“Then, maybe Sandy Jespersen. That Curtiss-Wright of his would make it to Iowa. Sooner or later.” To Joe the official said, “Go out by hangar three and look for a red and white Curtiss biplane. You’ll see a little short guy, sort of fat, fiddling around with it. If he don’t take you up on it nobody here will, unless you want to wait till tomorrow for Ike McGee to come back here in his Fokker trimotor.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, and left the building. He strode rapidly toward hangar three, already seeing what looked like a red and white Curtiss-Wright biplane. At least I won’t be making the trip in a World War JN training plane, he said to himself. And then he thought, How did I know that “Jenny” is a nickname for a JN trainer? Good god, he thought. Elements of this period appear to be developing corresponding coordinates in my mind. No wonder I was able to drive the LaSalle; I’m beginning to phase mentally with this time-continuum in earnest!

A short fat man with red hair puttered with an oily rag at the wheels of his biplane; he glanced up as Joe approached.

“Are you Mr. Jespersen?” Joe asked.

“That’s right.” The man surveyed him, obviously mystified by Joe’s clothes, which had not reverted. “What can I do for you?” Joe told him.

“You want to trade a LaSalle, a new LaSalle, for a one-way trip to Des Moines?” Jespersen cogitated, his brows knitting. “Might as well be both ways; I got to fly back here anyway. Okay, I’ll take a look at it. But I’m not promising anything; I haven’t made up my mind.”

Together they made their way to the parking lot.

“I don’t see any ’39 LaSalle,” Jespersen said suspiciously.

The man was right. The LaSalle had disappeared. In its place Joe saw a fabric-top Ford coupe, a tinny and small car, very old, 1929, he guessed. A black 1929 Model-A Ford. Nearly worthless; he could tell that from Jespersen’s expression.

Obviously, it was now hopeless. He would never get to Des Moines. And, as Runciter had pointed out in his TV commercial, this meant death—the same death that had overtaken Wendy and Al.

It would be only a matter of time.

Better, he thought, to die another way. Ubik, he thought. He opened the door of his Ford and got in.

There, on the seat beside him, rested the bottle which he had received in the mail. He picked it up—

And discovered something which did not really surprise him. The bottle, like the car, had again regressed. Seamless and flat, with scratch marks on it, the kind of bottle made in a wooden mold. Very old indeed; the cap appeared to be handmade, a soft tin screw-type dating from the late nineteenth century. The label, too, had changed; holding the bottle up, he read the words printed on it.

And, in smaller type, a further inscription; he had to squint in order to read the smudged, minute script.

Runciter, he realized. Still playing his sadistic cat-and-mouse games with us. Goading us into keeping going a little longer. Delaying the end as long as possible. God knows why. Maybe, he thought, Runciter enjoys our torment. But that isn’t like him; that’s not the Glen Runciter I knew.

However, Joe put the Elixir of Ubique bottle down, abandoning the idea of making use of it.

And wondered what Runciter’s elusive, hinted at other way might be.

“Hey, that bottle you have,” Jespersen said; he peered into the car, an unusual note in his voice. “Can I look at it?”

Joe Chip wordlessly passed the aviator the flat bottle of Elixir of Ubique.

“My grandmother used to talk about this,” Jespersen said, holding the bottle up to the light. “Where’d you get it? They haven’t made this since around the time of the Civil War.”

“I inherited it,” Joe said.

“You must have. Yeah, you don’t see these handmade flasks any more. The company never put out very many of these in the first place. This medicine was invented in San Francisco around 1850. Never sold in stores; the customers had to order it made up. It came in three strengths. This what you have here, this is the strongest of the three.” He eyed Joe. “Do you know what’s in this?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “Oil of peppermint, zinc oxide, sodium citrate, charcoal—”

“Let it go,” Jespersen interrupted. Frowning, he appeared to be busily turning something over in his mind. Then, at last, his expression changed. He had come to a decision. “I’ll fly you to Des Moines in exchange for this flask of Elixir of Ubique. Let’s get started; I want to do as much of the flying as possible in daylight.” He strode away from the ’29 Ford, taking the bottle with him.

Ten minutes later the Curtiss-Wright biplane had been gassed, the prop manually spun, and, with Joe Chip and Jespersen aboard, it began weaving an erratic, sloppy path down the runway, bouncing into the air and then collapsing back again. Joe gritted his teeth and hung on.

“We’re carrying so much weight,” Jespersen said without emotion; he did not seem alarmed. The plane at last wobbled up into the air, leaving the runway permanently behind; noisily it droned over the rooftops of buildings, on its way west.

Joe yelled, “How long will it take to get there?”

“Depends on how much tailwind we get. Hard to say. Probably around noon tomorrow if our luck holds out.”

“Will you tell me now,” Joe yelled, “what’s in the bottle?”

“Gold flakes suspended in a base composed mostly of mineral oil,” the pilot yelled back.

“How much gold? Very much?”

Jespersen turned his head and grinned without answering. He did not have to say; it was obvious.

The old Curtiss-Wright biplane blurpled on, in the general direction of Iowa.

At three in the afternoon the following day they reached the airfield at Des Moines. Having landed the plane, the pilot sauntered off for parts unknown, carrying his flask of gold flakes with him. With aching, cramped stiffness, Joe climbed from the plane, stood for a time rubbing his numb legs, and then unsteadily headed toward the airport office, as little of it as there was.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked an elderly rustic official who sat hunched over a weather map, absorbed in what he was doing.

“If you got a nickel.” The official, with a jerk of his cowlick head, indicated the public phone.

Joe sorted through his money, casting out all the coins which had Runciter’s profile on them; at last he found an authentic buffalo nickel of the period and laid it before the elderly official.

“Ump,” the official grunted without looking up.

Locating the local phone book, Joe extracted from it the number of the Simple Shepherd Mortuary. He gave the number to the operator, and presently his party responded.

“Simple Shepherd Mortuary. Mr. Bliss speaking.”

“I’m here to attend the services for Glen Runciter,” Joe said. “Am I too late?” He prayed silently that he was not.

“Services for Mr. Runciter are in progress right now,” Mr. Bliss said. “Where are you, sir? Would you like us to send a vehicle to fetch you?” He seemed fussily disapproving.

“I’m at the airport,” Joe said.