As the Load-Dispatcher passed by, one of them nudged the other.

“That’s him!”

“Gosh, you mean the L. D.!”