"Glad to have you," the old man said, and meant it. He inspected the newcomer carefully. It would be almost too good to be true, to meet one of those actor fellows on the train. No, he decided, the clothes weren't casual enough for Hollywood; they didn't look like southern California at all. More the way he imagined an English banker would dress. Striped pants, cutaway, and a white silk scarf knotted at the throat. But an Englishman, the old man figured, would order ale instead of beer, and this one simply pointed to the old man's beer bottle when the waiter came to take his order.
"My name's George Murton," the old man said. "You can just call me George."
"Yes, indeed," the stranger agreed. "I see we shall get on famously. Mine is Sandane."
"Anybody ever tell you that you look like Wyatt Earp, Sandy?" the old man asked.
"Earp? I'm afraid I've never met the gentleman."
"Should have known. You're the bookish type. Prob'ly never watch television. Sure don't talk like a Westerner, either. You come from California or elsewhere?"
"I come from elsewhen."
Old George almost choked on a swallow of beer. Of course! That was why Sandane dressed funny, talked funny; he'd just stepped out of a time machine, like in the play last night on Channel Two. It all fitted in with the old man's feeling that this was a day for adventure. But he mustn't act too surprised; if he did, Sandane would take him for one of those old codgers who think horse-and-buggy thoughts in the jet age. A lot of younger folks, too, would say time travel was impossible, the same ones who'd called artificial satellites impossible. But George Murton had seen so many new developments in his lifetime that it was not difficult for him to accept the idea that this young man came from tomorrow.
"How long you plan to be here?" he asked casually. "Or maybe I should say—how long you plan to be here—now?"