Ragle got out his wallet. "One bill," he said. He handed the boy a dollar bill; the boy accepted it. "That's plenty.

After the boys had again conferred, the one with the cigar stuck up two fingers.

"Okay," Ragle said. "Do you have any more ones?" he asked Vic.

Digging into his pocket Vic said, "Be sure you want to go along with this."

The alternative, as he saw it, was to remain on the street corner, with no idea where they were or what to do. "Let's take a chance," he said, accepting the bills and passing them over to the boy. "Now," he said to the boys. "Let's have the plenty woojy."

The boys nodded, bowed from the waist, and stalked away. He and Vic, after hesitating, followed them.

The journey took them down damp-smelling, twisting alleys, across lawns and up driveways. At last the boys led them over a fence and up a flight of steps, to a door. One of the boys rapped on the door. It opened.

"Necktie-fellows quickly walkinachamber," the boy whispered, as he and his companion squeezed inside.

Unstable brown light filled the room. To Ragle, it appeared to be a commonplace, rather barren apartment. He saw, through an open door, a kitchen with sink, table, stove, refrigerator. Two other doors had been left shut. In the room sat several boys, all on the floor. The only furniture was a lamp, a table, a television set, and a pile of books. Some of the boys wore the robes, sandals, topknots, and bracelets. The others wore single-breasted suits, white shirts, argyle socks, oxfords. All gazed at Ragle and Vic.

"Here woojy," the boy with the cigar said. "You makum sitsit." He indicated the floor.

"What do you say?" Vic said.

Ragle said, "Can't we take the woojy with us?"

"No," one of the seated boys said. "Sniff sitinachamber."

The boy with the cigar opened a door and disappeared into the other room. After a time he returned with a bottle which he handed to Ragle. Everyone watched as Ragle accepted the bottle.

As soon as he had unscrewed the lid, he recognized it.

Vic, sniffing, said, "It's plain pure carbon tet."

"Yes," Ragle said. They've been sitting around sniffing carbon tet, he realized. This is woojy.

"Sniff," one of the boys said.

Ragle sniffed. Off and on, during his life, he had had occasion to get a noseful of carbon tet. It had no effect on him, except to make his head ache. He passed the bottle to Vic. "Here," he said.

"No thanks," Vic said.

One of the boys in a suit said in a high-pitched voice, "Necktie-fellows bedivere."

Everyone smiled cuttingly.

"That's a girl," Vic said. "That one there."

Those in suits, oxfords, shirts and argyles were girls. Their hair had been shaved right to their scalps. But, by their smaller, more delicate features, Ragle recognized them as girls. They wore no make-up. If one of them hadn't spoken, he would not have known.

Ragle said, "Pretty sissy woojy."

The room became silent.

One of the girls said, "Necktie-fellow, him play strange fruit by-an-by."

The faces of the boys had darkened. At last one of the boys arose, walked over to the corner of the room, and picked up a tall slim cloth bag. From the bag he slipped a plastic tube with holes spaced along it. He placed one end of the tube in his nose, covered the holes with his fingers, and then humming, began to play a tune on the tube. A nose-flute.

"Sweet flute-flute," one of the girls, in her suit, said.

The boy lowered the flute, wiped his nose with a small colored cloth which he drew from his sleeve, and then said in the general direction of Ragle and Vic, "How's it feel being a lunatic?"

The jargon has lapsed, Ragle thought. Now that they're sore. The others in the room, the girls especially, stared at Ragle and Vic.

"A lunatic?" one of the girls said faintly. "Really?" she asked the boy.

"Sure," the boy said. "Necktie-fellows lunatic." He smirked. But he, too, looked uneasy. "Isn't that right?" he demanded.

Ragle said nothing. Beside him Vic ignored the boy.

"You by yourselves?" another boy asked. "Or are there any more of you around?"

"Just us," Ragle said.

They stared at him wildly.

"Yes," he said. "I admit it." It seemed to command respect from them, unlike anything else. "We're lunatics."

None of the kids moved. They sat rigidly.

One of the boys laughed. "So necktie-fellows lunatic. So what?" Shrugging, he too went over and got his nose-flute.

"Strike up the flute-flute," a girl said. Now three flutes had started to whine.

"We're wasting our time here," Vic said.

"Yes," he agreed. "We better leave." He started to open the door, but as he did so, one of the boys removed the flute from his nose and said,

"Hey, necktie-fellows."

They stopped.

The boy said, "MP after you. You go outadoor, MP catch." He resumed his fluting. The others nodded.

"You know what MP do with lunatic?" a girl said. "MP give dose of cc."

"What's that?" Vic said.

All of them laughed. None of them answered. The fluting and humming continued.

"Necktie-fellows pale," a boy said, between breaths. Outside, on the stairs, a tread made the floor shake. The fluting ceased. A knock.

They have us now, Ragle thought. No one in the room moved as the door opened.

"You darn kids," a raspy voice muttered. A gray-haired elderly woman, immense in a shapeless silk wrapper, peered into the room. She had furred slippers on her feet. "I told you no piping after ten o'clock. Cut it out." She glared at them all, from half-shut eyes. At that point she noticed Ragle and Vic. "Oh," she said, with suspicion. "Who are you?"

They tell her, Ragle thought, and then she flounders back down the steps in a state of panic. And the tanks -- or whatever the MPs come in -- arrive at the bottom. Ted the driver has had plenty of time, by now. So has the waitress. So has everyone.

Anyhow, he thought, we've been out and we've seen that it is 1998, not 1959, and a war is in progress, and the kids now talk like and dress like West African natives and the girls wear men's clothing and shave their heads. And money as we know it has dropped out somewhere along the line. Along with diesel trucks. But, he thought with sudden pessimism, we didn't learn what it's all about. Why they set up the old town, the old cars and streets, kidded us for years

"Who are these two gentlemen?" the elderly woman inquired.

A pause, and then one of the girls, with a mischievous grin, said, "Looking for rooms."

"What?" the old woman said, with disbelief.

"Sure," a boy said. "They showed up here looking for a room to rent. Stumbling around. Don't you gotcha porch light on?"

"No," the old woman said. She got out a handkerchief and wiped at her soft, wrinkled forehead; under the pressure the flesh yielded. "I had retired." To Ragle and Vic, she said, "I'm Mrs. McFee. I own this apartment house. What kind of rooms did you want?"

Before Ragle could think of an answer, Vic said, "Anything will do. What do you have?" He glanced at Ragle, showing his relief.

"Well," she said, beginning to waddle back out onto the stairs, "if you two gentlemen will follow me, I'll just show you." On the stairs, she gripped the railing and swung her head to peer back at them. "Come on," she said, gasping for breath. Her face had swollen with exertion. "I've got some very attractive property. You wanted something together, the two of you?" Eying them doubtfully, she said, "Let's step into my office and I can chat with you about your employment and--" she started on down again, step by step -- "other particulars."

At the bottom, with much muttering and gasping she located a light switch; a bare bulb winked on, showing them the path that led along the side of the house to the front porch. On the porch an old-fashioned cane rocking chair could be seen. Old-fashioned even from their standpoint. Some things never change, Ragle thought.