By evening, he was tired and footsore. As far as he could tell, he had discovered nothing of significance. Before he could penetrate any deeper into the complexities of Earth, he would have to question the local citizens. It was a dangerous step, but one which he could not avoid.
He stood near a clothing store in the gathering dusk and decided upon a course of action. He would pose as a foreigner, a man newly arrived in North America from Asia or Europe. In that way, he should be able to ask questions with a measure of safety.
A man was walking toward him, a plump, ordinary-looking fellow in a brown business tunic. Barrent stopped him. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I'm a stranger here, just arrived from Rome."
"Really?" the man said.
"Yes. I'm afraid I don't understand things over here very well," Barrent said, with an apologetic little laugh. "I can't seem to find any cheap hotels. If you could direct me—"
"Citizen, do you feel all right?" the man asked, his face hardening.
"As I said, I'm a foreigner, and I'm looking—"
"Now look," the man said, "you know as well as I do that there aren't any outlanders any more."
"There aren't?"
"Of course not. I've been in Rome. It's just like here in Wilmington. Same sort of houses and stores. No one's an outlander any more."