It seemed a madly impossible thing, to Birrel. The year was nineteen-fifty-seven and it was twenty-five minutes to midnight on the eighth of July, and this couldn't be happening but it was.
"You were easy, easy," Vannevan was saying. "Did you think I wanted to overtake you out there on the road? All I wanted was to get close enough to pop a tracer on the back of your vehicle, and then follow you."
He was a very happy man, Vannevan. He had outwitted and beaten his enemies, and he was enjoying that part of it more than the actual capture.
He strode up and down on the old, faded carpet, but he was careful not to get in front of Birrel and Kara and Holmer.
The three sat in chairs and across the room stood Vannevan's two men. Each of them held one of the fluted metal cylinders, and each cylinder was pointing toward the three prisoners, reminding them how quickly they could be paralyzed again, or killed.
The incongruity of it gave Birrel a crazy desire to laugh. The musty old farmhouse, the smoky kerosene lamp, the ticking cuckoo-clock on the wall—and five strangers from the stars.
He wondered what a "tracer" was. He supposed it was some sort of tiny gadget that could be shot to stick onto a moving car, and broadcast a signal that could be read and followed. He doubted if he'd live long enough to find out if that was right.
Vannevan said to Birrel, "You killed Jull, didn't you?"
There was no amusement in his hard face now. It was cut out of cold iron, and Birrel had the feeling that Vannevan was every bit as tough as he thought he was.
"Who," said Birrel, "is Jull?"