Innocence was not a commodity the public would pay any great price to buy. That was Chalk’s business: supplying the public with what it demanded. Yet innocence coupled with something else might fill the current need.

Chalk played with the computer node at his left hand and said, “Good morning, David. How do you feel today?”

“It snowed last night. I like the snow.”

“The snow will be gone soon. Machines are melting it.”

“I wish I could play in the snow.” Wistfully.

“You’d chill your bones,” said Chalk. “David, what day was February 15, 2002?”

“Friday.”

“April 20, 1968?”

“Saturday.”

“How do you know?”

“It has to be like that,” said Melangio simply.

“The thirteenth President of the United States?”

“Fillmore.”

“What does the President do?”

“He lives in the White House.”

“Yes, I know,” said Chalk mildly, “but what are his duties?”

“To live in the White House. Sometimes they let him out.”

“What day of the week was November 20, 1891?”

“Friday.” Instantly.

“In the year 1811, in which months did the fifth day fall on a Monday?”

“Only August.”

“When will February 29 next fall on a Saturday?”

Melangio giggled. “That’s too easy. We only get a February 29 once every four years, so—”

“All right. Explain Leap Year to me,” said Chalk.

Blankness.

“Don’t you know why it happens, David?”

D’Amore said, “He can give you any date over nine thousand years, sir, starting from the year 1. But he can’t explain anything. Try him on weather reports.”

Chalk’s thin lips quirked. “Tell me about August 14, 2031, David.”

The high, piping voice responded: “Cool temperatures in the morning, rising to a hundred and three along the eastern seaboard by two in the afternoon when the overload coils cut in. At seven P.M. the temperature was down to eighty-two, where it remained past midnight. Then it started to rain.”