Bat detached his electro-steamer from his home, to have it ready in case of emergency, but left it to wander about on foot on the off chance that he could be of some assistance to someone setting up one of the larger and consequently more awkward homes. Jim Blake, for instance, could usually use an extra hand. Jim might be one of the most prominent artists in New Woodstock but he wasn’t mechanically-minded enough to wind a clock.

Blake, however, had secured the services of one of his neighbors who didn’t have to set up since his home was a single unit. Ferd Zogbaum, a bachelor, lived in what was usually called a camper, a very compact bus-like vehicle that combined the electro-steamer and living quarters very neatly. Ferd was usually on hand to help out when help was called for. A damn good member of the community, Bat had long since decided.

Clarke and Benton as usual were having a squabble over who parked where. For some reason, known only to themselves, they invariably parked side by side and invariably got into a spat. Bat was of the opinion that they were in actuality as good friends as were their wives but that neither would admit it. He stopped long enough to put in a mild word of suggestion and they grudgingly abided by it.

Everything seemed to be settled down and Bat Hardin fell in beside Dag Stryn, the guru of the New Temple, and elderly Doc Barnes, leading toward the site’s ultra-market.

He said to the town’s doctor, “How’s Mrs. Terwilliger?”

Doc Barnes said, “She’ll be all right, Bat. I haven’t the facilities in the clinic to handle her operation but I’ll stop off with her at the first city with an adequate hospital. I have her in stasis for the time being.”

“She and Phil will have to drop behind?” Bat said, nibbling his lower lip.

“Not necessarily. She can convalesce in the clinic while we’re underway.”