Harold agreed to mind the store while I went to Altamont.

"I can stay this time. It might be a letdown after Woodstock anyway, but I'm happy you changed your mind."

"Like you said, where's the harm in it?"

In fact, I'd have skipped it except for the harm. This was the first time the dream archives contradicted my other recollections. As Raymond, I had researched Altamont and knew the outline of events. The total number of fatalities had been four. Three were accidental, comparable to the two deaths at Woodstock. The fourth, which set it apart, was the stabbing death of an audience member named Meredith Hunter. There had been multiple injuries as well, due to scuffles with Hells Angels hired as "security."

Altamont was not the riot reported in my dream as far as I knew. Still, this Woodstock West had been enough to put the kibosh on any Woodstock North or South. I lost confidence in my ability to predict what would happen. I knew I had to be there. Maybe I had a role. Maybe I could find a way to stop Hunter. Whatever his grievance, he approached the stage with a gun, and that was a fatal mistake. But he had come to the festival to hear music like everyone else. He had come with his girlfriend. The whole tragedy was needless and avoidable.

What was I doing here with this crazy quilt of future knowledge? Could it really be just to ride along, pick out bands from a cheatsheet and collect my agent fees? For the first time I wondered if I had a role in changing the future. Altamont was poorly planned and bound to be a mess, but what if I could nudge it just a little? I looked over at Harold with his hair now approaching his shoulders. I looked at the poncho and peace pendant he had taken to wearing since Woodstock. Maybe he could have his Age of Aquarius after all.

This once, I would use my foreknowledge for good. I'd do it for a friend who helped me. I'd do it for peace and love. It didn't feel like me, not the Reuben Kincaid I thought I was. But there must be some reason for these powers.

I drove up to Altamont the next day. It was the first time I'd been this far north in California in my present life, but it seemed familiar. I suppressed the urge to take a detour to San Francisco. I stayed focused, heading straight to a place so remote that only a serious auto-racing fan would have known about it before this festival. It was somewhere between Livermore and Tracy, and who even heard of them?

There was nothing I could do about the main problem. To be clear, I have nothing against bikers being bikers. This just wasn't the kind of crowd they should be mixing with. There were bound to be fights between Angels and the audience, or Angels and performers for that matter. I was here to prevent the death of one man, Meredith Hunter. I had little to go on but a memory of a young black man with a large hat. It was always that one picture. There was no reason to assume he'd be wearing the same hat. And what would I do when I found him? Either prevent what caused him to approach the stage in the first place, or maybe just divert him somehow. So many things had gone wrong. Just change one of them, I thought.

Another side of me figured I was nuts. I was still cutting my teeth as a music agent. I was not a private detective or whatever it was I trying to be here at Altamont. Still, it seemed the right thing to do, and low risk provided I stayed away from the altercation itself. Just find Hunter when he's relaxed, when he's with his girlfriend. Just distract him long enough.

Finding him in a crowd of 300,000 was a long shot. I tried asking around. He was a Berkeley student, but that hardly narrowed it down. I had some time until the Stones came on as the final act. Maybe I'd get lucky. I tried to enjoy the music as much as I could, but the vibes were wrong. There was already some violence as Jefferson Airplane performed. My chance of doing anything seemed to slip away.

As I pushed through the crowd, a sight stopped me in my tracks. Kids. Not the "kids" I expected to see, but actual children: a teenage boy and girl who might not have stood out by themselves, a school age boy with a shock of bright red hair, and two others, a girl and a boy who were way too young for this scene. What were they doing here?

Now I can sound pretty mean when it comes to children. Let's face it, they are kind of a drag to have around when adults want to play. But I thought of that dream and my protective instincts took over. I went up to them.

"Hey kids," I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster, "You look a long way from home. Do your parents know you're here?"

I bet I was the first one in the whole sea of listeners to try that tone on them. The teenage boy jumped to his feet.

"Yeah, man. My mom knows. We live pretty close."

"We're from San Pueblo, near Napa," offered the red-haired boy confidently. "Keith has a license. He drove here before."

Keith went on. "Exactly. Like I told my mom, it's just over in Tracy."

"My name is Tracy," said the younger girl.

"Right. I said to Mom, we're bringing Tracy to Tracy. What could possibly go wrong?"

There was no arguing with that logic.

"My name is Chris," added the youngest boy, not wanting to be left out.

"Now if you'll excuse us, mister," finished Keith. "The Rolling Stones will be coming on and we want to get as close to the stage as we can."

The teenage girl just looked at me with a smile that said don't worry, it'll all be groovy.

No! I had to think fast.

"I'm a professional," I began. "an agent. I listen to music for a living. And the acoustics in an outdoor venue like this..."

Keith must have stopped paying attention at "agent."

"We have a band."

Who doesn't, I wondered. "Sorry, not taking new clients at the moment."

The red-haired boy interrupted. "That's OK. I have an inside track with a guy in LA. I sent him a tape." The two teens looked at him.

"I'll explain later," he replied to their stares.

"Anyway," I continued. "the thing about these acoustics, you really want to be, uh, as far from the stage as you can be."

I could tell they weren't buying it. Another tack, then.

"I was at the Monterey Festival," I lied. "Where it all began. The Summer of Love. I even put flowers in my hair, you know, like that song."

Now I had them. I knew enough about Monterey to spin some amazing yarns.

"Are you a hippie?" asked Chris.

"Just that once. Usually I keep what we in the business call professional distance, but that was a wild time..."

As I held their attention, we moved gradually farther from the stage. If I could get them out of harm's way, then just maybe I would have one last chance to find Hunter.

Too late. The Rolling Stones were coming on stage.

I was deep into an elaborate fiction starring Ravi Shankar when Keith interrupted.

"You're pretty cool. I mean for an old guy. No offense. But we really want to see the Stones close up."

"Well, uh, you mean you don't want the best listening spot? I can help with that."

He shook his head.

I did a mental calculation. The stabbing would be almost halfway into the set if I couldn't prevent it. Even with this crowd, they might make it close enough to be in danger. I needed another delay.

"So you kids have a band? Really? Tell me about that."

It was my last chance and it worked. I listened as they told me about their family act. Not bad, I thought. There was some real passion there. I kept them going just long enough. When it seemed safe, I wished them luck and started to go.

"Hey, can we have, like, your card?"

I felt my pockets. "Oh darn. I didn't bring any, but uh, next time, all right?" I escaped into the crowd and made one last attempt to stop the stabbing.

Evening had set in and it was difficult to see anything. "Excuse me. Excuse me." I repeated, squeezing my way through tight groups. It was draining to have to move in front of so many people who had just come there to enjoy the show. I had an important reason, but not one I could tell anyone. I just looked like some jerk who wanted a better spot.

I thought about my dream. That part at least wasn't going to happen. I had found the six-year-old girl from San Pueblo and she was no more likely to make it near the stabbing victim than I was. Maybe there was no stabbing. How could any of this be true? I held out the hope that it was all my imagination.

As I made my way closer to the stage, I knew my effort was futile. Part of the way into "Under My Thumb", there was a tussle in front of the stage. Nobody near me knew what it was. The audience had gotten used to disturbances by now. It wasn't even the first time this set had been interrupted by violence. I knew exactly what happened and wanted to throw up.

The band started the song over and got on with the concert.