“Just a darn minute! I’m coming!” the Mayor of Sciotown hollered. But the knock on his door went on insistently.
Herb Kalo carefully lit his new oil lantern—made by a craft commune five miles west of Corvallis. He recently had traded two hundred pounds of Sciotown’s best pottery work for twenty of the fine lamps and three thousand matches from Albany, a deal he felt was sure to mean his reelection this fall.
The knocking grew louder. “All right! This had better be damn important!” He threw the bolt and opened the door.
It was Douglas Kee, the man on gate duty tonight. Kalo blinked. “Is there a problem, Doug? What’s the—“
“Man here to see you, Herb,” the gateman interrupted. “I wouldn’t’ve let him in after curfew, but you told us about him when you got back from Corvallis—and I didn’t want to keep him standin’ out in the rain.”
Out of the dripping gloom stepped a tall man in a slick poncho. A shiny badge on his cap glittered in the lamplight. He held out his hand.
“Mr. Mayor, it’s good to see you again. I wonder if we could talk.”