In the seven and a half decades since, however, this true picture had suffered badly.
In the absence of curtains and draperies, and in the nudeness of the mannekins whose purpose could only have been to display twentieth century costumes, Staghorn gained a hint as to where the populace got at least a part of the rags they wore. He didn't pause to examine details, however. A wall directory with a faded map of the building had given him the location of the wing of twentieth century machines. He headed there at once, passing by displays of tractors, bulldozers, jackhammers and other commonplaces before reaching the automobiles.
There was an excellent selection of standard and sports models, all a uniform gray under their coats of dust—and all of them out of gas.
After so long a time it was doubtful if any would have run anyway. He had simply hoped that one lone attendant might have kept one in working condition.
In the next room, however, he found the reward for his effort. Bicycles. He chose a racing model.
A few minutes later he was pedaling rapidly northward on the dirt road that led to High Canyon.
IV
Dr. Peccary could feel fingers probing at his sore head. A bit of damp cloth or cotton was pressed against his upper lip. The sharp odor that stabbed his nostrils made him jerk his head away and suck in his breath.
"Good. He's coming around."