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2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov. 1970-NTC- “Pop’s Place”: I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time-10: 17 P. M. zone five, or eastern time, November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time and date; we must.

The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I didn’t like his looks — I never had — but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep’s smile.

Maybe I’m too critical. He wasn’t swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: “I’m an unmarried mother.  — If he felt less than murderous he would add: “at four cents a word. I write confession stories. —

If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of infighting, like a female cop — reason I wanted him. Not the only one.

He had a load on, and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.

I wiped the bar top.  — How’s the “Unmarried Mother” racket? —

His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.

I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau’s training school.  — Sorry, ” I said.  — Just asking, “How’s business? ” Make it “How’s the weather?

— He looked sour.  — Business is okay. I write “em, they print “em, I eat. —

I poured myself one, leaned toward him.

It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: “‘Woman’s angle! ”” he repeated with a snort.  — Yeah, I know the woman’s angle. I should. —

“So? — I said doubtfully.  — Sisters? —

“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. —

“Now, now, ” I answered mildly, “bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do-well, you’d make yourself rich. Incredible. —

“You don’t know what “incredible” means! “

“So? Nothing astonishes me. I’ve always heard worse. —

He snorted again.  — Want to bet the rest of the bottle? —

“I’ll bet a full bottle.  — I placed one on the bar.

“Well-” I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box-private as a bed where we were.

“Okay, ” he began, “to start with, I’m a bastard. —

“No distinction around here, ” I said.

“I mean it, ” he snapped.  — My parents weren’t married. —

“Still no distinction, ” I insisted.  — Neither were mine. —