The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

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The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Other works by George Alec Effinger also available in e-
reads editions 

Dirty Tricks 

The Nick of Time 

What Entropy Means to Me 

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The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

For their advice and encouragement over the years, this book 
is for Robert Silverberg and Edward L. Ferman and Shawna 
McCarthy. 

The only way to predict the future is to have power to shape 
the future. Those in possession of absolute power can not 
only prophecy and make their prophecies come true, but they 
can also lie and make their lies come true. 
Eric Hoffer 


"Fiddle-dee-dee. War, war, war. This war talk's spoiling all the 
fun at every party this spring. I get so bored I could scream. 
Besides, there isn't going to be any war! 
Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara 
Gone With the Wind 


You can't sort jam and marbles. 
Walt Kelly 


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The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

CHAPTER ONE 

BEARS BITTER FRUIT 

You know the shock of utter terror just as you're about to 
hand over a large sum of money for something you're no 
longer sure you really want. Hartstein felt it. He felt it in his 
stomach, and he felt his hand give a peculiar reluctant quiver 
as he gave his card to the man behind the counter. 

The man smiled, not pleasantly. He was dressed in the 
uniform of the Agency, the silver-and-blue tunic with the 
leatherneck collar. There were five rows of ribbons on his 
breast, signifying one thing and another, all mysterious and 
unknown to Hartstein. The man was evidently a hardened 
veteran of the Agency; it seemed odd to Hartstein to see him 
behind the counter, like a travel agent or an airline ticket 
clerk. Second thoughts? said the Agency man. 

Well, said Hartstein, no. He wasn't going to let this 
veteran see that the notion of a vacation in time made him 
just a little uneasy. It did, but not enough to make him 
change his mind. Really, it was the expense that staggered 
Hartstein more than the danger. But possibly, down 
underneath, buried successfully beneath rocky strata of more 
mundane worries, there was the tickling fear that he might be 
one of the 2 percent that never came back. 

Hartstein was a young man, recently graduated from 
college in Mississippi, about to begin a new life as an 
employee in a doughnut shop, who had been given a large 

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The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

sum of money by his grandparents with the stipulation that 
he spend it broadening his horizons, by traveling either to 
Europe or into the past. I'd love to go back in time, he 
explained to his father. Europe will always be there. 

Mr. Hartstein considered his son's urgency about the past, 
which, as far as he could see, would also always be there. 
You're going to have a great future in doughnuts, son, he 
said. 

And so, Hartstein was standing at the Agency counter in 
the lobby of the Agency Building right in the middle of Agency 
Plaza downtown. Any luggage? asked the uniformed man. 

Uh huh. Hartstein indicated a molded plastic suitcase he 
had brought with him, with extra shirts and socks, camera 
and film, and whatever else he thought he'd need. 

They didn't have molded plastic suitcases in ancient 
times, said the Agent. 

Oh, said Hartstein, that's right. He looked confused. 

Don't worry. We'll provide you with everything you'll 
need, costume, appropriate accessories, money, and so forth. 
We'll make sure your hairstyle and facial hair conform to the 
local fashion. We'll give you a quick ESB knowledge of 
language, customs, and background. You won't have to worry 
about a thing. 

I'm not, said Hartstein in an uncertain voice. Worried, I 
mean. He looked at a framed quotation hanging on the wall 
behind the agent: 

When great causes are on the move in the 
world, we learn that we are spirits, not 

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animals, and that something is going on in 

space and time, and beyond space and time, 

which, whether we like it or not, spells duty. 

Sir Winston Churchill 

It made Hartstein feel better; that was what it was there 
for. 

Good, said the man in the uniform, you're my kind of 
man. And he smiled again, no more pleasantly than the first 
time. Now don't tell me, let me guess. You're either the 
Library at Alexandria or Catherine the Great. 

Hartstein was astonished. The Library, he said. How did 
you know? 

You college boys are all alike. Okay, take this receipt up 
to the ninth floor, Room 972. They'll give you all the 
introductory material. You can travel any time you like, just 
give us twenty-four hours notice. You come in, take your ESB 
session, get outfitted, and we push you through the screen 
for your day in the past. You don't 

Can I go today? 

What? 

Hartstein swallowed. Can I do it today? he said. 

The Agent shrugged. Sure, of course. In a hurry? The 
Library isn't going anywhere. 

It's going to burn to the ground, isn't it? 

The uniformed man gave Hartstein a long, disdainful look. 
They promised to hold off on that until after you leave, he 
said. 

Oh, good. 

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The Bird of Time 

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The man handed the receipt across the counter. Take that 
upstairs. Good luck. Next? 

Room 972 was a large room; there was a counter across 
the front of it, and many desks and cubicles dividing the vast 
space to the rear. It looked like the kind of place you went to 
when the Internal Revenue Service wants to ask you a few 
questions. Hartstein's stomach began to grumble again. He 
told himself that there was no reason for anxiety, but he 
couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. Doom he had 
chosen and paid for himself, with his grandparents money. 

May I help you? asked a young woman. She seemed 
very bored. She was dressed in the same silver-and-blue 
uniform, but on hers, there were no campaign ribbons. The 
cut of the tunic was less severe as well, permitting the 
general public to evaluate certain of her characteristics. 

When Hartstein's eyes turned from the bustling activity 
around him to this attractive Agent, he lost some of his fear. 
I'd like to go to the 

The Library, I know. Yellow slip, please. He gave the 
receipt to her. When did you want to go? 

I'd like to do it today, if I could. 

She looked up at him and cracked her chewing gum. One 
eyebrow went up just a bit. In a hurry? she said. 

Hartstein shrugged. There was a framed quotation at this 
counter, too: 

The Bird of Time has but a little way 

To flyand Lo! the Bird is on the wing. 

The Rubiyt of Omar Khayym 

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The Bird of Time 

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The lines didn't mean a damn thing to Hartstein. 

Today, said the Agent, let's see. She consulted several 
clipboards and a large, black, vinyl-bound notebook. Well, 
you're in luck. There's no real problem with that. It's, what? 
it's almost eleven o'clock. So, we can have you ready by two 
o'clock. You realize that you will have exactly twenty-four 
hours in the past, no more and no less. So if you go through 
at two, then you'll be back tomorrow at two. Right? 

I understand, said Hartstein. 

And you took care of everything downstairs? Uh huh, it's 
all here on the voucher. So, is there anything you'd like to 
change? This is your last chance. 

Hartstein wasn't crazy about the way she phrased that 
remark. My last chance? he said. 

She looked up at the ceiling impatiently. You can't be 
yelling Wait a minute, I forgot something when they're 
pushing you through the screen. If you don't want to go to 
the Library, if you'd rather, say, go to see them assassinate 
Julius Caesar, you'd better do it now. We don't want to have 
to listen to your kvetching when you get back. 

The idea of Julius Caesar and Brutus and Mark Antony's 
funeral oration and all that sounded very attractive to 
Hartstein, and he considered it for a moment. 

But if I were you, said the Agent, I'd stick. You can 
spend all day in the Library. Caesar's down and dead in a 
minute, and then everybody goes to have lunch. The rest of 
the day you might as well be window-shopping in the Agency 
gift shop, for all the excitement there is. 

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The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

You're right. I'll just hang with my original plan. 

Good boy, said the young woman. Take the voucher 
through the swinging gate, follow the yellow line on the floor, 
and see Sergeant Brannick. Have a good time in Alexandria. 
Like nightfall in the jungle, boredom reappeared with terrible 
suddenness on her ordinary face. 

Through the swinging gate, she said. She pushed a 
button and a buzzer sounded. Hartstein went through the 
gate and followed the yellow line. It went through a small 
village of polished desks until it came to an end abruptly, at 
the battered oak station of Sergeant Brannick. 

Voucher, please, said the sergeant. He was a large man, 
as large as the Agent who had sold Hartstein the ticket. He 
wore the Agency uniform, decorated with as many ribbons as 
the man downstairs had had. It seemed just as odd to 
Hartstein that Brannick would be employed here, handling the 
routing of tourists. Didn't the Agency need its experienced 
personnel in the field, patrolling the freeways of time, fighting 
the unimaginable crimes that temporal terrorists would 
certainly be plotting against the sleeping citizens of the 
present? Voucher, please, said Brannick more loudly. 

Sorry, said Hartstein. He gave the man the yellow slip, 
now bent into a tiny, neat square. Will the Library be 
crowded full of other people from the present when I get 
there? 

Brannick's eyes narrowed. You won't see anybody there 
except the locals, he said. 

Oh? Why is that? Why isn't the place crammed like 
sardines with us by now? 

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The Bird of Time 

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Because The Past is an objective concept, and it doesn't 
exist like that. Just like that necklace you have on. 
Subjectively it's a chain, although objectively it's only a 
collection of links. The past doesn't work that way. It isn't 
really a long line of links extending from then until now.' 

Oh, I see, said Hartstein, even though he didn't have the 
slightest idea what Brannick was talking about. He didn't want 
to annoy the man. I've done a lot of thinking about moving 
around in time and what it could mean and what terrible 
things could happen and all the awful accidents that might 
occur if you weren't careful and all that. 

A visible change came over Sergeant Brannick. You have? 
The time business interests you? he asked, his voice 
suddenly hearty and full of hollow buddiness. 

Uh huh. What do you mean, no such thing as the past? 
Where am I going, then? 

No objective past, I said. There's definitely a past, all 
right. You're going to Alexandria and you're going to see the 
Library. While you're in town, by the way, why don't you run 
up to Pharos and see the lighthouse? It was one of the Seven 
Wonders of the Ancient World, you know, and it was still 
standing where you're going. But tell me, you think that time 
travel is more exciting than, oh, spending a few days in Las 
Vegas? 

I think so. I could have gone to Europe, but I decided to 
go back instead. 

No problem, said Brannick. Like I said, we'll talk 
tomorrow. Give my regards to Cleopatra. 

11 


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The doctor made Hartstein strip and stand with his toes on 
the yellow line. Then he told the young man to do all sorts of 
undignified things, some of which Hartstein couldn't believe 
had any diagnostic value. Your injection, said the doctor in a 
tired voice. 

I've had all my shots and boosters, said Hartstein. In 
school. 

The doctor shook his head. We have to inoculate you 
against things back there that don't even exist today. You'd 
have no protection at all against some of those diseases. 
You'd come back in such bad shape, in a week you'd look like 
Dorian Gray's painting. 

Like what? 

The doctor waved a hand. Hold still, he said. 

The yellow line took Hartstein to the ESB section. The 
procedure itself was quick, painless, and pleasant. He was 
given a mild sedative, which had him drifting in a warm, 
secure dream in a few minutes. He wasn't sure exactly how 
the knowledge was put into his mind; all he knew was that 
the letters stood for Electrical Stimulation of the Brain. It 
sounded like a sinister process, but it had been used on 
Hartstein a dozen times since childhood, during his education. 
It was a routine procedure; he was no more afraid of it than 
he was of other forms of medical editing. He lay back on the 
molded couch and put the intangible contents of his mind in 
the care of the ESB trainee who took his voucher. An hour 
later Hartstein had been processed. He took back the yellow 
slip and set out along the line once more. He tried to draw on 
his new knowledge of Egyptian language and social behavior, 

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but nothing came. He worried that perhaps the ESB treatment 
hadn't stuck, or that some kind of mistake had been made. 
He recalled, however, that he had had the same experience 
following his other ESB sessions. When he got to Alexandria, 
when he needed the knowledge, it would be there. 

The last station was the costume department. A young 
man in a tight-fitting Agency uniform told Hartstein to have a 
seat. It won't take long, God knows, said the costumer. It 
isn't as if you're going to feudal France or someplace 
interesting. He gave a wistful sigh. I've always wanted to 
work upstairs, you know. Fitting people for the Renaissance. 
Can you imagine the materials, the fashions? Maybe 
someday. Well, for now, here's yours. He handed Hartstein a 
large sealed plastic bag. 

This is it? Hartstein asked dubiously. He tossed the bag 
in one hand. It weighed very little. 

The young man shrugged. It's hot there, I guess. 

Hartstein opened the bag. Do I have to try it on here? 

The Agent closed his eyes in exasperation. One size fits 
all, he said in a dull voice. Oh, Lord, why me? 

Inside the bag was a white cotton skirt and some jewelry. 
No sandals? asked Hartstein. 

The young man massaged his forehead in supreme 
weariness. He shook his head. 

No robe? I go around bare-chested? 

The young man nodded. You get a headdress, though. 
One of those bath-towel things. 

Wow, said Hartstein without enthusiasm. He examined 
the jewelry: there was a gold bracelet with a large golden 

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scarab, which was inlaid with lapis lazuli; there was an 
elaborate golden necklace with a lapis moon riding in a golden 
boat; there were two beautiful earrings, made of gold with 
cloisonn falcons, their wings arching to form perfect circles, 
inlaid with quartz, faience, and colored glass; there was a 
heavy gold ring depicting some Egyptian god or other. The 
priceless jewelry contrasted with the simple, rough cotton 
skirt. Is this real gold? asked Hartstein. 

Certainly is. You can't get out of this building without 
giving it back. And we can always get more of that jewelry 
anytime we want, just by going to Ancient Egypt and getting 
it. Let me help you with that skirt. 

That's all right, said Hartstein, I can manage. But what 
am I supposed to be? 

The uniformed man scratched his wispy beard. A scribe, I 
suppose, or a valuable slave in a wealthy household. I don't 
know. I've never been there myself. 

Well, in History 110 we had a couple of weeks about 
Egypt, and I've seen this before. Hartstein held up the lunar 
pectoral. This is one of the King Tut treasures. 

They all are, honey. 

Hartstein stared for a moment, not understanding. But 
how am I going to get away with wearing all of this pharaoh's 
stuff, walking around the streets pretending I'm just a 
middle-class country boy with a yen to read the classics? And 
anyway, I'm going to about 50 B.C., and King Tut lived 
almost fifteen hundred years before that. All of this stuff, the 
skirt and the jewelry, is an anachronism. And the headdress 

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too. Where I'm going, they'll all be influenced by the Greek 

occupation and the Romans. 

The costumer yawned. No, they won't. 

They won't? Why not? 

They just won't, that's all. Wait until you get back there 
and then take a look around. Just remember, sweetheart, 
that the past isn't always the way you expect it to be, from 
reading books. How dreary that would be. 

Hartstein was having more misgivings. You can help me 
with the earrings, he said. Did they have screw bases 
during the reign of the Ptolemies? 

No, of course not, but do you want me to pierce your ears 
instead? 

Hartstein shook his head. 

Then just shut up and hold still. 

The transmission screen itself wasn't very impressive. 
Hartstein had heard about it since childhood, had even seen 
pictures of it, yet he had a mental image that included more 
adventure and excitement than did the real thing. He waited 
on a worn green-painted bench for twenty minutes while a 
couple of dozen other people ducked through on their way to 
various eras. Some of the destinations were easy to guess, 
because of the travelers costumes: one fat, bald man in the 
October of his years wore the skins of some mottled animal 
and carried a crude stone hatchet; two teenage girls traveling 
together wore Agency-issue outfits that disguised them as 
flower children of the 1960s; a tall, thin man with a loud voice 
and a permanent sneer wore the toga of a Roman senator. It 
gave Hartstein a feeling of being backstage at the community 

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The Bird of Time 

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theater as he glanced around the waiting room and 
catalogued the cultures and centuries represented by the 
panorama of styles. And, he reminded himself, they all came 
from plastic-wrapped packages in the Agency warehouse. The 
most complex courtier's costume must have seen constant 
use, worn and cleaned and stored away again like a rented 
dinner jacket after prom night. 

Mr. Hartstein? called a woman. He got up and went to 
the screen. Mr. Hartstein? Your voucher, please. Thank you. 
Okay, we're going to put you through to Alexandria now. You 
will arrive early in the morning of May 15, 48 B.C., a full year 
before the Library will burn during Julius Caesar's siege of the 
city. Are you ready? 

Hartstein swallowed. He felt very nervous. His stomach 
was sending him sterner messages than ever. I feel like a 
fool, dressed like this, he said. 

The Agent had probably heard that sentiment many times. 
She did not reply. She grasped him by the arm and led him to 
the flickering screen. Hartstein saw that here, too, there was 
a framed sentiment: 

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate. 
Dante Alighieri 


He couldn't read Italian, but his high school Latin enabled 
him to recognize one word; speranza meant either hope or 
breath, but he couldn't remember which. 

You will pop back here tomorrow at this time, she said. 
You won't be able to do anything about it. Wherever you are, 

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by George Alec Effinger 

whatever you're doing, you'll snap back to the present. Try to 
keep track of the time, just to avoid any kind of 
inconvenience or embarrassment. 

Right, said Hartstein absently, just as she shoved him 
into the purple glow. 

Just like that, he was in Egypt. He could tell, because of 
the palm trees and the camels. His first thought was, Gee, 
it's just the way I imagined it. He was standing on a long, 
broad street. He looked to his right and left, but the street 
went on in both directions, straight as a reed, farther than he 
could see. There were imposing buildings nearby, on both 
sides of the street, and he was startled to realize that he 
knew what they were: behind him was the great Hall of 
Justice and, beside it, the public gymnasium; before him to 
the left was the famous amphitheater; far away down the 
street in the other direction were the city's stadium and the 
hippodrome; directly in front of him was the immortal Library. 
He looked both ways again for traffic, out of habit, and 
crossed the street. 

The Library's appearance surprised him. There was a huge 
flight of granite steps leading up to the main entrance; the 
stairs were like a tremendous cataract of stone, guarded on 
either side by placid-looking granite sphinxes. It looks like 
the New York Public Library, he thought. The resemblance 
was reinforced by the scores of people sitting on the steps. 
There were young couples holding hands, people talking 
together in groups of two and three, individuals idly watching 
the commerce of the city pass by on the great avenue, 
solitary loiterers dozing in the warm sun. All the men were 

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dressed exactly as he wasbarefoot, cotton skirt, headdress, 
showy jewelry. The women were even more remarkable in 
their tight, straight linen dresses and pleated, thin shoulder 
capes, their wide golden collars and inlaid pectorals, golden 
bracelets on their arms and wrists, golden rings on their 
fingers. Hartstein noticed that there seemed to be a lot of 
gold distributed among the common citizens. Everyone wore 
black or green outlines around the eyes. All the men looked 
like pharaohs and all the women like empresses. They passed 
the time in the pleasant weather outside the Library. 

Hartstein stood on the sidewalk, hesitating. Part of him 
wanted to rush up the steps and into the building, to get his 
hands on the great, lost literary works of antiquity. Another 
part of him was still afraid. That part was momentarily 
stronger; it asked him first if he could account for the 
sidewalk. He could not. He accepted it as a fact of history that 
none of the present-day authorities had bothered to report. It 
wasn't important; it meant nothing to him. He forgot all about 
it before he had climbed ten steps. 

Do you know what time it is? asked one of the sitting 
men, as Hartstein drew near. The Egyptian had his arm 
around an attractive dark-skinned young woman; when she 
turned her head sideways, she looked just like a hieroglyph. 

Hartstein paused. Reflexively he glanced at his wrist, but 
he had no watch. He looked up into the sky and judged the 
time by the sun. Nine o'clock, I'd guess, he said. 

Thanks. The man stood and offered a hand to the young 
woman. Come on, baby, they'll be open now. 

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Hartstein passed them and continued up the steps. At the 
top were three great bronze doors. He went to the first. A 
little sign on a pole stood in front of it. The message was in 
two languages, like the English and Spanish signs in airports. 
Here, though, there were hieroglyphics on top and Latin on 
the bottom. That's peculiar, thought Hartstein. In History 
110 they told me that demotic script replaced hieroglyphics 
long before now. Thanks to the ESB session, he could read 
the Egyptian symbols easily, while the only word of the Latin 
he knew was ianuam. The sign said please use next door. 
Hartstein smiled. Plus a change, plus c'est la meme chose, 
he murmured. He went to the middle door and swung it open. 

Inside, the Library was lit by sunlight streaming through 
huge windows on every wall set high above the bookshelves. 
Hartstein stood inside the door, paralyzed for the moment by 
the staggering value of this gigantic room, by the anticipation 
of browsing through the treasure of lost wisdom. He became 
aware of the silence, of the pervasive odor of old books 
decaying in their bindings, of the sense of great riches of the 
intellect not far away, on the shelves within his reach, on 
other shelves across the vast hall, in other chambers hidden 
beyond distant doorways, of uncounted volumes and 
forgotten authors... 

And then, like a fish from the sky, a thought startled him. 
What was most unusual about the Library was its 
overwhelming familiarity. It's the ESB treatment, he told 
himself. But it was more than that. There was too much that 
was just like the present. More than he would have guessed. 

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by George Alec Effinger 

In the center of the immense open hall there was a large 
desk. Two women sat behind it and glanced through papers 
and books. They were evidently employeesHartstein had 
some initial difficulty calling them librariansand he decided 
to begin his tour of the Library with them. He went to the 
desk and waited for one of the women to look up. Hello, he 
said. 

Hello, said the librarian, can I help you? Hartstein was 
stunned; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met 
in his entire life. Her eyes were deep and bright and violet, 
lidded with Nile blue, made even larger by the black outlines 
that curved up toward her temples. She wore a braided wig 
as black as death. Her skin was tanned and smooth, the hairs 
on her forearms pale, bleached by the sun. Her features were 
striking and exotic in the way that those of some 
photographic models are, the type of woman one never meets 
in real life. She wore the same long, figure-hugging dress, the 
same short cape, and the same queen's ransom in jewelry. 
She smiled, and the stale, studious atmosphere in the 
chamber ignited. 

I'm... Hartstein looked around in panic. 

Can I help you find something? she asked. 

He nodded, desperate for an idea. Do you have anything 
on philosophy? he said. 

Of course. Go to that cabinet and look up philosophy. 
When you find the book you want, make a note of the 
catalogue number. I'll help you locate it. It will be over in that 
section, against the wall. She pointed past his shoulder, off 
in the general direction of the Sinai Desert. 

20 


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by George Alec Effinger 

Thanks. Hartstein knew immediately that he had made a 
bad mistake. He didn't want to do anything that would take 
him away from the desk and the librarian, but he went to the 
cabinet. It was made of blond wood and fashioned with 
wooden pins instead of iron nails. He put a hand on the solid 
door, but he did not open it. He didn't want to spend his time 
looking over copied manuscripts of things he hadn't enjoyed 
reading in college. He went back to the desk. 

Did you find anything? asked the lovely librarian. 

No, said Hartstein, I changed my mind. I was hoping I 
could findby the way, what is your name? 

I am Pamari, she said, looking down shyly at her work. 
Her long black lashes hid her eyes. 

My name is Stulectis, from the city of Mardenes. Both 
proper names had been inserted into his memory by the ESB 
process. They were both merely foreign-sounding nonsense 
words. There had never been any city called Mardenes, but it 
sounded as if there might. I think I'd like something less 
difficult to read, something that would give me a good idea of 
how the citizens of this great city live. 

You can try over there, said Pamari, indicating a section 
of books opposite another desk near the rear exit. 

Thanks again. Oh, and would you forgive me if I ask you 
something personal? Pamari glanced into his eyes and, 
embarrassed, looked back down at her papers. Would you 
like to have lunch with me? I'm only going to be in Alexandria 
until tomorrow morning. I thought 

I don't really think so, she whispered. She was blushing 
furiously. 

21 


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by George Alec Effinger 

I'm very sorry, said Hartstein, angry with his foolishness. 
I shouldn't have He interrupted himself and went to look 
at the books. He tried to remind himself that he had come to 
examine them, and not to promote a twenty-four-hour 
romance with a woman who had been dead for more than two 
thousand years. 

Another shock interrupted his internal scolding. The books 
on the shelves were just thatbooks. Not scrolls. Not 
whatever else the Egyptians might have done with papyrus 
pages (collected them in folders made of sheepskin, tied them 
together with cotton twine). They were modern-looking 
books, bound in leather, their titles and authors painted on 
the binding in neat hieroglyphics. Hartstein took one down 
and looked it over. It was called Memnet's Shekel-Wise Guide 
to Parthia. There was a neat cartouche of catalogue numbers 
at the base of the book's spine. Hartstein opened it up; 
instead of hand-copied hieroglyphics, as he expected, he was 
bewildered to see printed pages. He cried aloud in outrage, 
almost running back to Pamari's desk. He waved the book 
above his head. What is this? he said loudly. 

I'm sorry, sir, said the other librarian, but you'll have to 
lower your voice. This is 

What is this? You can't have printing! 

this is a library. 

Pamari took the book from him. Mr. Stulectis, is there 
some problem? She looked honestly upset by his attitude. 

Remember where you are, sir, said the other woman. 
Remember where I am, said Hartstein, more calmly. 
Yes, I remember. I'm very sorry. No, there's nothing wrong. 


22 


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by George Alec Effinger 

I made a mistake. I think I made a terrible, very expensive 
mistake. 

Pamari didn't understand what he meant. She looked at 
him curiously; he felt the blood rushing to his face, and he 
went back to the books to hide his discomfort. He noticed that 
the sign above the section where he had found Memnet's 
magnum opus said summer reading. He put the book back. 
Summer reading. It figures, Hartstein muttered. He looked 
at other books nearby. There was one called The Murder of a 
Simple Scribe, by Adasirnat. There was The Flax-Seed Diet, 
by Architydes the Cytheran. There was Self-Realization 
Through Hubris, by Epimander. There were more: Passion's 
Scarlet Scarab, by Germanica Drusilla Tarquin; The Hittite 
Conspiracy, by Menotepset; a large volume of Who's Who in 
the Lower Kingdom; Osiris Is Dead Again, by Ekartis, formerly 
Associate High Priest of the Temple at Amarna; War-Chariots 
of the Nineveh Conflict, Volume II; New Voices in Etruscan 
Fiction, edited by Quintus Flavius Mummo; and many, many 
more. Hartstein's face was dark with rage as he continued to 
read the titles. 

If I can carry things back in time, he thought, like this 
ridiculous jewelry, then I can probably take things with me to 
the present. I'll take one of these books with me. I want to 
see how Sergeant Brannick will explain this. Hartstein chose 
a book from the new & novel section, The Shriveling, by 
Karheshut of Thosis, author of The Yawning and The Theban 
Bronze-Implement Massacre. I can't wait for this. 
Hartstein's fury had settled into a deadly, cold anger. When 
he returned to his own time, he was going to expose the 

23 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Agency and make such a disturbance that the time-travel 
swindle would be ended forever. He wandered around the 
Library for a while, making notes of everything he wanted to 
report. 

britannia, isle of blue men said a hand-glyphed poster 
above a small rack of books. Hartstein browsed among them 
for a few minutes, briefly amused by a volume entitled 
Papyrus-Reed Boats of the Gods, which attempted to prove 
that the monuments at Stonehenge and elsewhere in Britain 
were actually the docking sites used by Ra, Horus, Isis, and 
the rest, for their celestial craft when they visited their 
summer homes in the north. The book gave Hartstein an 
idea; he decided that sometime he'd like to visit Stonehenge 
while it was being created, just to learn what its prehistoric 
architects thought they were making. But, he reminded 
himself, if this visit to Alexandria were typical of the Agency's 
command of history, he might well witness those ancient 
Britons building parking lots for the gods. 

There was a bulletin board with plenty of community 
messages: scribes offering copying services, rummage sales, 
cats and mice mummified cheap, meetings of the Historic 
Obelisk Preservation Committee, lessons on traditional drum 
and improvisational cymbal, choice delta property shown by 
appointment only, a class in the cooking of transalpine Gaul, 
moonlight monument tours and tomb investigation, baby-
sitting, pet-sitting, palace-sitting, the usual mix of come-ons 
and vital information. Hartstein was beginning to understand 
just how mundane the past could be. 

24 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

There was a librarian telling a story to a group of children 
in the Young Adults division. The girls wore red-dyed shifts of 
light cotton; the youngest boys were naked except for the 
ubiquitous Tutankhamen-inspired golden ornaments. In the 
periodicals room were back issues of the Alexandria News, 
most of which was devoted to daily reports of fires in the 
suburbs and barge collisions on the Nile, with a few pages of 
personal ads ("SWM, 42, successful merchant, landowner, on 
intimate terms with Thoth, would like to meet SWF, 14-25, 
prefer broadminded enslaved foreign princess, for mutually 
enlightening cultural exchanges, etc. No phonies or 
Carthaginians"). There were public-service messages posted 
on the walls (WHAT TO DO IN CASE OF PLAGUES. hail: Go 
indoors at once. Hailstones can be lethal to human beings and 
animals. Do not try to protect exposed property. Do not 
venture outside until you are certain the plague has passed. 
boils: Apply hot poultices and appropriate charms. If prayers 
and sacrifices are not effective, consult your physician. water 
turned to blood: Do not mix with wine or fruit juices. Blood is 
not satisfactory for drinking, washing, laundering, or other 
purposes. Do not use the water until you are notified by the 
authorities that it is safe to do so. And so on). There was a 
huge section of mystery novels and a small section of books 
that tried to make sense of the mixture of Egyptian, Greek, 
Roman, and miscellaneous deities. There was a large 
selection of firsthand accounts of strange places beyond the 
known world (Five Days on the Moon and A Journey to 
Africa's Land of Living Fire, by Philopeides the Lesser). There 
was everything, in short, that Hartstein would expect to find 

25 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

in his own neighborhood library, and nothing that he had 
hoped to see in Alexandria. Aristotle's lost books on comedy 
were missing, either checked out or stolen. The only thing by 
Aeschylus on the shelves was an early musical comedy called 
Pythagoras Tonite! which had been written in collaboration 
with friends while they were all still in school. There was very 
little in the Library that Hartstein found exciting or even 
interesting. There was nothing that he could carry 
breathlessly back to the present, nothing that shed light on 
the unanswered questions of the past, nothing that made 
Hartstein's expense worthwhile. Except Pamari. 

I'd like to check this book out, he told her, giving her the 
copy of Karheshut's masterpiece of horror. 

Certainly. She seemed glad that his spell of madness and 
wrath had passed. She smiled at him; she almost made him 
forget his disappointment and frustration. May I have your 
library card? 

Card? I'm sorry, I don't have a card. 

Pamari nodded. That's right, you said you were from out 
of town. Well, if you're going to be here for any length of 
timeBut you said you were leaving tomorrow! Why would 
you want to check out this book? 

Hartstein opened his mouth and, finding no answer, closed 
it. The silence stretched on. 

Something to read in your hotel room tonight? she 
asked. 

He was inexpressibly grateful. Yes, he said. I could 
return it in the morning. 

26 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Well, then, said Pamari, we could give you a temporary 
card for today. May I see your identification? 

His heart sank. Never mind the book, he said lamely, I 
probably wouldn't finish it anyway. And I'd much rather take 
you to dinner, and then maybe you could show me the city. 

This time Pamari didn't crush him with her reply. Yes, 
she said lightly, we could do that. 

Hartstein was ecstatic. What time should I meet you? he 
asked. 

Six-thirty, she said. At the front door. 

I'll be there, said Hartstein. He left the Library thinking of 
her, forgetting entirely why he had come to Alexandria, 
forgetting the sham and farce the Agency had traded him for 
his grandparents hard-earned savings. 

While the Library had been one of the most unsatisfactory 
experiences of his entire life, that evening in Alexandria was 
perhaps the most memorable. Every minute he spent in 
Pamari's company made him regret his modern life and dull 
and ordinary friends so many centuries in the future. 
Hartstein had to remind himself again and again that very 
soon he would return to the present, leaving Pamari frozen 
like a rare and beautiful butterfly in the amber of time. It put 
a not-unpleasant melancholy edge on his enjoyment of the 
ancient city. 

Pamari suggested a small inn where they could have 
supper. Hartstein was curious about the kind of food he would 
get; he had no clear idea of what people in ancient times ate. 
As a matter of fact, he had no good idea of what people in 
modern Egypt ate. Yet it came as no surprise when the 

27 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

innkeeper brought large platters of roasted lamb and roasted 
camel, with bowls of dates and oranges. The innkeeper, a tall, 
burly man who looked as if he could handle any trouble that 
rowdy patrons might start in his establishment, carved the 
roasts himself. Hartstein was about to ask the man where he 
had obtained his golden necklace and golden bracelets and 
rings but, recalling what he had discovered in the Library 
earlier, he decided he didn't need to know any more answers. 

There was a peculiar, sweet-tasting, light-colored wine 
with the meal, and as he drank more of it, Hartstein found 
the taste becoming more pleasant. I thought there would be 
some Greek food, he said. Because the Greeks ruled here 
for so long. The Ptolemies are a Greek family, and Cleopatra 
is more Greek than Egyptian. 

You do not like this food? asked Pamari. 

I love it, said Hartstein, although he could have done 
without the roast camel. But I expected more in the way of, 
oh, hummus and moussaka and baklava and that kind of 
stuff. 

I've never eaten those things, said Pamari. You have 
traveled a great deal, haven't you? You've seen a lot of the 
world. I've never been outside the city of Alexandria. 

Hartstein looked deeply into her sad eyes. You would not 
believe the things I have seen, he said. He covered one of 
her small hands with his own. 

Tell me, she said excitedly. Tell me what you've seen. 

I will. But I want you to tell me about Alexandria. I've 
seen nothing but the Library and this little inn. And you. 

28 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Pamari looked away, suddenly shy once again. The 
Library is very famous, she murmured. 

But much less fascinating than you. Are you finished 
eating? Let me pay the man, and then we'll take a walk and 
you can show me the sights. 

Pamari nodded. Hartstein drained the last of the wine in 
his golden goblet, left a few coins on the long table, and 
offered Pamari his hand. They left the inn and walked along 
the central avenue of the city, in the direction of the 
hippodrome. What is back there? asked Hartstein, pointing 
to the right, beyond the gymnasium, south toward what 
would have been the residential section of the city. 

Nothing of importance, she said. I never go there. 

Why don't we? The stadium and hippodrome don't 
interest me. I'd rather walk with you toward nothing than 
spend my time looking at empty stone buildings. They 
turned away from the street and went along the eastern flank 
of the Hall of Justice. The way was dark and silent, and 
suddenly Hartstein was aware of how vulnerable the two of 
them were. He berated himself for leading Pamari toward who 
knew what kind of danger. There were surely thieves and 
robbers in Ancient Alexandria, and there were no Agency 
uniforms around to persuade the criminals that Hartstein was 
to be treated as a guest of the past. Let's go back, he said. 
But before he turned around, he saw something too strange 
to ignore. There were dark shapes ahead of him, houses and 
shops and other buildings, but none of them were distinct, 
even though a full moon shone down from the clear 
Mediterranean sky. The nearer they approached, the farther 

29 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

the shadows receded. After two hundred yards Hartstein 
knew that something was wrong. Why aren't there any 
houses? he asked. Where are all the houses? 

Pamari was bewildered. There they are, she said, 
pointing ahead of them. Can't you see? 

Hartstein waved a hand impatiently. They were just ahead 
of us ten minutes ago. We've been walking and walking, and I 
still can't make out any of them. I can't seem to focus on any 
single building. It's like everything away from the main 
streetaway from the Libraryis vague and formless and not 
really there. I'll bet we could walk from now until morning 
without ever coming upon a real house. Or a real person 
either. He turned to her, wondering. He reached out and 
touched her face. 

I am real, she said, looking curiously at him. 

Are you? he asked. He took her by the shoulders and 
pulled her nearer. She uttered a sigh; her languorous lashes 
hid the glistening eyes he would never see again. Hartstein 
bent to kiss her, cupping her delicate face in his rough hands. 
Just before his lips touched hers he fell forward, stumbling 
through a purple glow onto the Agency's temporal recovery 
stage. 

What the hell! shouted Hartstein as he looked wildly 
around him. 

Welcome back, Mr. Hartstein, said Sergeant Brannick. 

What the hell is going on? cried Hartstein. What am I 
doing back here already? 

It's two o'clock, said Brannick. Twenty-four hours, just 
what you paid for. I suppose you're just a little disoriented. It 

30 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

takes some getting used to, flashing from one time to another 
like that. 

Twenty-four hours! It wasn't even twelve! I got there this 
morning and it wasn't even midnight yet. I had all night left. 
What kind of a cheat is this? 

Sergeant Brannick led Hartstein away from the recovery 
stage. Other travelers would be coming back soon, and it was 
important to keep the area clear. I think someone neglected 
to tell you about the temporal Doppler effect, said the Agent. 

Somebody neglected to tell me about a whole lot of 
things, said Hartstein angrily. And I'm going to get my 
answers, and then I'm going to make things pretty hot for 
your Agency, too. 

Why don't we talk about it? said Brannick soothingly. 

Sure, I'd like that. Hartstein took out his page of notes, 
the ones he had made during his tour of the Library. He was 
dismayed to see that they were all written in hieroglyphics, 
which he could no longer decipher. That's great, he 
muttered. That's just typical. He crumpled the page into a 
ball and threw it on the floor. 

Sit down over here, said Brannick. Some people are 
very upset when they come back. The past isn't always what 
they expected. Naturally we're anxious to make up for any 
unpleasantness. We don't want any unsatisfied customers, 
you know. Why don't you just tell me why you're so 
agitated? 

Agitated! shouted Hartstein. 

Shh. Brannick indicated a man dressed in the costume of 
a medieval Italian nobleman. You'll spoil his fun. 

31 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

I'll tell you why I'm agitated, said Hartstein in a lower 
voice. They had printed books! Bound, printed books! 

Ah. You found Ancient Alexandria very much like our 
world in some ways. 

Hartstein looked disgusted. Not just your crummy 
similarities. I mean out-and-out anachronisms. Historical 
impossibilities. It was like a low-budget film made by 
uneducated fools with no imagination. Where was I really, 
some back-lot construction in Arizona? All ESB-trained union 
labor? Costumes, props, and nine-to-five Egyptians? 

Brannick took a deep breath. You were really back there, 
Hartstein. You were really in the past. In Ancient Alexandria. 

But 

The Agent silenced him with a curt gesture. But the past 
isn't what you think it is. It isn't always what you expect. 
There is no such thing as the objective past. 

I know, I heard that before. What the hell does it mean? 

Brannick massaged his forehead with one hand. It means 
that the past depends on our ideas. The past looks like what 
we think it looks like, our consensus. There is nothing in the 
past that the present hasn't put there. If the majority of 
people today think there were knights in shining armor in 
fifth-century England, when you go back to fifth-century 
England there will be knights in shining armor. It doesn't 
make any difference what historians and archaeologists know, 
what has come down to us preserved through the ages, what 
truly existed in those days. The past is a subjective museum 
of popular belief. 

What about the real past? 

32 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

You were in the real past, the only past that actually 
exists. I know, I know. I understand what you mean: What 
about the objective past? Sergeant Brannick seemed very 
tired; Hartstein wondered how many times a day he had to go 
through this explanation. The objective past is closed to us. 
We can't find it, to be more precise, if in fact it really exists 
anywhere. 

So, all time travel is a kind of legal con game, said 
Hartstein. 

Not really, said the Agent. Almost everyone is thrilled 
and happy with their vacations. The past is exactly the way 
they expect it to be. After all, it's their ideas that make the 
past what it is. A few people are disappointed, those who 
know a little more, who know what they're looking for. We 
have to explain the situation and try to make them 
understand that we haven't cheated them. He indicated 
other returning travelers, all laughing and joking, dressed in 
costumes from many times and many lands. If anyone is to 
blame, it's them. You visited their conception of Ancient 
Alexandria, their idea of what the great Library was like. 

And that's why there wasn't much else to the city? Why I 
couldn't find the streets and the houses where the people 
lived? Why there was nothing but downtown history? 

That's right. I'm glad you're catching on so quickly. 
People may know about the Library, but they give little 
thought to what Alexandria, the rest of Alexandria, was like. 
So it's all vague and half-formed and patched up with clichs 
and fog. 

33 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Hartstein nodded. He had lost some of the sharp force of 
his anger, but he still had questions. Then why was I 
snapped back here so early? I didn't have a full day in the 
past. I met a girl 

Brannick smiled. You always meet a girl, Hartstein. That's 
part of the popular idea of the past. That's where all the 
romance in the universe isyesterday. Every time you go into 
the past, you'll meet a girl. Anyway, someone should have 
told you that time is subject to a kind of Doppler effect, the 
way light and sound are. The farther back in time you go, the 
shorter the minutes become. You were gone twenty-four 
hours by our clock. I don't know how many hours that would 
be in your Alexandria. 

You have an answer for everything, don't you? 

Sergeant Brannick looked down at his tunic, pulled it tight 
to eliminate some folds, and indicated his service ribbons. 
Some of these I got for my distinguished career defending 
truth, justice, and the Agency way through all the eons of 
time. The rest I got for knowing all the answers. Listen, I 
know you're still unhappy about this Egyptian business. That's 
not good for you, it's not good for me, and it's not good for 
the Agency. We want to square things with you, Hartstein. 
We're ready to offer you another trip into the past, free of 
charge, all expenses paid, anywhere you want to go, stay as 
long as you like, up to five days. How does that sound to 
you? 

Hartstein said nothing for a long time. He watched men 
and women returning through the glowing screen from their 
holidays, from dead ages they had not perceived as somehow 

34 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

very wrong. Why can't I be like them? he thought. Why 
can't I just be satisfied with what I found? Everyone else 
seemed to have had a great time; Hartstein felt a little 
envious. No, he said at last, you don't have anything I 
want. You can't give me the real past, and these adventures 
in Storyland of yours don't interest me. He got up and 
walked away. 

You don't realize what I'm offering you, Hartstein, said 
the Agency man. I'm giving you access to the whole world. 
Think about it. 

Hartstein turned and faced him. Nothing you say will 
make me go back in time again. 

Brannick laughed. You're wrong, Hartstein, he said. I 
see your type every single day. You'll come back, I can tell. 
Don't worry. That offer of ours will be waiting for you, 
whenever you decide to take it. 

Later, after he had traded the Alexandrian costume for his 
own clothing, Hartstein left the Agency Building. A cloud 
passed in front of the sun, suddenly darkening the afternoon. 
Hartstein looked up, frightened, certain that he would see the 
Bird of Time overhead, blotting out the light and warmth. The 
great Bird had flown by, Hartstein knew, and dropped its little 
gift on him. Nevertheless, Brannick had been right. Sooner or 
later, Hartstein was sure that he'd have to try it again. 

35 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

CHAPTER TWO 
JUST THE FAMILY 
AND A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS 


Then upon the passing of the season did Jesus 
go away from there and came into Shinabbeth, 
which lieth west of Tiberias the city of the 
Gentiles. And the rumor of him was great in all 
the nations of Galilee. And they brought unto 
him children wasted by sickness, and elders 
that bare the burden of grief, and though they 
did not receive him in their hearts yet did they 
call upon him, saying, If thou art truly the 
Teacher, then take away from us this bitter 
sorrow. 
And Jesus saith unto them, Yea, if you would 
not suffer these afflictions, then it is upon the 
Son of Man that they must rest. Would you be 
made whole in this wise? 
But the multitudes made no answer, yet even 
so was there sufficient reply in their silence. 
And Jesus, perceiving all of this, preached unto 
them in the manner of a parable... 

* * * * 
My God, said Hartstein passionately, you didn't tell me it 
was going to be so hot. 

36 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Sergeant Brannick mopped his face with the end of his 
linen headdress. What did you expect? he asked. Even at 
Christmas, the three Wise Men came on camels, not reindeer. 
Hurry up or we'll be late. 

They limped painfully through the narrow alleys of 
Shinabbeth, toward the home of a wealthy merchant who was 
giving a feast in honor of his son's bar mitzvah. Hartstein and 
Brannick were attending in order to hear Jesus, who had 
promised to drop by for a little while and say a few words. 
Brannick had managed to wangle an invitation from Judas 
Iscariot by donating a few silver coins to the apostles 
treasury. 

Sergeant Brannick, as a representative of the Agency on 
this trip into the distant past, was acting as Hartstein's 
personal tour guide. Generally the Agency didn't bother 
supplying guides; it preferred to fill up the traveler's brain 
with implanted memories of everything one needed to know 
language, customs, geography, historical significance, points 
of interestand then put the poor soul in medias res. But 
Hartstein had been so displeased by his adventure in Ancient 
Egypt that, to maintain his good will, the Agency offered him 
an all-expense paid luxury trip anytime in the world. 

The holiday in Egypt had been Hartstein's choice. His 
grandparents, who had footed the bill for that trip, suggested 
that now a firsthand experience of Jesus might improve his 
ambiguous moral posture. If Hartstein hadn't been so 
intimidated by his grandparents, he would have chosen to see 
something else instead, like the Jazz Age. He had discovered 
a native talent for licentiousness while in college. 

37 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

But no; here he was in some sun-baked village between 
Nazareth and the Sea of Galilee itself. Shinabbeth called itself 
a city, but in his own time Hartstein knew of supermarkets 
whose parking lots were larger. It was hot, dusty, dry, and 
very dull. The only transportation was by foot (pedibus in 
Latin, Sergeant Brannick informed him; Pedagogue, thought 
Hartstein, who already knew that), and despite all the claims 
the Romans made for the improvements they instituted in 
their colonies, the stone-paved ways were murder on 
blistered heels and twisted ankles. 

Thanks to the Agency's extensive costume department, 
both men were impeccably dressed. They looked like two 
unemployed shepherds on an ill-conceived Christmas card. 
Sergeant Brannick even carried a long crook. What do we tell 
people if they ask us who we are? said Hartstein. 

Brannick was a very patient man; that was one of the 
reasons he had been chosen for this job. We tell them we're 
shepherds, of course. 

But shouldn't we be, you know, abiding in the fields and 
all that? 

Brannick shrugged. I suppose shepherds get some time 
off, too. Or maybe we're looking for a stray. One of our sheep 
is lost and we think it headed straight for town. 

Hartstein smiled dubiously. We left the ninety and nine, 
and have come in search of the poor son of a bitch that ran 
off. Who's going to buy that, Brannick? 

Don't worry about it, Hartstein, nobody's even going to 
ask. You got to remember that we fit into the scene. But if 

38 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

anybody does ask, you clam up. Let me do the talking. I'm 
the veteran around here, I'll handle everything. 

Hartstein frowned. I hate it when somebody says that, 
he muttered. It usually meant that he was being led blindly 
into some hopeless disaster. 

Despite all his assurances, Sergeant Brannick was partially 
wrong: only one of them looked as if he belonged in the 
neighborhood. Brannick himself did not. Clad in a long cotton 
shirt bound with a leather girdle, the headdress, sandals, and 
a coarse cloak woven of goat's hair, he still looked like a hero. 
There was no way in the world that Brannick could have 
looked otherwise; every line was clean and sharp, every 
movement precise. Sergeant Brannick never stumbled, never 
stammered, never hesitated. He walked with an indefinable 
and immutable air of competence. His hair, black with gray 
highlights, was cropped short; his phony beard trimmed in a 
style more cinematic than shepherdic; his eyes were bright-
blue and piercing, a requirement for advancement in the 
Agency; his shoulders were as broad as a javelin thrower's, 
and his forty-year-old physique as trim as it had been the day 
he enlisted. Even draped in the shapeless Hebrew costume, 
the sergeant gave the impression that he was still in uniform, 
that he was still braced in his silver-and-blue Agency tunic 
with the sleeve full of hash marks. As much as Brannick knew 
about time travel, as much as he could tell Hartstein about 
the biblical era they were visiting, he did not belong. He 
looked as out of place as a straw in a beer bottle. 

Hartstein, however, had found his milieu. If anyone could 
appreciate him, average joe that he was, it was the poor 

39 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

inhabitants of Shinabbeth. The town was the figment of the 
imagination of countless unexceptional people. There was no 
such place as Shinabbeth, there never had been; but 
Hartstein hadn't found that out yet, and Sergeant Brannick 
was in no hurry to tell him. 

He was a nice guy, was Hartstein, but when these 
adventures began he was what one might call ineffectual. 
Which is a nice way of saying he was a nebbish, which, let's 
face it, is what he was. But he didn't have to stay that way: 
the fortunate factor was that Hartstein's moment of trial and 
decision had not yet occurred; when it did, he could still leave 
nebbishness behind. And he did have Sergeant Brannick as an 
example of the kind of man he hoped to become. Hartstein 
was still potentially a lion among men. 

It's just that he didn't look like one to the casual observer. 
But rather than get too far ahead of the story, let's content 
ourselves with watching him hobble painfully through the 
streets of this imaginary town in Ancient Palestine, on his way 
to a catered meeting with Jesus Christ. 

Shinabbeth lay in a low, flat place beneath a clutch of 
stony, barren hills. It was a small village, with but one main 
through-road and several rutted cross-streets. Crowded 
together like sheep in the fold were a few dozen squat, white, 
flat-roofed houses. There was no order apparent in their 
placement; they clustered in the valley like dumplings 
dropped from a spoon onto the hard, dry earth. Just beyond 
the town proper, in a kind of suburb notable only for its 
inconvenience, was a large estate belonging to the wealthiest 
man in the area, a merchant called Jotham Son of Nathan. It 

40 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

was he whose son was being welcomed into manhood this 
day. 

Jotham's residence was the only stone house in the 
neighborhood, but even so, it could not compare in 
magnificence to the homes in more metropolitan centers of 
Palestine. It looked like a big gray box, three stories high, 
made of dressed granite blocks with few windows looking out 
upon the dreary vista. There was a heavy wooden gate 
closing the entrance, and an archway led from it into the 
central courtyard. An ancient, slow-moving gentleman with 
the beard of a patriarch acted as porter and unlocked the 
gate when Sergeant Brannick presented proof of their 
invitation. 

Are we early? asked Brannick. 

Yes and no, said the old man. Master Jotham has set 
out a great feast and already several of his wife's relatives 
have descended on the meat and wine. But the ceremony is 
going on now, and this Rabbi Jesus isn't expected until later. 
Are you here for the bar mitzvah, the food, or the rabbi's 
sermon? 

Sergeant Brannick gave Hartstein a quick look to remind 
him to say nothing. We've come to pay our respects and to 
congratulate your master and his son. 

The old man's eyes narrowed shrewdly. You're here for 
the free meal, then, he said. But come in; Master Jotham 
would be upset it I turned you away. There's no telling who 
may turn out to be of his wife's family. They are as many as 
the fleas on a yellow dog's belly. 

41 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Thank you, said Brannick. The two men touched the 
mezuzah nailed to the gatepost and kissed their fingertips, 
and passed through. In the courtyard there were several 
large trees, and benches had been placed in the shade 
beneath them. The old man had been correct; already more 
than a score of people were busily consuming the extravagant 
banquet Jotham Ben-Nathan had provided. 

A young woman dressed in a long blue cotton robe, with 
an apricot-colored cloth covering her head and draping her 
shoulders, approached them, carrying a platter of fruit. She 
regarded the two men curiously; all the guests appeared to 
be of the upper strata of the local population, but Brannick 
and Hartstein were clearly dressed as shepherds. Welcome, 
said the young woman. Please, refresh yourselves and 
receive the hospitality of the house of Jotham. She indicated 
a small wooden stand where a pitcher of water and a basin 
had been set up to facilitate the washing of hands before 
eating. 

Thank you, said Brannick. He started toward the 
washstand. 

Brannick! said Hartstein urgently. Do you know who 
that girl is? 

Brannick looked at him placidly. I gather that she's one of 
our host's servants. 

She's Pamari! You remember, I told you about her when I 
came back from Alexandria. I met her in the Library. But that 
historical period was almost seventy years before this one. 
How can she be here? 

42 


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The sergeant shook his head sadly. You'll get used to it, 
Hartstein, he said. I tried to explain it to you after your trip 
to Egypt. Whenever you go into the past, you find your ideal 
mate there. When you were in Alexandria, it was Pamari. 
Here her name will be different, but she will look the same 
and she will sound the same and she will arouse the same 
feelings in you. If you go to Elizabethan England, she will be 
there. If you go to feudal Japan, she will be there. It can be 
painful until you've made a few trips and the shock wears 
off. He paused and looked around the courtyard. Do you see 
that lady? Over by the fig tree? That woman with the maroon-
and-white-striped robe? That is the love of my life. In Manchu 
China her name was Lai Lin. In Moscow, while we waited for 
Rasputin to die, her name was Lida. Her name here is Leah. 

"But" 

Brannick interrupted him by raising a hand. Go ahead, he 
said. Meet your girl. Talk to her. At first you'll be amazed by 
how much she reminds you of the Egyptian girl. Then you'll 
beg me to take her back with us, and you won't believe that 
it's impossible. I've been through this a million times with 
other tourists. 

Hartstein closed his gaping mouth. He knew Brannick was 
right. It won't do any harm just to say a few words, though, 
he said. The sergeant only gave him a knowing smile. 

Conceiving a great and sudden hunger for an orange or 
dates or whatever the young woman was serving, Hartstein 
followed her across the courtyard. Say, he announced, I'd 
sure like a piece of fruit. 

43 


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by George Alec Effinger 

She turned around, smiling, and held out the platter for his 
inspection. There was nothing on it that Hartstein felt like 
eating, but he took a fig just for appearances sake. He had 
never eaten a fig before, except inside a Newton, and he 
wondered what he was supposed to do with it. My name is 
Zaavan, he said. It's sure a nice day for a party, isn't it? 

Yes, she murmured shyly. She dropped her long dark 
lashes, hiding the gorgeous violet eyes he had fallen in love 
with in the great Library of Alexandria. 

Hartstein wondered if there was any period in the entire 
history of the universe when he would have an easy time 
starting a conversation with a beautiful woman. Maybe if he 
were floating around in space watching the Big Bang he could 
find something to talk about, but even then he suspected he'd 
sound like a moron. Do you come here often? he asked. 
Immediately he hated himself. 

I am the handmaiden of Abigail, wife of Jotham Ben-
Nathan, she said. She looked at him curiously; he wasn't 
behaving like the simple shepherd he appeared to be. 

Maybe we've met before. Have you ever been to 
Bethsaida? I think we may have been invited to the same 
harvest celebration there. 

No, she said, I've never been to Bethsaida. 

Oh. Hartstein's heart was breaking. He wished that she'd 
give him a little help. 

But you may be thinking of my sister; some people think 
we look alike. My name is Pamrah. 

Hartstein smiled. I would never in a million years confuse 
you with anyone else, he said. He waited a moment for her 

44 


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by George Alec Effinger 

reaction, fearfully, and then realized that he had said the 
right thing. 

Pamrah lowered her eyes and blushedjust the way she 
had in Ancient Egypt. I have to serve the other guests, she 
said. 

Hartstein didn't want to let her go. I know. But I'd like to 
speak to you later, if you get the chance. 

I'd like that, too. She fluttered her lashes once more, 
then turned away. 

Not bad, soldier. Hartstein spun around, startled. 
Sergeant Brannick had come up behind him silently. 

She's more beautiful here than she was before, said 
Hartstein. 

That's the way it works. 

Hartstein looked at the fig in his hand and wondered what 
to do with it; there was nowhere to put it and he really didn't 
want to eat it. I have to give you a lot of credit, Brannick, 
he said. This is very accurate, very realistic. Alexandria was 
a fraud from the minute I got there. There wasn't a single 
thing about that place that I could believe. But this place is so 
realthe houses, the people, everything. Is that just because 
you're here with me? It makes me suspicious, as if you 
operate two separate pasts, one for the Agency and one for 
the tourists. 

They walked across the yard, toward a long double row of 
tables set up in the shade. Does this place seem more real to 
you than Alexandria? asked the Agency man. 

45 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Hartstein nodded. There's no comparison, he said. I told 
you about all the anachronisms I saw. Look around here; this 
is what I expected, what I paid my money for. 

You said it yourself, Hartstein: it's what you expected. 
Never forget that the past is what you make it. The past is a 
simulation of what youand everybody elseexpect it to be. 
Now, in Alexandria you had a certain familiarity with it 
through your studies. But the consensus of popular belief 
sees that place just as you found it, glaring anachronisms and 
all. There isn't any difference here, either. The mistakes are 
all around you, but you don't have so great a knowledge of 
this locus in space and time. A biblical scholar would spot the 
inaccuracies in a few seconds. On this trip, your 
preconceptions match those of the rest of the people in our 
time. That's all there is to it. 

Ah, said Hartstein. Point out a couple of mistakes for 
me. 

They sat down at one of the tables. You'll see that though 
these people are Jews living according to centuries-old 
traditions, there will be few of the required observances. 
That's not because in the historical past they were lax about 
these things, but because in our own time we are, as a whole, 
unfamiliar with them. We kissed the mezuzah coming in; 
that's a custom many people in our time might be expected 
to know about, and it was included in the ESB-induced 
preparation you received before we left. But as for specific 
prayers and such throughout the day, well, they ought to be 
there but they won't be. If and when most people in our era 
learn of these things, they will appear here, as a reflection. 

46 


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That's what I'm having trouble understanding, said 
Hartstein. He scratched at the beard spirit-gummed to his 
chin. I always thought that if you went into the past and 
disturbed something, you'd create havoc back in the present. 

Brannick shook his head. That's impossible, he said. 

Yet if you alter the presentor, at least, the common 
knowledge of the presentyou can change the past? 

That's one of the principal duties of the Agency. We're 
trying to bring the past into line. We're trying to make this 
shoddy past that we're able to visit resemble the real past we 
know about through written records and archaeology. 

Hartstein thought that over while he sipped a cup of wine. 
What about the parts of the past that no one knows very 
much about? What happens when you visit them? 

Brannick looked surprised, as if Hartstein had brought up a 
deeply disturbing subject. It's like a dream, he said, 
grimacing. It's like waking up from a nightmare and seeing 
the world while your eyes are still blurry with sleep. Nothing 
is very distinct, but if you concentrate real hard, you can find 
your way around all right. There's nothing to discover and 
nothing to learn in those places. Do yourself a favor, 
Hartstein, and forget about that. 

Brannick's description made Hartstein shudder. Then the 
only clear, sharp spots are the exciting highlights. But what 
happens in between? What happens here, for example, 
between one documented event in Jesus life and the next? 

If you hung around long enough after the loaves and 
fishes, say, everybody would leave and it would get misty and 
hazy and you'd be all by yourself, even if you went into the 

47 


The Bird of Time 

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middle of a big town. It can be very frightening. It's like that 
for all the great moments in historya vivid day or week of 
events, just as you imagined them, followed by a gray and 
ominous nothing. 

A bright burst of laughter behind them kept Hartstein from 
asking more about the mysteries of between-time. He turned 
around; there were three men, all wearing large, fringed 
prayer shawls over their shoulders. The shawls were bordered 
in black with black stripes, and seemed incongruous on the 
persons of their boisterous owners. One of the men pointed 
across the courtyard, where Pamrah was serving an elderly 
woman who sat in the meager shade of a stunted olive tree. 
The man said something in a voice too low for Hartstein to 
hear, and the others laughed again. A second man made a 
broad gesture in Pamrah's direction. This time they raised 
their eyebrows and shook their heads; the third man clapped 
a hand to his forehead in mock astonishment. 

Can you hear what they're saying? asked Hartstein. 

Don't pay any attention, said Brannick. Remember, 
we're guests here and we're more or less undercover. Don't 
get involved. Always tell yourself that you can't afford to mix 
with these people on a personal level. Remind yourself that 
they're not real and they don't matter. 

Hartstein continued to watch the men; he grew angrier 
and more frustrated. It's Pamrah they're discussing, he 
said. 

I know that. 

But I can't just 

48 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

Brannick put a strong hand on Hartstein's arm. Yes, you 
can, soldier. You're going to learn my way or you're going to 
learn the hard way, so you may as well get used to the idea. 
Forget about Pamrah and ignore those men. They mean 
nothing to you. We came here to listen to Jesus, and none of 
the rest of it is worth a tick's hatband. 

Hartstein directed his fury at the Agency man. What the 
hell are you talking about? he demanded. What do you 
mean, I'm going to learn the hard way? I'm going to learn 
what? You're dragging me around with you as if this were 
some kind of training mission, like I signed up with the 
Agency myself. Well, here's the latest, buddy: I haven't 
enlisted. I'm no tenderfoot recruit for you to break into shape. 
This is my vacation. I think the weight of all those service 
stripes on your uniform sleeve has finally bent your brain. 
Maybe it's time for you to check into the Old Sergeants 
Home. 

Before Brannick could answer, a short, fat man ran 
through the courtyard, upsetting a bench and knocking over a 
plate of delicacies. He paid no attention to the indignant 
shouts behind him, but dodged through the crowd and 
disappeared into the archway leading to the road outside. 
Hartstein was mildly bemused; it was an incongruous thing to 
happen at such a pleasant and serene occasion. Brannick, 
however, responded as if the running man had committed 
some unimaginable outrage. I've got to go, he said 
brusquely. 

Go? cried Hartstein. Where? What am I supposed to do 
here by myself? 

49 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

You can handle it; you were on your own in Egypt. Just sit 
tight. Your show will get going here in a few minutes. I'll be 
back before it's over. In the meantime, have some more 
wine. Don't go anywhere. You'd better be right here when I 
get back. And try not to talk to anybody, too. 

But where Hartstein's fragment of a question went 
unanswered; Brannick tried to be inconspicuous, but it was 
perfectly obvious that he was chasing after the stranger. Then 
Hartstein was all alone, abandoned to his own devices in a 
land and a time that had no place for him. 

Pamrah had come to his table, and now she stood beside 
him. Did your friend go after that man? she asked. 

I suppose so, said Hartstein, but I don't know why. Who 
was that man? Is he a member of the household? 

Pamrah shook her head. I've never seen him before 
today. He spoke to me earlier, before you and your friend 
arrived. He had an unusual accentlike yours. I thought you 
were all together. I thought you knew him. 

There was a commotion in the archway. Hartstein 
expected to see Sergeant Brannick chasing the costumed 
stranger back through the courtyard. He wondered what it all 
meant: what possible reason could Brannick have had for his 
sudden disappearance? The way the Agency explained the 
nature of time travel, the past was subjective, a shifting 
balance of truth and myths, subtly different for each visitor. It 
was impossible for someone else from the present to appear 
in this version of the past unless, like Brannick, he had left 
the present at the same moment as Hartstein. Pamrah 
seemed to think that the stranger came from the same place 

50 


The Bird of Time 

by George Alec Effinger 

as Brannick and Hartstein, but that was contrary to the laws 
of nature. 

Yet, on the other hand, why would Brannick leap up and 
go after an unknown, unreal resident in this dream of 
yesterday? 

There were only two choices: one was foolish, and the 
other impossible. But there could be a third explanationif 
Sergeant Brannick and the Agency were withholding certain 
important information. On second thought, that seemed to 
Hartstein likely to be the truth, much more likely than any 
other hypothesis. In that case, there was nothing to be done 
until Brannick decided to come across with the facts. 
Hartstein suspected that he might be in danger, after all, but 
he wouldn't panic until he got the high-sign from Brannick. At 
the moment, in any event, he had other things to occupy his 
imagination: the commotion at the gate turned out to be the 
arrival of Jesus Christ and the twelve disciples. 

Can you tell which one is the Rabbi? asked Pamrah. 

Hartstein looked at the group of men coming into the 
courtyard, but none of them resembled how he imagined 
Christ to look. Then he saw something that made his mouth 
fall open. Oh no, I don't believe it, he murmured. 

What's wrong? asked Pamrah. Are they impostors? 
Master Jotham was afraid that thieves or Gentiles might take 
advantage of this celebration to despoil his house. 

Oh no, said Hartstein, suddenly disappointed and weary, 
they're not impostors. I can vouch for them, all right. I can 
even tell you the names of most of them. 

51 


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Of the Rabbi's disciples? How do you know their names? 
Have you been following them around the countryside? 

Hartstein pointed to the first of the newcomers, a tall, 
determined-looking man with broad shoulders and great, 
strong hands. He wore a yellow mantle and carried, in one 
hand, a pair of crossed keys and, in the other, a fat, dead 
fish. A bantam cock followed him, making murmurous 
crowing sounds. That's Simon called Peter, said Hartstein. I 
didn't think he'd really be dragging all of his symbolic 
attributes around with him, but I should have been ready for 
it. I wonder what he thinks the rooster is all about. He's not 
going to find out about that until, well... He didn't want to 
say anything more to Pamrah about his knowledge of what 
was to come. He was surprised by his reaction; he wasn't 
furious about the absurdity of it all, the way he had been in 
Alexandria. In a way, it was kind of amusing. He rather 
enjoyed sitting back and watching history being enacted 
before his eyes with all the charm and accuracy of an 
elementary school pageant. 

Is that the Rabbi? asked Pamrah. She indicated another 
man coming into the courtyard; he carried a sword in one 
hand, but did not seem particularly fierce or threatening. He 
was speaking to a handsome young man with wings, and 
suddenly they both laughed out loud. 

That's Matthew, the one without the feathers. He's often 
shown with the winged man, just as Mark has a winged lion. 

Pamrah didn't understand, but she was impressed. He 
looks like an angel, she said softly. 

52 


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by George Alec Effinger 

Hartstein smiled. Don't bother about that. The guy with 
the wings isn't anybody. He's just a prop for the real apostle. 

The other disciples filed in: John, clad in red with an eagle 
on his shoulder, carrying a large cup with a snake coiling out 
of it; his brother James, carrying a scallop shell and looking 
around for a safe place to leave it; Thomas, skeptical as 
always, carrying a carpenter's rule and probably wondering 
why; and the remaining seven, whom Hartstein had difficulty 
identifying, although if he had to make a guess, it was a good 
bet that the man holding the purse and the hangman's noose 
was Judas Iscariot. 

And behind them all, like a shepherd driving his flock, 
came Jesus, speaking in a quiet voice to a well-dressed, well-
fed man, evidently Jotham Ben-Nathan, their benefactor on 
this afternoon. 

That must be the Rabbi, said Pamrah in hushed, awed 
tones. 

Jesus was, well, just what Hartstein had expected. He 
wore a seamless white garment and a red cloakthe very one 
that Richard Burton, two thousand years later, would die to 
protect from the snotty Caligula in The Robe. Jesus moved 
with a magnificence and an unself-conscious grace that 
commanded the attention of everyone in the yard. Also the 
bright, radiating halo around his head was pretty eye-
catching as well. 

A halo, muttered Hartstein. I would have felt cheated if 
they hadn't included that. But even the special effects 
scintillating around Jesus head did not diminish Hartstein's 
wonder. 

53 


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by George Alec Effinger 

Peter, the Rock, gave his keys to a less charismatic disciple 
to hold, put his rooster in the care of one of Jotham's 
servants, and tossed the fish onto a table with a flat smack. 
He directed his eleven fellows to take seats, and then went to 
Jesus and conferred for a moment in whispers. He nodded at 
last, shook hands with Jotham, and joined the other disciples. 

Jotham Ben-Nathan raised his hands and smiled 
benevolently. Hello, everybody. I'm glad you all could be 
with us as we celebrate this very special day in the life of my 
son, Asher. Crowning my joy on this occasion is the honor 
and privilege to welcome the Rabbi Jesus into my home. I 
hope that we will be able to prevail upon him to share with us 
his great wisdom, which has already won him such fame and 
renown throughout Galilee. But first, my friends, eat and 
drink your fill. I call upon Rabbi Eleazar to offer a prayer and 
a blessing. 

Okay, said Hartstein to himself, but I didn't come two 
thousand years to listen to a lot of speeches by spear-
carriers. He had the unpleasant feeling that the Agency had 
suckered him again. 

I cannot stay here, Zaavan, said Pamrah. Master 
Jotham is giving me angry looks. 

I'm sorry, honey, Hartstein said. I don't want to get you 
into trouble with him. After this party is over, maybe we'll 
have some time to ourselves. 

Pamrah smiled sweetly and carried her tray to another 
table. 

Let us pray, cried Rabbi Eleazar in his best Old 
Testament God of Vengeance voice. He praised his Lord for 

54 


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by George Alec Effinger 

bringing forth bread from the earth, and creating the fruit of 
the tree and the vine and the earth. 

The rabbi paused, but Hartstein was too experienced to 
hope that he was finished. These were just preliminary 
benedictions, the general address preceding the specific one 
that was intended to knock the congregation back on their 
heels. 

We celebrate the maturity of this fine boy, O Lord, who 
even today becomes a member of the community of adults, 
and takes up the obligation of observing all the 
commandments which Thou, in Thy infinite wisdom, hast 
given unto us. Guide this young man, Asher Ben-Jotham, and 
if it be Thy will, let him not stray from the ways of his fathers 
and his people. Let him not listen foolishly to the teachings of 
false prophets, O Lord, as this is one example of the things 
today's young people take up in their misguided desire to 
rebel against the ways of their elders. Let him not follow after 
errant shepherds, who lose themselves and their flocks 
together in the Desert of Ignorance, in the Wastes of 
Desecration. Let young Asher listen instead to the wisdom of 
his father, to the loving words of his mother, and to the 
experience and judgment of his rabbi. Upon him and upon 
these Thy worshipful servants may Thy holy light shine, the 
light of love and truth, the light of peace and goodwill. 
Amen. 

There was a long silence when the rabbi finished the 
invocation. Some of his remarks seemed unnecessarily 
pointed, and Hartstein looked at Jesus, who seemed quietly 
amused by the reference to lost shepherds. Hartstein smiled. 

55 


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by George Alec Effinger 

Some of the disciples, however, were disturbed and angry, 
and Simon the Zealot looked as though he wanted to dump a 
jug of wine on Eleazar's head, but Jesus quieted them all with 
a small, silent gesture. The rabbi took a seat far down from 
them. The boy himself, Asher, stood and delivered a little 
memorized address, going on and on about how prepared he 
was now for manhood and responsibility and several other 
things about which he didn't have the faintest idea. It was a 
very touching, although tedious, display of adolescent 
confidence. 

I see the hand of the Agency in this, thought Hartstein. 
This reminds me very much of those works of ancient 
wisdom I found in the Library. I'll bet I'm going to sit here all 
afternoon waiting to hear the words of Jesus Christ, but it will 
be one guest speaker after another. According to the Agency 
version of history, nothing important ever actually happened. 
It's all a long parade of banal events until the world, bored 
out of its goddamn mind, stumbled into the twenty-first 
century. I wish I had brought something to read. 

The kid was still talkingnow it had to do with how gravely 
he accepted the advice his elders offered him. Like hell, 
thought Hartsteinand the sun was beating down into the 
courtyard, right onto Hartstein's cloth-covered head. The air 
was hot and sultry and still, and he felt as if he were 
suffocating. His cup of wine was empty and the jug had been 
passed far down the table, out of his reach. Hartstein was not 
enjoying himself. He stood up, paying no attention to the 
disdainful looks he drew from the family members sitting 
nearby, and crossed toward Pamrah, who had dispensed the 

56 


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by George Alec Effinger 

last of her fruit and was now waiting patiently for Asher to 

shut his mouth at last. 

Where can I get something to drink? asked Hartstein. 

Come with me, said Pamrah. 

I'll be glad to. I've had enough of these speeches. I came 
to hear Jesus. 

Pamrah looked interested. I suspected that you were no 
member of the family. I have heard a lot about Jesus, and I'm 
glad I'll be able to hear him, too. If he hadn't consented to 
come to this celebration, I would never have heard him; 
Master Jotham wouldn't have given me leave. 

Your master sounds like a hard man. 

Pamrah raised an eyebrow. No, she said, not really. 
He's better than most, I guess. 

Asher Ben-Jotham finished his little presentation, and 
there was strong applause from the relatives. The boy smiled 
bashfully, then hurried to his place beside his father. He had 
sailed through the difficult part; he had earned all the gifts 
and presents with his solemn recitation, and now he could 
relax a little. 

Just then, as Jotham was preparing to speak, Brannick 
came back into the courtyard. Only Hartstein noticed him; the 
Agency man's face was streaked with dirt, his expression grim 
and forbidding. Hartstein was sure that something unpleasant 
was happening, something he didn't really want to know 
about, yet he felt obliged to find out whatever he could. 
Brannick sat down beside him. How's the history lesson? 
asked the sergeant. 

57 


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by George Alec Effinger 

About as relevant as the last one. Listen, what are you up 
to? What's the big idea of playing secret agent on a hot day 
like today? 

Brannick tipped Hartstein's cup and looked disappointed 
that it was empty. We may have a little problem, he said. 

Hartstein felt suddenly cold all over. What kind of 
problem? 

Brannick studied the young man's face before he 
answered. We may not be able to go back to the present. 

Oh. 

We may be stranded here forever. 

Oh. 

But I think I know how to fix it. 

Hartstein just nodded. Then why don't you just do that, 
then. Say, tell me, Brannick, how the hell could we be stuck 
here? That's not supposed to happen. 

Brannick made an airy, empty gesture. You already knew 
that a small percentage of time travelers don't return. 

It was a negligible factor. Hartstein nodded. 

This isn't related to that, said Brannick. This is 
something else, something more sinister. 

Hartstein was trying to keep himself under control. He 
wanted to scream; getting information from Brannick was like 
getting credit from the phone company. I have a right to 
know, he said as forcefully as he could whisper. I'm in the 
middle of it with you. Tell me what's going on! 

Brannick drummed his fingers on the table while he 
considered. It's a long story, he said. I'd have to explain 
about the Temporary Underground, and it would take too 

58 


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long. That guy I was chasing is from our era. This is their past 
we're innot ours. It's a new weapon of theirs and it's got me 
scared. I don't know how they finagled us into the wrong 
past, but only he can return to the present. We can't, because 
we're not connected to our present any longer. Our only 
chance might be if that rebel dies somehow; then we can take 
his place in the pathway and we'll snap back to our proper 
time. I'm not even sure that will work, but it's our only 
chance. You stay here and don't worry. You're here to enjoy 
yourself. Leave it all to me. 

Brannick got to his feet again. Underground? cried 
Hartstein. Rebel? What the hell But it was no use; 
Brannick had already hurried out of the courtyard. Enjoy 
myself, muttered Hartstein darkly. 

Thanks, everybody, said Jotham. His broad smile seemed 
to have gone a little crooked under the influence of a few 
cups of wine. Rabbi Eleazar wanted me to make a few 
announcements before I introduced our guest. First of all, 
there will be a charity bazaar next Sunday, at the home of 
Adaiah, my dear neighbor. Everyone is invited, of course, and 
if you want to help out I'm sure you'll be welcome; see Rabbi 
Eleazar or Adaiah about that. Second, please don't leave your 
wagons in the road outside the temple. The Romans are 
kvetching about it, saying that we're denying them access or 
something like that. Just to avoid trouble from now on, park 
your vehicles off the road, even if you have to bump through 
a ditch. It will save us all trouble in the future. Finally, as you 
all know, Zechariah Ben-Shual has been quite sick, and could 
not join us today. Some members of the congregation are 

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planning to travel into Capernaum to visit him. If you'd like to 
go along, see my wife later this afternoon. I think that's about 
it. If no one has anything else to announce, I'm going to have 
one of our guest's followers come up here and introduce him. 

Jotham gestured toward the group of disciples, and Peter 
rose slowly to his feet and came forward. He towered over his 
host but did not seem the least bit ill at ease. Jotham 
returned to his seat and called to Pamrah for more wine. I'll 
bring you some, too, she said to Hartstein, disappearing into 
the house. 

I'd like to thank Jotham Ben-Nathan for his kind 
invitation, and for his hospitality, said Peter. Of course, 
we've been traveling around through Galilee, and we've had 
many pleasant experiences among the people of this part of 
the country. One of the countless things I've learned while 
following Jesus is that the less fortunate of our neighbors 
have just the same chance of obtaining the Lord's blessing in 
the world that is to come. I'm reminded of a funny story I 
heard while I was still a fisherman on the shores of Galilee. It 
seems there was this wealthy and powerful landowner who 
was very ill. All the people in the town were worried about his 
health, not because he was such a good neighbor, but 
because in one way or another all their occupations depended 
on him and the businesses he owned. So the village doctor 
was getting tired of all the calls he was getting morning and 
night, asking him how old Ebenezer was doing. The doctor 
decided he would have more peace and rest if he just put up 
progress reports down at the village market. The first day he 
put up a sign that said, Old Ebenezer is very sick. Condition 

60 


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serious. Well, that worked pretty well, and the doctor was 
able to sleep a few hours without being disturbed. The next 
day the doctor put up a sign that said, Old Ebenezer is much 
worse. Condition critical. Again, for the remainder of the day, 
the doctor was able to tend to his patient in peace. On the 
third morning, the doctor put up a sign, Old Ebenezer has 
gone to heaven. Well, now that there was no way around it, 
some of the old man's neighbors realized that whether they 
liked it or not, Old Eb was gone for good along with their 
livelihoods, and they didn't have to pretend to like the old 
goat anymore. On the fourth morning, there was a new sign 
put up by one of the village comedians that said, Much 
distress in heaven. Old Ebenezer still hasn't arrived.' 

Hartstein watched Peter as the apostle waited for laughter, 
but they both waited in vain. I'll bet that's the only story he 
knows, thought Hartstein. It had been the wrong occasion 
and certainly the wrong crowd to favor with that particular 
tale. It could be interpreted as an attack on wealthy 
landowners, and Jotham Ben-Nathan glowered at Peter and 
muttered to himself. It looked as if Peter were retaliating 
against the rabbi for the veiled references to Jesus as a false 
prophet. This is going to be a tough act for Jesus to follow, 
thought Hartstein. 

Well, said Peter, dismayed by the reaction of his 
audience, I guess I'd better just introduce my master and 
teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, who will enlighten all of us with 
more carefully chosen words than mine. He went over to 
where the other disciples were laughing behind their hands 
and sat down, embarrassed. Jesus put a gentle hand on 

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Peter's shoulder and stood before the family of Jotham. His 
radiant halo didn't seem to bother anyone but Hartstein. 

A man who sat at Jotham's table called out, What do you 
have to say about the wealthy and powerful attaining eternal 
life? 

Yes, said another man, is the Kingdom of Heaven only 
for the poor? 

Hartstein settled back contentedly; this was, at last, what 
he had come to witness. Jesus smiled and spread his hands. 
Now a priest was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, he 
said. And he came upon a Tar Baby left in the road; and 
when he saw the Tar Baby he passed by on the other side. So 
likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw the Tar 
Baby, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he 
journeyed, came to where it was; and when he saw it, he had 
compassion, for the Tar Baby appeared unto him as a man 
who had fallen among thieves, stripped and beaten and left 
half dead. And the Samaritan put his hand upon the shoulder 
of the Tar Baby, saying, Be of good cheer, for I will put you 
on my own beast and bring you to an inn. But the Tar Baby 
replieth not, and the hand of the Samaritan was stuck fast. 
Release my hand, said the Samaritan, or if you will not I 
must smite you, but the Tar Baby replieth not, and the 
Samaritan smote it harshly with his other hand. That hand did 
also stick, and the Samaritan grew wroth, saying, Release 
my hands, or I shall kick you fiercely. But the Tar Baby 
replieth not, and the man kicked it with his right foot, and his 
right foot did also stick. If you will not release my hands and 
my foot, crieth the Samaritan, I shall kick you yet again, but 

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the Tar Baby replieth not. The Samaritan kicked with his left 
foot, and in like wise did his left foot also stick, and he said in 
anguish, Woe to you, if you do not release me, for I shall 
punish you severely with my head. But the Tar Baby replieth 
not. The Samaritan did even as he said, and struck the Tar 
Baby with his head, and his head did stick fast. Now the 
Samaritan did cry out in alarm, and a centurion appeared 
from a place of concealment, laughing in his sinful pleasure at 
the other man's tribulation. What am I to do with this fool? 
quoth the centurion. Shall I dispatch him here where he 
struggles, or bring him forth to the entertainment of the 
procurator? Oh, noble Roman, said the Samaritan, I beg 
thee, do not throw me to the lions. Slay me now or at thy 
leisure, but throw me not to the lions. Thy house and thy 
sons be an hundred times blest if thou wilt but refrain from 
throwing me to the lions. And the centurion took counsel with 
himself, saying, What a great fear has this man for the lions. 
Yet it would be a seemly end for such an one as he. I will 
bring him to the procurator, who for his pleasure will have 
this Samaritan abandoned to the lions. And so they came 
into the town and the Samaritan was parted from the Tar 
Baby and thrown into a circus of lions. They will rend him, for 
they are starved unto death, said the centurion to his 
procurator. And yet there came glad cries from the 
Samaritan. Oh, thank you, thank you, said he, for in truth he 
had grown to manhood among lions, and he had thus cleverly 
tricked his captors. And behold, the greatest lion among them 
came unto the Samaritan and licked the man's hand, in the 
manner of a faithful hound, for in elder days did the man 

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pluck out a thorn from the foot of this same lion, and so did 
the beast gratefully spare the life of the Samaritan. And the 
procurator was sore astonished, and spake unto the 
Samaritan, saying, Go thou in freedom, and thy lion also, 
and live in peace. And in such a way did the Samaritan win 
his liberty from the Tar Baby and the wicked sport of the 
Romans, and did the lion return to the forest, where it did 
feast upon the flesh of the wealthy and powerful. 

Hartstein was simply appalled. The disciples sat in rapt 
amazement at this gem of wisdom from their master; the 
family of Jotham applauded politely, if in some bewilderment; 
but Hartstein was shocked that the Agency would present 
such an important figure as Jesus in what he thought was a 
foolish light. Is this how the people of Hartstein's time 
thought of Jesus? As a mixture of Will Rogers and Clark Kent? 
Hartstein didn't know where to look. He turned his attention 
to his hands, which for some reason were trembling on the 
table. 

Let me ask thee, is it not so that thou hast come a great 
way, and thou hast come but to hear me preach? 

Hartstein looked up, and his heart nearly exploded in his 
chest. Jesus stood before him, gazing down curiously, a 
pleasant smile on his handsome face. Hartstein didn't know 
how to answer. Yes, he whispered. 

And what thinkest thou of my sayings? 

How could he reply? I am unworthy to offer such 
judgments, he said. 

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Yea, but whosoever maketh not judgments in his heart, 
even he shall curse the day when it shall happen that others 
inflict their judgments upon him. 

Yes, I know, but... Hartstein felt too stupid to live. From 
the corner of his eye, he saw Matthew hurriedly scribbling 
down everything that was said. Hartstein hoped that when he 
returned home, he wouldn't find this pitiful interview recorded 
somewhere in the New Testament. 

Jesus took the young man's hands in his own. Hartstein 
was astonished by how strong Jesus was; but of course, he 
had been a carpenter, he had never lived an easy or luxurious 
life. Men will come unto thee, said Jesus, and saying Join 
thy fortunes with us, for our destiny is great, they shall 
demand that thou followeth their banner. And even other men 
will come, saying Go not down that way, for those men 
believeth only in death, therefore march with us, and we will 
shew unto you marvelous things. And upon that terrible hour 
shalt thou know thy heart and thy judgment. 

Hartstein had no idea what Jesus was saying. He was 
certain, gazing into the deep, sad, loving eyes, that this 
information was vitalbut what did it mean? What must I 
do? he asked, sincerely tormented by his own ignorance. 

Jesus released Hartstein's hands and looked beyond his 
audience, staring into the distance, or the future. Thou 
suffereth and endureth all manner of things, he said. Thou 
must cleave unto thy judgment even in the hour of peril itself, 
for behold, it is given unto they who bear such burdens great 
glory, even if that glory may not be seen until the passing of 
many days. 

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Yes, said Hartstein, more miserable than ever. He had a 
cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thought he had a 
possible explanation of all this. He supposed that Brannick 
had made a bad mistake, and in a little while Hartstein would 
pay for it; he saw himself joining Jesus in the great moment 
of suffering, as the good thief on the cross right beside Jesus 
own. That was how Hartstein interpreted Jesus advice. 

Jesus smiled once more. Verily I say thee nay, that thou 
art mistaken about this, but go in peace and when the 
moment of need is come, then shalt thou ponder all these 
things thou hast heard me say. 

I will, said Hartstein. 

Jesus nodded and turned away. Matthew was still taking 
notes frantically. The other disciples had stood and were 
milling about while Jesus offered young Asher his blessing. 
Hartstein sat stunned, dazed. His thoughts about the past and 
about the Agency had been turned upside down one more 
time: despite all the mistakes, the absurdities, the words that 
had been put into everyone's mouth, that had been Jesus 
who spoke to him. Hartstein had known it from the moment 
he looked into those gentle eyes (what color had they been?). 
The Tar Baby was a product of the mindlessness of the 
present; but he who had preached here this afternoon was no 
artifact of the Agency. 

After a few minutes, when Jesus and his followers had said 
farewell and taken their leave, and the family of Jotham Ben-
Nathan were standing in the courtyard, once more talking 
together in small groups, Sergeant Brannick returned with the 
short fat man he had pursued earlier. Both men were almost 

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exhausted, although Brannick's expression seemed, for him, 
virtually exultant. 

Let's go, said the Agency man. He gave a little jerk with 
his head. He held one of his prisoner's arms twisted tightly 
behind the fat man's back. 

But Hartstein thought of Pamrah, then realized that the 
situation warranted no dallying. His heart breaking, he left 
her behind forever. 

I heard that you had an interview, said Brannick, smiling. 
How did it make you feel? 

Hartstein wondered what the answer to that was. First, 
he said, I go back to Egypt and all my faith in the Agency is 
destroyed forever. Then you haul me back here, and it just 
makes things worse; I mean, the saints and the halo and that 
terrible story Jesus told. But then do you know what 
happened? 

Brannick urged the fat man toward the archway; Hartstein 
followed them. No, said the sergeant, what happened? 

He spoke to me, and it seemed as if he knew me and was 
giving me some important message. Only I can't understand 
exactly what he meant. 

Brannick laughed. Didn't you more or less expect that, 
too? 

Hartstein frowned. You mean, it was all part of the trip? 
Like finding Pamrah? Everybody who comes back here has a 
private conversation with Jesus? 

Brannick shook his head. No, not at all. Jesus has never 
said a word to me. What I meant was, didn't you expect not 

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to understand what he said to you, if he said anything to 
you? 

Hartstein thought that over and decided not to answer. 
They followed the main road away from the town of 
Shinabbeth, toward the hills. 

Where are we going? asked Hartstein. 

Brannick was quiet for a moment. Do you remember what 
I said about our possible trouble here? 

Of course I do. 

Well, look over there, where the sun is going down. 

Hartstein turned and looked to the west. He saw nothing, 
just scrubby trees on the hillside, something that looked like a 
shepherd's hut on the summit. He heard a loud crack, as if 
someone's cervical vertebrae had been suddenly, powerfully 
snapped. 

The short fat man, whose name Hartstein never knew, lay 
in the dust at the side of the road. There was no mistaking 
the awkward contortion of the body; the man was dead. 

You killed him, said Hartstein softly. Ten minutes ago I 
was speaking with Jesus Christ. Then I walk out in the 
country with you, and you murder this total stranger. The 
circumstances were too bizarre for the young man to 
comprehend. 

Well, said Brannick, there was no other way. I could tell 
you more if you were a recruit, if you were in the Agency. But 
I can't. You have to take my word, I guess. 

You had to do it? 

Brannick studied him for a long, silent moment. War, all-
out war. He indicated the fat man with his foot. He knew 

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what would happen if he was caught. Maybe you don't know 
about the war. Maybe most of the people in our time don't 
know about it. But it's real enough, and if we lose, we lose 
everything. The Underground doesn't want our power or our 
wealth or the kind of things rebel groups are usually after. 
The Temporary Underground wants to destroy the worldthe 
whole universe as we know it. And only the Agency is 
standing in their way. 

Hartstein wondered if this was what Jesus had been 
referring to; it sounded like a probable candidate. He closed 
one eye and looked sideways at Brannick. Are you telling me 
the truth? he asked. 

The Agency man shrugged. I'd tell you a lot more, but I 
can't. It's better that way. It's the Agency's fight. 

Hartstein tried to keep himself from saying it; he held his 
breath as long as he could, and then, in a rush, he said, All 
right, Brannick, all right, I'll enlist. He was thinking about 
Pamari and Pamrah and their countless sisters down all the 
ages. He was thinking about everyone and everything that 
was dear to him. If you're really in this fight, then it's my 
fight, too. 

Brannick didn't seem terribly overjoyed. He leaned on his 
shepherd's crook and rubbed one aching foot. I knew you'd 
join up, he said. 

How did you know that? Did you peek into my future? 

You don't have a future to look into. I told you about that 
before. 

I forgot, said Hartstein. 

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You'll get used to it. Brannick looked at his watch and 
smiledhe wasn't really supposed to be wearing a watch in 
Ancient Palestine, but he was an Agency noncom with many 
years of service, and he liked to bend the rules, and no one in 
the past had seemed to notice the watch anyway. 
Congratulations, Hartstein. Any minute now we'll zap back to 
the present. Our present, where we belong. Then I can make 
my report, and you can take your oath. It will be a pleasure 
serving alongside you. Together we just might make the past 
safe for democracy. 

Hartstein smiled weakly, but he recalled what Jesus had 
said to him. He wondered if the Agency was the group with 
the banner, and if the Temporary Underground would promise 
to show him great things; he still didn't really know what he 
was supposed to do about any of it. I can't wait, he said. 

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CHAPTER THREE 
CHE SAR&Agrave; SAR&Agrave; 


It was a cinch for Hartstein to get into the Agency. He had 
Sergeant Brannick to sponsor him, and Brannick carried a lot 
of weight in the organization. And, of course, with the new 
threat from the Temporary Underground, the Agency was 
going to need all the cannon fodder it could recruit. 

So, just like that, Hartstein found himself wrapped in a 
silver-and-blue uniform and in the regulations and code of 
conduct that went with it. The Agency was one tough group of 
people. It began to be clear to Hartstein that whatever order 
there was in the world was due primarily to the efforts of the 
Agency. He was proud to be a part of it. Of course he was: his 
ESB training had insisted on that, just as the idea of enlisting 
had been implanted in his subbrain when he had been 
processed for his visit to Ancient Palestine. Hartstein didn't 
realize that he'd been maneuvered ever since the first 
moment he had stepped into the Agency Building. Should he 
learn the truth, there was yet another suggestion planted that 
would make him feel that, whatever the ethics of the matter, 
the Agency had acted for his own good, and he should be 
grateful. 

The ironic part was that it had been for his own good, and 
he was right to be grateful. The smart-looking tunic alone 
made him stand straighter, something Hartstein's mother had 
been unable to accomplish all through his adolescence. He 
was working now on getting his body into optimum condition; 

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he was watching his diet carefully; he was getting plenty of 
rest and making a friend of soap and water; he was aware of 
his responsibility to his fellow man. Hartstein's grandparents 
nodded their heads wisely, positive that it had been the 
conversation with Jesus that had wrought this change. His 
parents couldn't understand it at all; it seemed to go against 
nature for a child to mature so quickly. Hartstein himself 
never gave it a thought. 

His build was too narrow, his jaw too slight for Hartstein 
ever to be just like Sergeant Brannick. At least, he told 
himself, he might behave just like the veteran: he would 
perform his duty when he was called upon. He wondered if he 
could have killed the intruder in the peace of first-century 
Galilee. No, he decided, he couldn't have then; but he could 
now. That was the important distinctionhe had been a 
tourist then, but now he was an Agency man. 

And with the snappy uniform and the long, tedious oath, 
there came a bonus: just for signing up, he was entitled to 
take a three-day holiday in the future. In the future, which 
was completely closed to tourist travel. Most people believed 
that it was impossible to go into the future; it seemed that 
very little was impossible for the Agency. 

How can I go into the future in good conscience, 
objected Hartstein, when I know what kind of desperate 
battles the Agency is preparing to fight? Isn't my place here, 
in case of emergency? 

Sergeant Brannick smiled a rough, manly, comradely 
smile. A noble thought, Hartstein, a noble thought indeed. 
But no, the Agency knows what it's doing. In the first place, 

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although you'll spend three days in the future, you'll be 
returned to the present only seconds after your departure. 
So, you won't really be gone at all. In the second place, the 
Agency feels that the more trips you make into time, 
backward and forward, the more at ease you'll be anywhere 
and anywhen. Enjoy yourself. When you get back, you'll be 
scheduled for your training mission in the past. From then on, 
everything will get serious. You'll know you're in the Agency. 

Hartstein nodded. He was ready for that. Is the future like 
the past? Will there be a girl like Pamrah there? 

They were sitting in the transmission room, watching 
costumed tourists joyfully ducking through the screen into the 
quasi-past of their choice. Brannick laughed softly at the sight 
of a family of six, all dressed up like Halloween, frock-coated 
and hoop-skirted, off to visit the burning of Atlanta. Some 
people in the Agency prefer the future, he said. I don't. I 
don't like going ahead. I think it's boring, but many people 
disagree. The past, as you've discovered, is the home of 
romance. The future, in the same way, is the domain of hope. 
The future is different from the past, less predictable, but it 
springs from the same source; it's a reflection of what the 
people of the present think the future will be. 

Why don't you like it, then? 

The sergeant shrugged. I like the past. Despite all that's 
wrong with it, I like it there. I don't like the future because it 
has no relevance to me. Each time I go, it's different. It 
changes from day to day, as our feelings and hopes change. 
At least the past is internally consistent. You can't say that 
about the future. 

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Hartstein was a little hesitant about leaving. Is there any 
special advice? he asked. 

None, said Brannick. Don't get killed. Don't fall off a 
building or anything. 

Hartstein chewed his lip for a few seconds. What if I run 
into a rebel operative? 

You won't, said Brannick. They can't get into our future. 
And you don't know how to recognize them, in any event. 

Okay, said Hartstein. Where are they aiming me? 

One hundred years from today. Have fun. It's almost 
pointless to say good-bye, because in a minute or so you'll be 
right back here, and then we'll get you your basic training 
assignment. 

And then the fun begins. 

No, said Brannick, standing and leading Hartstein to the 
screen, the fun begins now. It ends when you get back. 

The purple glow of the transmission screen bathed them 
and made them look a little ghoulish. It was something else 
the sergeant said Hartstein would get used to. Want me to 
bring something back for you? asked Hartstein. 

Brannick ignored him. He spoke to the woman operating 
the screen. This joker's going up a hundred big ones, three-
day interval, returned to this point. The woman nodded, 
reset her controls, and the screen's glow changed from purple 
to a pale jade-green. They all looked even more undead. 

Brannick, said Hartstein dubiously, I'm not sure about 
this. 

The older man grabbed Hartstein's tunic by the shoulder. 
You call me Sarge now, kiddie, he growled. He shoved 

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hard, and Hartstein stumbled through the green glowing 
screen, landing in the future on his face. It was a graceless 
way to meet his destiny, he thought. 

They were all happy to see him. People cheered. People 
wept into hankies. People waved silver-and-blue Agency flags 
(Flags? mused Hartstein. Where he came from, the Agency 
didn't have a flag). 

A short woman wearing a white lab coat stepped forward, 
one hand stretched out to greet him. Mr. Hartstein, she 
said. My name is Professor Smeth. I can't tell you what an 
honor it is to welcome you to our era. 

Hartstein pushed himself up to a standing position and 
dusted off his tight-fitting tunic. He was glad to know that 
everyone liked him here, but he was curious. How did you 
know I'd be arriving just now? he asked. He didn't 
understand their adoration; he felt like Dorothy greeted by 
the Munchkins. 

Professor Smeth took his arm and led him by the delirious 
crowd that had turned out voluntarily, just the way in olden 
times crowds met victorious football teams at the airport. 
Why, she said, you were so impressed by your visit among 
us, that when you went backthat is, when you do go back 
you gaveor will givea series of lectures that will have a 
tremendous impact on world affairs, and you will be 
instrumental in turning your world into the wonderful, 
exciting, joyful world we have today. We all owe you so 
much. I personally owe you everything, because without your 
contribution I'm sure that I never could have led so fulfilling a 
life. And all these people agree with me. She indicated the 

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hundreds of people, some of whom carried placards with 
Hartstein's picture on them. 

Hartstein shook his head in bewilderment. There's a 
paradox involved with this that I can't sort out. 

I know, said the professor. 

If your world was created in part through my efforts, then 
how can it exist now, before I give the lectures that will help 
to bring all this about? 

Professor Smeth led him down a long, curving ramp. The 
gray concrete walls were wet and glistening. There were 
glowing fixtures overhead that shed a peach-colored light on 
everything. Hartstein had no idea where they were or where 
they were going. But this place isn't before you gave the 
lectures, said Smeth, with a smile that seemed to indicate 
that she had wrestled with paradoxes such as this many 
times, and that she usually emerged victorious. This is a full 
hundred years later. 

But what happens if I don't give the lectures? 

Professor Smeth halted. She shrugged. Then when you 
come to visit us, it won't be like this at all. It will be just like 
your world, or worse. But, as you can see, it isn't. And it 
won't be. Her gesture took in the concrete tunnel; Hartstein 
thought it would be ungenerous of him to point out that so far 
he hadn't seen anything to show that this future was 
wonderful, exciting, or joyful in the least. They walked farther 
down the ramp, until Hartstein lost all sense of how far they 
had come. Didn't they have elevators in the future? 

At last they emerged from the tunnel, into a great round 
room walled with tinted windows. Hartstein almost threw up; 

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they were on the top of an immensely tall building, so high 
that lacy white clouds obscured part of the landscape below. 
What is this building? he asked. No other structures speared 
into the heavens nearby. 

This is the Agency Building of our time, said Smeth 
proudly. 

The Agency always was big on impressing the citizens, 
said Hartstein. And that ramp we walked down, why 

Smeth anticipated his question. Something to do with the 
drops. They can't operate above this level because it's 
harmful to delicate tissue. Crushes or explodes the capillaries. 
I'm not exactly sure; that isn't my field. But from here we can 
take a series of drops to the ground level. 

D 

Drops. They've replaced elevators. 

How do you always know what I'm going to ask? said 
Hartstein warily. 

Easy, said Smeth. I listened to your lectures again last 
night. 

The lectures, murmured Hartstein. He felt rebellious 
against the predetermined future Professor Smeth was 
offering him. He promised himself that he'd be damned if he 
was going to give any lectures when he got back. 

Hartstein looked out the windows, over the patchy 
landscape of New York and New Jersey. The shape of 
Manhattan hadn't changed in a hundred years, but its 
population of buildings certainly had. There weren't very 
many; almost all of the island was the dark summer green 
that used to be visible only in Central Park. 

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They all went underground, said Smeth. During the 
war. 

The war with 

The war with the Temporary Underground. New York is 
now an underground city, as are most of the other large 
urban centers of the world. 

Then the Agency must have won that war, said 
Hartstein, feeling a great relief. He realized that what he'd 
like to do most was consult an encyclopedia or a few 
reference books, and learn what was going to happen to him 
and his compatriots. 

Of course the Agency won, said Smeth. And it was very 
ironic, too. Our most irresistible weapon in that war was a 
chalked expression on a university blackboard. The rebels 
were manipulating reality through the use of something they 
called subjective differentials. One of the Agency's own 
mathematical philosophers discovered a weakness or a flaw in 
the Underground's reasoning, and developed a system that 
destroyed the theory of subjective differentials forever. 

Hartstein felt his heart pounding. Can you tell me that 
formula? he asked. 

Smeth shook her head sadly. I don't know it. No one 
does. It was obliterated so that no one might make use of it 
to reconstruct and perfect the rebels science. If we knew the 
equations, we could give them to you to take back, but we 
don't. In your time, things must take their course and many 
lives will be lost. It is unavoidable. But do not give up hope, 
because in the end the Agency will triumph. 

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So much for Hartstein's dream of returning as the savior of 
civilization as we know it. 

It's very hypnotic up here, Professor Smeth said. 
Sometimes I stare out over the countryside and lose all 
sense of time. I find myself watching clouds chasing their 
shadows toward the ocean. She smiled, just a little 
embarrassed, and gently touched his arm, indicating that 
they were to move on. 

The drops proved to be as sickening as the sudden view 
from the observation room. Hartstein followed Smeth, but 
balked when he saw her step into a clear plastic tube and 
plummet out of sight. I'm a hero in this era, he muttered, 
trying to gather up his courage. I'm a goddamn hero. He 
took a deep breath and stepped forward, falling through 
space at an absurd rate of speed. The drops, like the 
elevators of some hotels, were on the outside of the building; 
they gave an unobstructed though blurry view of the green 
checkered landscape hurtling ever nearer. I hate this, 
growled Hartstein. He felt like a first-class letter abandoned to 
some immense mail chute. He wondered if his earthward 
plunge would end at the surface or if he'd just continue on 
down into the molten core of the planet. 

He came to a sudden stop only a third of the way down the 
gigantic building. What now? he wondered. He wasn't 
standing on anything; he was sort of floating in the glass 
tube, unable to get himself going again. He thought he had 
broken something, or done something terribly wrong. He 
supposed that Professor Smeth had taken it for granted that 
Hartstein knew all about drops, and now he was stranded 

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partway down, and sooner or later someone else would come 
screaming down from above and smash into him. Hello? he 
cried. There was no answer. He floated, suspended by some 
artifice of the future. He turned around with his back to the 
beautiful vista, and saw that there was an arched door. He 
went through it, and Professor Smeth was waiting for him. 
Some fun, he said, covering his anxiety. 

They walked across a concourse filled with potted trees 
and split-leafed plants, and before Hartstein could say 
anything else, Professor Smeth tossed herself down another 
drop. Hartstein did the same, and they fell earthward like 
eggshells in the disposal. 

They made four drops in all, and when Hartstein emerged 
from the last one he was surprised to find that he was not, in 
fact, many miles beneath the earth's crust, but merely on the 
building's central plaza, which reached up from the ground 
floor to heights that vanished in mist and shadow above him. 
Smeth saw his expression and said, Sometimes it rains in 
here. Hartstein saw no reason to doubt her. 

There were more crowds of people, in vaster numbers, and 
they all cheered and wept and praised his name. He waved at 
them slowly, like a beauty queen in the Rose Parade. 

Professor Smeth shouted in his ear, I will leave you now. I 
have to get back to my duties. But I'll turn you over to your 
guide. She indicated a lovely young woman with violetbut 
it's not necessary to describe her: her name was Pamma'a. 

Hello, Mr. Hartstein, said Pamma'a. She smiled shyly. 
She was the first of her temporal duplicates who knew him by 

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his correct name. He wondered what else she knew about 
him. 

Sergeant Brannick said that whenever I go into the past, 
I'll find you. He led me to think that you wouldn't be here in 
the future. 

Oh, said the young woman, your Sergeant Brannick was 
too concerned with his own interests. The future is filled with 
hope, and if you hope for love, you will find it in the future 
just as you did in the past. Sergeant Brannick's ambitions and 
desires never included trivial matters like that. His futures 
must have been considerably different from yours. 

Hartstein wished that he would be able to find happiness 
with her sometime. Pamari, Pamrah, Pamma'a: he had loved 
her, but time had denied her to him. Could he expect only 
scattered hours of bliss with her, when he visited one isolated 
moment or another, unrelated to the true present? He 
thought over what she had said. He realized that he could 
learn a great deal about himself by looking at what he found 
in this future he'd created. It would say a lot about his inner 
motives, those that were secret even from himself. 

What happens now? he asked. 

Pamma'a looked thoughtful. Have you ever read When 
the Sleeper Wakes, by H. G. Wells? 

Sure, said Hartstein, hasn't everybody? 

Or any of the various utopian novels that were popular a 
couple of hundred years ago? 

We studied them in my sophomore year. Thomas More, 
Samuel Butler, Bellamy, Huxley, Skinner, Effinger, the rest of 
them. Why do you ask? 

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Because they all have one thing in common, she said. 
They all stop the story dead in its tracks while one of the 
utopia's citizens gives the visitor a guided tour. That's what 
we're going to do now. 

Oh boy, said Hartstein. 

But just then two men crashed through a door, weapons in 
their hands. 

Hartstein reacted quickly; he grabbed Pamma'a around the 
waist and threw her to the side, then dived toward the 
gunmen, hitting the floor and rolling, intending to spring to 
his feet, chop the weapon out of the hand of the nearest 
thug, wing the other in the shoulder, and stand there, panting 
but victorious, to the plaudits of the crowd. 

He was deprived of his plaudits. There was a surprised and 
not too pleased cry from Pamma'a as she landed heavily on 
the floor. Hartstein made his dive and roll, but as he came up 
(more slowly than he had planned) he saw that ten other men 
had followed the gunmen through the door. He stood very 
still, staring blankly. The gunmen were also a little 
astonished. They looked over their shoulders at the Agency 
uniforms behind them, and dropped their weapons. Hartstein 
scooped them up and covered the hapless villains from the 
front. He felt grotesquely foolish. 

Good work, Mr. Hartstein, said the leader of the Agency 
squad. 

It was nothing, said Hartstein. He wanted to go back 
home. 

Pamma'a joined him, brushing off her silver-and-blue 
uniform. She tried to seem as if it had been exciting, that in 

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fact she rather enjoyed being flung around like a sack of 
onions. Thank you, she said breathlessly, you saved my 
life. 

It was nothing, said Hartstein. He shrugged. 

We'll take care of these guys now, said the squad leader. 
He indicated that they were to march through the door, off to 
some futuristic jailhouse. The armed men followed the 
prisoners, trooping out in absolute precision. 

All right, said Hartstein, alone again with Pamma'a and 
the cheering throngs, what was that all about? 

Pamma'a led him out of the towering lobby of the Agency 
Building, through some kind of invisible barrier, into the fresh 
air of Hartstein's future. We still get stray elements of the 
Temporary Underground now and then, she said. They pop 
up sometimes. If they left their own time before the end of 
the war, then we have to take care of them here before they 
do any damage. But we never know when they're going to 
appear. We have a complete roster of all their forces; those 
two will be taken care of and crossed off the list. Eventually 
we'll have accounted for every man, woman, child, and 
creature of the rebel army, and we can stop worrying. 

They walked toward the entrance to another building. As 
he had learned before, most of the other buildings were 
subterranean, and their entrances were similar to the drops 
he had used in the Agency Building. If these structures were 
any larger than the one he had just left, it was possible that 
he might, after all, emerge perilously close to the center of 
the earth. 

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How did those Agency guards know the two rebels would 
materialize here and now? he asked. 

Pamma'a was surprised that he had to ask. You 
mentioned it in the first of your great lectures, she said. 
Would you like to watch yourself? We have all of them 
available in the Agency Library. 

Hartstein decided that he didn't really want to watch 
himself. But he thought that if he could get a transcription of 
the lectures themselves, it might save him a lot of work in the 
event that he decided to give them after all. 

Pamma'a went down the drop like Alice down the rabbit 
hole. Hartstein, blithely now, followed her. He came to rest 
some moments later upon a broad, sunlit plaza some quarter 
mile below the surface. Handsome people were walking 
about, looking into shop windows, resting beside babbling 
fountains, and arguing obscure points of philosophy or 
scientific theory. Everyone seemed happy, healthy, and 
extremely polite. It was too good to be true. 

Where are we? asked Hartstein. 

This is the, ah, Hartstein Building, said Pamma'a, 
smiling. This is Hartstein Place, that's the Hartstein Memorial 
Fountain, beyond that is the Hartstein Eternal Flame, the 
Hartstein Obelisk, Hartstein Park, and the Hartstein Arena. 

Hartstein was impressed. Wow, he said, I must sure 
have been somebody. 

Pamma'a laughed at his modesty. Somebody is right, 
she said. Do you realize that in order to be your guide today, 
I was selected from over three hundred million applicants? 
The selection process began over ten years ago. 

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He was astonished. And you were chosen 

For my physical characteristics, as well as personality, 
neatness, and my ability to get along well with my peers. 

And no doubt I mentioned you in my lectures. Why did it 
take ten years for them to find you? 

Pamma'a's face darkened. For some reason, sir, you 
made no mention of me in any of your recorded lectures. 

Hartstein laughed. Well, I can take care of that. I'll make 
sure to mention your name, and then I'll save the future 
some ten years of costly decision-making. 

Do you mean it? Will you really mention my name? 

Yes, sure, said Hartstein. Something nagged at him. He 
didn't understand what would happen if he went back and did 
mention her name; how would that alter the present moment 
(that is, the present-in-the-future moment)? Another leering 
paradox hovered just outside the field of vision of his mind's 
eye. Hartstein shuddered and looked away. 

Pamma'a led him to another drop. I want you to see the 
new New York, she said. 

He gazed at the drop in wonder. Do you mean there are 
more levels below this? 

She laughed; it was a musical sound. This is the leisure 
level, she said. The very tip of the city, like the revolving 
restaurants atop skyscrapers in your time. 

Hartstein shook his head. Not in my time, he said. 
We've become much too sophisticated for that. Those things 
belong to the century before mine. But how far down is the, 
uh, ground level of the city? 

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Maybe I shouldn't tell you. It may make you 
claustrophobic. 

You're right, don't tell me. But does the sun shine down 
there, like it does here? How is that possible? 

Pamma'a looked up into the warm, bright sunlight. It's all 
done with mirrors, she said. A lot of things here in your 
future are done with mirrors. 

That's something I want to remember, said Hartstein. 
The World of Tomorrow. Wow. 

Down they went, falling until Hartstein grew first 
uncomfortable, then bored, then drowsy. He almost fell 
asleep, but was jolted wide awake on his arrival at the lowest 
level. 

The city, from this perspective, was just how he always 
imagined futuristic cities to look. There were gigantic 
buildings that dwarfed anything in the twenty-first century. 
Slender aerial walkways like cobwebs of steel linked the 
skyscrapers (well, they couldn't correctly be called 
skyscrapers, but Hartstein was not interested in developing a 
new name for them); transportation was provided by an 
intricate system of monorails, carrying the laughing, happy, 
productive men and women to their destinations; broad, 
clean expanses of parkland provided wholesome places to 
relax and meditate; carefully planned fourteen-lane highways 
efficiently directed the pollution-free automobiles on their way 
from city to city; beside them ran sparkling, man-made 
waterways that were used more for recreation than 
transportation; all of this brought tears to Hartstein's eyes, 
because he realized that this exciting, happy future was due 

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in large part to his own contributions. He was proud, and he 
couldn't wait to get back to his own time. His grandparents 
would be proud, and his father would know at last that 
Hartstein was cut out for more than merely selling doughnuts. 

Wow, murmured Hartstein. 

Impressed? asked Pamma'a. 

You bet. 

Superscience in action, she said. Look over there. She 
led him to the entrance of a building faced with polished black 
stone. There was a plaque bolted to the front, with two 
quotations: 

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. 

Thoreau 

Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great 

pleasure to announce that we are all poised on 

the verge of the Conquest of Time. Please 

extinguish all smoking materials. 

Hartstein 

Wow, said Hartstein. Seeing his name in bronze relief 
gave him a little shiver. Can I jot that down somewhere? I've 
got to remember it. 

You will, don't worry, said Pamma'a. Let's go inside. 

What is this place? 

She indicated the impressive bronze doors, which 
reminded Hartstein of the doors to the Library of Alexandria. 

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This is the Mihalik Building, she said. It houses the Time 

Museum. 

Oh boy, said Hartstein. 

Just inside the bronze doors, in a high vaulted hall that 
echoed like a train station, there was a massive statue of 
Frank Mihalik, the first person to travel backward through 
time. Mihalik, like many pioneers, had experienced danger 
and adventure and tedium, and finally became a hero in the 
truest sense. There was an inscription carved into the base of 
the statue: 

The past is really something. And the future is 

really something, too. But I'll tell you one 

thing: don't nothing hold a candle to being 

home where I belong, right here in the 

present. There should be some kind of agency 

or something to protect it, because it's the only 

now we've got 

Frank Mihalik 

"The Odysseus of Time" 

He sure was something, said Hartstein in awe. 

Yes, said Pamma'a, but come with me. I have 
something else to show you. He went with her across the 
tessellated floor; they passed through another vaulted 
chamber, where there was a statue of Mihalik's girlfriend, 
Cheryl, who accompanied him on some of his adventures. 
Beyond that hall was one devoted to Hartstein himself. He 
was uncomfortably surprised by his own statue. There were 

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exhibits all around the perimeter of the room; he debated 
with himself about the propriety of looking at them, because 
he felt that it wasn't wise to know too much about his future. 
He didn't want to spoil the nice surprises, and he didn't want 
to know about the bad parts. But he ended up looking 
anyway. 

What year did I die? he asked. 

Pamma'a showed him the recording of his state funeral. 
You died in 2096, precisely one hundred years to the day 
after Mihalik made his first journey through time. The whole 
world made much of that coincidence. 

Who are these people? He pointed to the weeping men 
and women sitting in the front row during his eulogy. 

That's your wife, said Pamma'a, and these are some of 
your eight children, with their families. 

Hartstein felt his pulse quicken. What was my wife's 
name? 

Pamma'a looked down at the floor shyly. Pamela, she 
said. I don't recall her unmarried name. 

Ah, said Hartstein. It seemed that he would find one of 
Pamma'a's temporal cousins in his own time. That fact made 
the record of his death bearable. What did I do to warrant a 
state funeral? Surely it took more than a few lectures. 

Behold: Your accomplishments are writ large upon the 
walls of this chamber in letters of gold. 

Hartstein looked up and saw the most astonishing list of 
victories, achievements, exploits, brave deeds, noble acts, 
feats of valor and virtue, and just plain gallantry that he had 
ever seen. There was no way that he could copy down all 

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those attainments. He would have to perform them the hard 
way, as they were required, one by one in his lifetime. 

Pamma'a, he said in a quiet voice, let's go on. I don't 
want to study my own life very closely. For some reason it 
makes me queasy. Let's go look at somebody else. 

How well modesty suits you, she said. You're just the 
way I've always imagined you to be. Her expression was 
frankly adoring. It pleased Hartstein. It gave him renewed 
hope for the future, for the time when he would meet the 
woman who would, at last, be his own version of Pamma'a, 
the one destined to share his life of triumph. 

There was a special display tank in a corner of the 
Hartstein Gallery. It had been dark and vacant, but now it 
came to life. A hologram appeared of a saturnine man with 
vital, magnetic eyes. Mr. Hartstein, said the man, my name 
is Dr. Bertram Waters. Perhaps you are familiar with my 
name, although we have never met. It was my work, along 
with that of many of my colleagues, that led to the 
development of the selenium pulse projector which makes 
time travel possible. I was on hand when Frank Mihalik 
departed on his epoch-making journey. Then later, when such 
travel had been perfected to the degree which you enjoy, I 
myself made many trips into the past and into the future. In 
this way I have seen the story of your adventures, and I wish 
to join the people of our descendants era in expressing my 
honest admiration and gratitude to you. You represent the 
best of what my twentieth-century world attempted to 
preserve. Nowthat is to say, in the year in which you 
momentarily find yourselfyou are learning just how great 

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your achievements will be. This is a gift that is given to few 
people, but it is given to you so that you may return to your 
time equipped to encourage others more hesitant than 
yourself, to rally them to join you in the essential fight for 
their very existence. Go then, and do your work cheerfully, 
and know that your name rings down the passages of time, 
never to be forgotten, forever to be blessed. The hologram 
of the great man faded, but his rich voice still lingered in the 
vaulted chamber. 

Gee, said Hartstein, what a good man. Dr. Waters 
himself. I can't wait to tell Sergeant Brannick all about this. 

A wonderful thing, said Pamma'a. A glorious tribute. 

They wandered from Hartstein's memorial to other parts of 
the Time Museum. What is the world like today? he asked. 
Have other troubles come along to take the place of the 
defeated rebels? Are there cells of the Temporary 
Underground still plotting away in secret? Can it be that the 
world at last is united under one flag, with one common goal 
of prosperity and happiness for all? What message of hope do 
you give me to take back to my fellows? 

Listen, then, said Pamma'a. We suffer no divisive 
factions, because the world and its colonies among the stars 
are governed in the most benign sense by the Agency. Yes, 
following the time war the governments of nations realized 
how petty was their jurisdiction, fixed as it was to the present 
moment. They abdicated in favor of the Agency, which was 
the only body capable of policing not only the present, but 
also the past and future. Our only problems today concern 
ourselves as individuals, in choosing the best way of 

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expressing our inborn talents and abilities. And in this area 
also the Agency is our counselor, offering a vast array of 
subtle tests, which evaluate and suggest likely careers to 
anyone who asks. We are happy, fulfilled, and unworried. We 
have arrived at last at the ultimate consummation of 
civilization. We owe that to the Agency, and the Agency owes 
its gratitude to you. 

Hartstein was at a loss for words, overcome with emotion. 

There was a small noisethitt. Hartstein ignored it. It was 
like the buzz of an insect's wings zipping by his ear. Thitt. He 
heard it again. He walked on with Pamma'a, into a room 
devoted to re-creations of dreadful carnage during the war 
against the Underground. 

Thitt. 

Say, said Hartstein, a puzzled frown on his face, do you 
keep hearing a kind of little sound, like air escaping from a 
beach ball? 

No, said Pamma'a. 

Thitt. Thitt. Thitt. 

There, said Hartstein. Didn't you hear that? 

No. 

One of the thitts hit Pamma'a in the leg. She screamed 
and fell to the cold terrazzo floor. Blood flowed freely from the 
wound, and Hartstein was momentarily confused. He didn't 
know what to do; it seemed that they were under attack, but 
from where? And by whom? Where were the Agency guards 
now? 

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Mr. Hartstein! cried Pamma'a. She had pulled herself 
across the floor to a place against the wall, trying to make 
herself invisible in the dim light of the gallery. 

Pamma'a, don't speak, said Hartstein. He tried to think 
of a plan, but he seemed entirely in the power of the unseen 
ambushers. Whoever they were, they held all the trumps: 
Hartstein was afraid, unarmed, and ignorant of the number, 
identity, and location of his enemy. 

First he had to see how badly Pamma'a was wounded. He 
crawled to her; she huddled shivering against the wall. Above 
her were holograms depicting great battles in the war against 
the Temporary Underground. It was possible that, for 
Hartstein, the greatest battle of that war was being fought 
right now, in this very room. There was a nice irony in the 
notion, and Hartstein intended to appreciate it at a later time. 
He was aware of a sudden silence; there were no more 
shotswith a shudder, Hartstein realized that he wasn't even 
certain of the type of weapon he was facing. It might be some 
unimaginable futuristic death ray, acquired by the assassins 
anywhen at all. He was certain that he was marked for death 
by the Temporary Underground. 

It made sense. If he was prevented from leaving the 
future, he could not return to his present and begin the great 
life of notable achievements he had seen celebrated only 
minutes before. Those deeds included playing no small role in 
the destruction of the Underground itself. He should have 
anticipated another attack, when the two armed men had 
been so easily overcome by the Agency guards. But then, 
each and every attack ought to have been anticipated in just 

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the same way. Hartstein was having trouble sorting out his 
time-lines. He had not yet learned to think chronically, 
something Sergeant Brannick did so easily. He wished 
Brannick were with him now; Hartstein was perfectly willing 
to forgo all of his impending fame and glory just for the 
assurance that he would live to go home again. 

Pamma'a's condition was not serious. Hartstein used a 
handkerchief to press against the wound. There seemed at 
first to be a lot of blood, but it looked like it might be 
controlled by direct pressure. 

I'll hold it, she whispered. She had regained her spirit, 
and Hartstein was proud of her courage. He fell in love with 
her all over again. She took the handkerchief from him and 
pressed it tightly against the wound. You'll have to search for 
a way out of this trap, she said. 

There were two exits from the room. The gunman might 
be in any of the adjacent galleries, firing at them whenever 
they silhouetted themselves in the doorways. But in which 
direction, and how near, Hartstein had no clue. It seemed 
useless to cry for help; if the enemy hadn't ambushed the 
guards first, then there was some other reason for their 
puzzling absence, and yelling bloody murder was not the 
answer. Besides, that wasn't something that the Hartstein 
this future loved so well would do. How odd, he thought, that 
he could think of his pride at a time like this. 

Pamma'a, he whispered, we need a weapon. 

She nodded. Remember where we are. There is an entire 
arsenal in this building. In the displays. Most of them are 
nonfunctional, but in the next roomshe pointed to the 

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doorway on her left, leading farther into the maze of 
galleriesthere is a collection of captured Underground 
weaponry. Those that fire projectiles are not loaded, of 
course, but the static guns will still be useful. 

Hartstein said nothing. He maneuvered his way slowly 
along the wall toward the doorway. When he was beside it he 
paused, breathing in and out, slowly and deeply. He got down 
on the floor and pressed himself as flat as he could; then he 
crawled into the doorway, raised his head, and took a look. 

There was no one there. He looked beyond the next room, 
through the doorway on the far side, and he saw no one. The 
gunmanit seemed to him that there was probably only one, 
but he had no evidence to support that beliefmust be 
behind, between this room and the entrance to the museum. 
Hartstein lifted himself slowly, just a little way off the floor, 
trying to stay as small a target as possible. He was in a sort 
of push-up position, and was bringing one leg forward, ready 
to dive over the threshold, when two quick thitts splintered 
the wall beside him. 

Hartstein found himself in the next room. He didn't recall 
moving, but he had definitely arrivedand in one piece; he 
congratulated himself. He realized that he had left Pamma'a, 
a marvelous candidate for hostagery, alone in the other room. 
If the gunman ran up and captured her, Hartstein was as 
good as lost. He gave the exhibit a hurried examination. In 
one display case there were five weapons, all unfamiliar to 
him. Three were evidently pistols that fired bullets; he 
ignored those. The other two, according to their labels, were 
static guns. Hartstein took off one of his boots and tried to 

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smash the case. It was, of course, impervious to that sort of 
attack. He tried again and again with no more success, while 
a sick feeling of helplessness almost overcame him. He 
muttered prayers, trying to bargain with God or Nature or the 
Lords of Karma or Dr. Bertram Waters or anybody who'd 
listen. He hadn't even smudged the case. 

Stand aside, said a familiar voice. 

Hartstein whirled around. In the doorway stood Sergeant 
Brannick, holding a static gun in his hand. At first Hartstein 
felt an incredible relief wash through him. And then, in utter 
terror, he realized that it had been Brannick who had 
ambushed him. Hartstein tried to speak, but his throat was 
too dry. Why? he managed to croak. 

Stand aside, repeated Brannick sternly. Hartstein 
obeyed; Brannick fired once at the display case, and it 
shattered into fine, sparkling dust, filling the air with a misty 
cloud of stinging particles. Hartstein turned away quickly, 
shielding his eyes. When he looked again, Brannick was 
standing in the doorway, waiting. The Agency man pointed to 
the display. Hartstein went hesitantly to the ruined case, put 
his trembling hand down through the ragged hole, and 
grasped a static gun. 

With his back turned to Brannick, Hartstein spoke up. I 
don't know how to use this thing, he said. 

You pull the trigger, said Brannick coldly. A thin red 
laser beam will show you where you're aiming. There's no 
recoil to worry about. You just point and shoot. 

I don't want to do this, said Hartstein. He looked at the 
weapon in his hand. He was in no great hurry to turn around. 

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I know, said Brannick. But you're going to face me, or 
I'll shoot you in the back. This isn't some kind of 
entertainment, Hartstein. There's no code of honor here. 
Making you dead is the only concern. Nobody's going to 
censure me if I get you between the shoulder blades. 

Will you tell me why you're doing this? 

Shut up, Hartstein. And turn around. 

There was a moment for one more quick prayer, and a 
thought of Pamma'a. The only thing he felt as he turned was 
regret, more regret than he had ever known. He was able to 
fire his weapon once, and then he was hit. He fell to the floor; 
the strange thing was that he had never felt so marvelous in 
his life. He remarked to himself that dying just wasn't what 
he had expected. In the few seconds of consciousness left to 
him, he wished that he could tell someone about it. There 
really wasn't anything to be afraid of. 

Yet he woke up in pain so intense that he thought at first 
he was being punished for his sins, and that this was eternity 
and that if he had known it was going to be like this, he would 
have made other arrangements while he was still alive. But 
then he began to make sense of where he was: a hospital bed 
in a private room crowded with flowers and greeting cards. 
Pamma'a was asleep in a chair beside his bed. Her leg was 
bandaged, and Hartstein wondered why she wasn't in a room 
of her own. 

Pamma'a? he murmured. He couldn't seem to make his 
voice any louder. 

She awoke and smiled. Welcome back, she said. 

What happened? 

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You saved my life, and you saved our world. That man 
wounded you, but you got him. Right through the heart, 
cleanly. If you hadn't, if you'd been ... killed, you wouldn't 
have been able to do all the things you're going to do, and 
the Temporary Underground might have won the war, and... 
The paradoxes involved were too taxing for either of them to 
think about. If Brannick's shot had killed Hartstein, the whole 
world of the future might have changed instantly, with no one 
living in it aware of the drastic alteration. 

He recruited me, said Hartstein. In my own time. We 
were becoming friends. 

The door opened and Professor Smeth entered, followed by 
doctors, nurses, orderlies, and men and women wearing 
Agency uniforms. You're a big hero, said Professor Smeth, 
putting a box of candy on Hartstein's nightstand. He glanced 
at it; even one hundred years in the future, some of the 
candies still had soft cream centers. On some fronts, 
civilization progresses all too slowly. 

All your recorded accomplishments are insignificant 
compared to what you did two days ago, said one of the 
Agency men. 

Two days ago? said Hartstein. That means I'll be going 
back soon. 

Yes, said Pamma'a sadly. 

Tell me one thing, said Hartstein. Why weren't there 
any Agency guards waiting for Brannick to show up? 

Professor Smeth sat on the edge of his bed. There is only 
one explanation, she said. In your own era But that was 
all she was able to say; she disappeared in a green glow, and 

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Hartstein, lying in bed, was dumped heavily to the floor of the 
Agency's recovery stage. He was home. 

Sergeant Brannick was waiting to meet him. How did it 
go? he asked jovially. 

Hartstein's eyes opened wider. He started to cry out, but 
then he realized that Brannick might not have followed 
directly after him; Brannick might have gone to meet 
Hartstein from any moment in the future. Perhaps Brannick 
was not yet a double agent for the Temporary Underground. 
Hartstein would have to play this very carefully. Nice, he 
said. Not bad at all. 

Brannick indicated Hartstein's hospital gown. An 
accident? 

Uh huh, said Hartstein. Nothing serious. 

I have to debrief you about everything you did and saw. 
We have to make sure you understand that none of it was 
real. Some people have a hard time letting go of things 
they've seen in the future. 

Was this a trick of Brannick's to throw Hartstein off the 
track? Was the sergeant desperate to protect himself, 
knowing what was going to happen in the future? I was a 
hero, Brannick. They all loved me. There were buildings and 
parks named after me. And then you showed up and tried to 
kill me, to prevent all the things I'm going to do. You wanted 
to ensure a victory for the Underground. But I killed you 
instead. 

Brannick laughed long and hard. I warned you all about 
that, Hartstein, he said. You went into the future, into your 
own daydreams. All of it was wish fulfillment, every tiny bit. 

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The future is even more subjective than the past. Now, why 
would you daydream about killing me? 

Hartstein considered. It made some sense; he didn't really 
think he was capable of doing all the things Pamma'a said he 
would. But before he made any decisions one way or the 
other, he wanted to talk about the nature of the future with 
someone else. A higher authority. 

He described his adventures in detail, and Brannick 
explained that if Hartstein returned there, it would all be 
different. The next time, the city might not be underground 
but built up into the stratosphere. Or any of an infinite variety 
of alternate future possibilities. As for why the Agency guards 
hadn't anticipated Brannick's attack, Hartstein knew the 
answer to that. He had always known, but hadn't 
acknowledged it to himself: he never intended to mention the 
incident to anyone, least of all in his lectures, so that when 
he came to the future he would be a hero all over again. That 
truth made him feel just a bit unclean; he had been willing to 
let Pamma'a suffer pain and injuryshe might even have 
been killedjust so that he would be a hero. 

But then, if he didn't mention the incident, how could 
Brannick have known when and where Hartstein would be 
vulnerable? And if he did mention the incident, Brannick 
would know that the attempt was hopeless, that the sergeant 
would only be killed for his treachery. So that seemed to 
corroborate what Brannick had told him. Everything that 
happened to him in the future had been a wish, a fantasy... 

He would have no statues dedicated to him, no tributes, no 
cheering crowds. The equation that defeated the Underground 

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might never be discovered. In fact, there was no guarantee 
now that the Agency would win the war. And Pamela, his 
promised bride of the future, was she also only a phantom of 
his desires? All the security and peace he had found in the 
future slipped away from him, dissolving like a dream in the 
cold light of morning. 

And yet he was no worse off than he had been before the 
trip. Now, at last, Hartstein would never again be seduced by 
the false charms of the past or future. He understood the 
nature of time travel, and it was a disheartening knowledge. 
It had shown him shabby truths about himself: he had 
probably daydreamed about defeating Brannick because the 
sergeant represented Hartstein's ideal of the competent 
individual. A dream world was possibly the only place 
Hartstein might hope to best him in such a deadly contest. 

But there was one other consolation. It struck Hartstein 
suddenly, and it almost compensated for the 
disappointments. This means, I guess, that I won't need to 
worry about the lecture series. 

Brannick smiled patiently. You don't have anything to say 
to anybody, he said. 

Thank God, said Hartstein. That took a great load from 
his shoulders. 

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CHAPTER FOUR 
NO BUNNIES, THANK GOD 


In order to review the unusual circumstances Hartstein had 
endured in the future, and to recognize his exemplary 
courage in a moment of great danger, a formal board of 
inquiry met to decide how best to reward the brave recruit. 
Five men wearing blue-and-gold uniforms of Agency Chronic 
Marshals gazed at him impassively, as Hartstein told the tale 
of his adventure as a hunted man in an unreal world. 
Sergeant Brannick sat beside Hartstein, trying not to look like 
a proud parent. 

Tell me, said Marshal Hsien, Overlord of Benevolent 
Futures, what did you think while you were under attack? 

Hartstein tried to make light of the whole affair. It wasn't 
so bad, sir, he said, a modest smile upon his lips. The smile 
was the same that he had seen Brannick use from time to 
time. I got a chance to do a lot of thinking, about what the 
security of our time frame means to me and to those I love. I 
am sure that I was placed in peril only because it would 
further the greater good of the Agency's cause. 

Yet it was clear to you that the false Sergeant Brannick 
was prepared to kill you, said Marshal Farias, Overlord of 
Unhappy Pasts. He was a huge man, with a thick head of 
silver hair and cold black eyes that glared out beneath a 
craggy brow. 

That was his duty, sir, by the logic of that future. 

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Marshal Kourjadian, Overlord of Dire Futures, nodded. 
You represent more than a soldier of the Agency, he said in 
his deep, rumbling voice. You are a well-trained instrument, 
a weapon of the forces of order, and damned expensive to 
replace. It is a truism of war that infantrymen are 
expendable, but that is not so in this conflict. You have been 
tested and you have proved your mettle. 

Hartstein bowed his head, but did not reply. His opinion 
counted for little against the unanimity of the marshals. 

But this is not a theoretical discussion, said Marshal 
Hsien. This board has met to review the actions of Private 
Hartstein, and after adequate consideration it has determined 
that Private Hartstein represents the best qualities of the 
Agency's tradition. Sergeant Brannick is to be commended for 
the work he has done in preparing so worthy a young man. 
And, Private Hartstein, while it is not the policy of the Agency 
to bestow honors, awards, or medals for the pursuance of 
one's duty, we five marshals concur in the opinion that a 
token of our gratitude and respect is in order. Therefore, from 
this moment you are elevated to the rank of corporal, with all 
the privileges, duties, and perquisites that attach to that rank. 
You will be given your own remote temporal tap, with which 
you will be able to travel through time at will, unaccompanied 
by senior Agents. And you will be given your first solo 
mission. We wish you the best of luck, and want you to know 
that the Agency will be watching your future career with 
special interest. This inquiry is adjourned. 

Hartstein was a little startled by the magnanimity of the 
board's decision. Of course, he realized that the wartime 

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conditions made promotion easier, but he never expected to 
be trusted with his own temporal tap so soon. Now all the 
eras of the past were open to him, endlessly, as well as the 
bizarre, dreamlike futures. He could visit Pamari and remain 
in Alexandria for months or years, and then return to this 
moment when he felt ready to take up his responsibility to 
the Agency. Or he might decide never to return... 

A familiar iron clamp on his shoulder brought him back to 
reality. You did fine, soldier, said Sergeant Brannick. He 
nodded his head a little to indicate the depth of his approval. 

Oh, it was nothing, Sarge, said Hartstein. 

Brannick laid a finger beside his nose and murmured, You 
know that and I know that, but don't let them find out about 
it. Now, I guess you think you've been given a rich widow's 
freedom to go playing around through time while we grizzled 
veterans fight this battle. I got to knock that out of your head 
and give you some more information. 

A coldness Hartstein had experienced before crept through 
him. Here came more bad news, and more things that he 
ought to have been told before but Brannick had decided it 
wasn't time yet. 

This war isn't being fought in the costume departments of 
the Agency and the Underground, said Brannick. It isn't 
being fought in Ancient Turkey or with Balboa in Panama. It is 
being won or lost on the blackboards and computer screens of 
our mathematical armaments boys. They're mostly kids just 
like you. Oh, maybe they have a little more between the ears, 
but they're good boys, too. But I tell you, I'd rather have one 
of you than a dozen of them behind me when I charge up 

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some blind alley God-knows-when. Still, their little variables 
and decimal points are going to save this or lose it for us, and 
our bloody skirmishes are just buying them time. 

Just like they told me in the future, about the 

Shut up, son, said Brannick coldly. Now, they're going 
to send you out on your own. You've never been on your own 
in a wartime situation. And the situation, timewise, 
travelwise, time-travelwise, is a little different. 

Different, Sarge? 

Uh huh. Theyor wehave introduced a kind of local 
stability factor. If you understood more math I could explain 
it to you. What it means is that you can go back somewhere 
and run into other people from our side or their side, all in the 
same quasi-past that used to be in existence just for the 
travelers on that particular jump. 

Sure, Sarge, I've seen that already. First there was that 
guy in Galilee, remember, and then 

Shut up, son. Now the problem is that they're learning to 
build time-bridges from one era to another, a sneaky kind of 
thing, going through times and places no one would ever 
bother about, and we figure they're trying to come up behind 
us somehow. But don't let none of that worry you. Our math 
boys are just as good as theirs, and we'll have it shut off real 
soon now. You just go back to whatever godawful place 
they're shipping you, and make me proud of you all over 
again. 

It means a lot to me to hear you say that, Sergeant 
Brannick. Hartstein put out his hand and the older man 
grasped it. Everything I am, I owe to you. 

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Don't you forget it, neither, laughed Brannick in the 
hearty, manly, well-rehearsed way of his. 

Do I have to leave soon? 

Brannick handed him a sealed envelope. In six hours. 
Sorry, Corporal, that's all the notice you get. Wartime, you 
know. So you'll have to rush through outfitting and ESB prep, 
and then I'll meet you by the Big O. That's what the old-
timers called the transmission screen. They called it nine or 
ten other things, too, every single one of which had an 
obscene connotation. It made Hartstein feel good to have 
Brannick use all kinds of insiders jargon with him. He kept 
forgetting that he was becoming a veteran insider himself. 
There's something important I want to say to you, said 
Brannick. 

That last bit bothered Hartstein just a little, but he hustled 
off to get his brain basted with all the essential knowledge; 
and he picked up a thin plastic package from the costuming 
department that was the most unpromising disguise he had 
ever seen. There were only a few broad brownish leaves and 
a kind of rough belt made of bark. This is it? he asked. 

This is it, Hartstein, said the young man in the costuming 
department. This is absolutely the worst. They must really 
love you. I thought you had a kind of dash in that scruffy 
shepherd rig, you know. Although, and here the young man 
paused thoughtfully, critically, giving Hartstein the fullest of 
his professional attention, this might suit you, too. One 
banana leaf, maybe two, what do you think? Possibly too 
devastating. He glanced at the package. It was a thirty-two 

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waist, wasn't it? I have a positive genius for remembering 
things like that. 

Hartstein held the plastic bag in one hand, feeling nothing 
but revulsion. There was no golden jewelry, not so much as a 
stone ear plug. Where the hell am I going? he asked. 

Sealed orders? asked the young man. 

Hartstein nodded. 

The young man reached forward, making an elegant 
gesture of it, languidly turning the palm of his right hand over 
like a heliotrope seeking the sun. Hartstein hesitated, then 
put the sealed envelope in the man's hand. The young man 
smiled, tore open an end in careful little rips, blew gently into 
the envelope, and took out the Most Secret, Burn Before 
Reading dictates of the highest of the High Command. Easter 
Island, said the young man. Sixteen-oh-two. More than a 
hundred years before the first European ship discovered the 
place. He tapped the sheet of paper on his fingertips. You 
may decide to leave your tennis whites at home, he said 
mockingly. 

Hartstein stared silently. He waited for the punch line. He 
knew there must be one coming. 

The white-god routine, said the young man, yawning. He 
gave Hartstein yet another complete evaluation, then shook 
his head decidedly no. But of course, he sighed, there are 
white gods and white gods, if you know what I mean. You're 
no Thor, that's for certain, but to those ape-men, who knows? 
They may have an opening for a savage clam god or 
something. What do the people on Easter Island do? 

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Easter Island is the place with all the big stone heads, 
said Hartstein. That's as much as I know about it. 

I'm sure I've never heard anything more about the place. 
But once you've gone through the ESB 

I already did that. 

And you still don't have any idea? The young man 
shrugged. Think of it this way: in a place like that, centuries 
ago, with nothing but sun and fish and lotus blossoms, what's 
there to worry about? 

Hartstein leaned forward on the man's counter, on the 
little territorial limit of the costume department. He felt an 
odd fierceness rising in him, and he wanted somehow to 
spend it on someone. You know what could go wrong? he 
asked in a cold voice. From what I've seen in other places, in 
other pasts, when I get to Easter Island all the big stone 
heads may be big stone Easter bunnies. Or they'll be giant 
heads of men, but made of hollow chocolate. I'm in no hurry 
to find out. 

Yes, well, you have to go now. They're waiting for you, 
I'm sure. Take your little leafy G-string and run. I'll bet you're 
going off with your Sergeant Brannick again, aren't you? 

Hartstein's eyes flashed. I'm no shavetail anymore, 
buddy, he snarled. This is my mission, and I don't need any 
sergeant looking over my shoulder. And I don't need any 
props-department gunsel giving me advice, either. 

The young man turned away, unconcerned. My, he said, 
the gods are restless tonight. He laughed. 

At the transmission stage, as promised, Sergeant Brannick 
stood waiting impatiently, slamming one huge fist into the 

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palm of his other hand. Hartstein, dressed in the absurd 
costume of an Easter Islanderlittle more than foliage and 
goose bumpswatched as several wide-eyed tourists, all 
dressed as Viet Cong, disappeared through the purple glow 
into their vacation. A man dressed the same as Hartstein, 
down to the same yellow patches on his frondy knickers, went 
through the screen; Hartstein's eyebrows raised. More people 
stood in line for their turn. Brannick saw him, and walked 
across the vast hall. Hartstein felt naked, which, in point of 
fact, was virtually true. 

I got to tell you something, said Brannick. 

You said that before. Hurry up, I'm starting to catch a 
cold. 

Don't worry about that. I want to be sure you don't 
believe everything you hear back there. 

Hartstein's eyes narrowed. Back where? 

Brannick looked away, into nowhere. Back where they're 
sending you. 

Do you know where they're sending me? 

Brannick coughed softly into one gnarled hand. Uh, yes, I 
do. I took a peek. Don't believe everything they say to you. 

Everything who says to me? 

The Underground. 

Hartstein's shoulders sagged. I'm going to run into the 
Underground again. Well, I should have expected that. 
Another battle. Another fine mess, and you took a look at it 
already. You know what's going to happen. And you're not 
going to tell me anything about it except I'm not supposed to 
believe what they're going to tell me. 

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Brannick smiled. That's right, he said. Hartstein didn't 
buy it for a moment. 

So if you saw how it turns out, why are you standing 
around here chewing your nails? Why am I bothering to go 
back there now in the first place? 

Brannick looked around impatiently, but there would never 
be any help coming for him. Because it doesn't have to turn 
out the way I saw it, he said. 

Ah, said Hartstein. 

Why do you always have to have all of this explained to 
you every time? 

Hartstein looked Brannick directly in the eyes. Brannick 
didn't flinch. Because, said Hartstein slowly, the rules keep 
changing. All the time. 

Well, said Brannick lamely. 

And if it doesn't have to turn out the way you saw it, said 
Hartstein, why did you bother taking a peek? 

Brannick looked hurt. Because I care about you, son, he 
said. Hartstein didn't buy that one, either. 

Got to go, said Hartstein. He didn't wait for Brannick's 
shove; he stepped through the transmission screen's purple 
glow and found himself on a broad patch of slippery stones 
beside a low mountain. Behind him was the ocean, cold and 
restless as a cat in the rain. Above him were some of the 
famous stone idols, huge, forbidding, frightening. Great sea 
birds wheeled in numberless flocks above the cliff, crying a 
shrill, endless complaint. Four men stood in a silent huddle 
not far from Hartstein, staring at him, pointing. The great 
white god of something-or-other had arrived. 

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One of the men stepped forward, raising his right hand. 
Hartstein, new at the white-god business, did the same. The 
other man, he recognized immediately, was the tourist or 
Agent who had gone through the screen while Hartstein 
talked with Brannick. Welcome, said the man. 

Thank you, said Hartstein. The man had a beard now; he 
hadn't a few minutes ago. He was also sunburned to a dark 
brown, indistinguishable from the leathery skin of the natives. 

Let us go to my lodge and we will eat. My name is 
Tipchak. You're probably wondering what I'm doing here. 

They proceeded up a narrow, rocky path. From higher up 
the view was astonishing. The air was clear and sharp and 
fresh, and the sights and sounds so commanded Hartstein's 
attention that he did not answer. All around him people were 
at work, feverishly laboring at countless tasks involving the 
great stone heads. The statues themselves, of some 
ceremonial importance, Hartstein believed, were being 
prepared by crews of men, women, and children. It seemed 
to be an isolated stone-age culture. This was a.d. 1600; why 
were the people here still living the life that had been left 
behind by the inhabitants of even the most remote regions of 
the world centuries ago? The black natives of the Congo had 
been more sophisticated when they first met European 
adventurers; the same thing was true of the peoples of the 
frozen North and equatorial South America. In all the world, 
there have been only a few pockets of truly Mesolithic culture 
left for civilized men to stumble upon. The mystery of Easter 
Islandor, to be accurate, one of its principal mysterieswas 
that the place itself was new, a volcanic island, which did not 

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support human habitation much before a.d. 900. When the 
islanders ancestors first arrived, they must even then have 
been more advanced than the stone carvers Hartstein saw 
toiling upon the side of the ancient volcano called Rano 
Raraku. 

There were about ninety great stone faces set in a huge 
circle on the slope, in the midst of a broad, grassy area that 
overlooked the sea. The faces were all turned in the same 
direction, to the south, toward nothing. Mexico lay three 
thousand miles to the north, Chile two thousand miles to the 
east, Tahiti, Pitcairn, and the Tuamotu Archipelago two 
thousand miles to the west. The great long-faced statues, 
called moai by the islanders, gazed thoughtfully across the 
creeping white waves. 

The moai, hacked from a brownish volcanic tuff within the 
crater of Rano Raraku, were set up on pedestals in a great 
ring that enclosed another formation of them in the shape of 
a horseshoe. A worn path leading down the hillside was 
guarded by two faces at the upper end, two more in line, and, 
at the lower end, the largest statue of all. On the flat crowns 
of some of the heads there were balanced huge stone 
topknots made separately of some red stone, brought from 
some other place and somehow raised to their precarious 
positions. Men worked with stone axes, chipping bits away 
from the great heads, finishing the carving, hurrying to 
complete the monoliths in a frenzy of some sort. Women and 
children helped, directed by some unspoken plan or ritual. It 
was a marvelous and breathtaking scene, but it was all 
wrong. 

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You're probably wondering what I'm doing here, said the 
man again. Hartstein had forgotten all about him. 

Well, yes. Who are you? Hartstein shaded his eyes with 
one hand and stared up at the immense guardian moai that 
blocked the lower end of the path. 

My name is Tipchak. I told you that. I arrived here forty-
five years ago, the first white man these islanders had ever 
seen. I played the conventional divinity routine, Plan Six in 
the book, and it's gone very well. I foretold these people of 
your coming, and here you are, and that makes me look very 
good. Or it will, when I present you to the villagers tonight. 

You went through the screen just before I did, said 
Hartstein. And you say you've been here for forty-five years? 
You only look a few years older, at the very most. Hartstein 
saw a definite resemblance between the moai of Rano Raraku 
and this short, nervous man. Tipchak had the same narrow 
forehead, prominent nose, long-lobed ears, and compressed 
lips. All these phenomenal stone giants were tributes to this 
weaselly little man. 

I haven't stayed here the whole time, said Tipchak. I 
didn't think that was necessary. I told the people that I had to 
go back to heaven on occasion, and I left them and skipped 
ahead a year and a half or so. I stay with them about a 
month at a time, to make sure the work gets done right. I've 
been here, oh, maybe three years in all. Getting ready. 

Hartstein nodded. That made good sense. Getting ready 
for me, he said. 

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Tipchak shook his head. Getting ready for the attack of 
the Temporary Underground that's coming tomorrow 
morning. 

Hartstein closed his eyes and waited for his anger to 
subside. No one spoke to me about an immediate attack, he 
said. 

Well, I jumped ahead to tomorrow several times during 
the last three years, and I've seen it. 

Good thinking. What's going to happen? 

Tipchak took him by the arm; for some reason, Hartstein 
resented the man's touch. They walked toward the center of 
the activity, to the center of the inner horseshoe of statues. 
There was a small dwelling there, about twenty feet long, five 
feet wide, and five feet tall, made of lashed stakes and walled 
with matted reeds. This was the great god Tipchak's official 
residence. Tipchak indicated that Hartstein should enter; they 
stooped to get through the low doorway. Inside, the place 
smelled like the wet part of the stable Hercules hadn't cleaned 
out yet. Hartstein fought down a touch of nausea. He was 
offered refreshments, bits of hard yams and a gourd of cloudy 
water. He declined both. 

Local stability, that's the point, said Tipchak, munching 
some yam. Just a matter of months ago, the quasi-past in 
general existed only near the historically significant points. 
The rest was the realm of chaos, really, if you'll allow a poetic 
way of putting it. Swirling fog and a feeling that there was 
more metaphysics around than solid ground. 

Hartstein was taking shallow breaths through his mouth. 
He was trying to keep as little of the fetid air as possible from 

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entering his lungs. Sergeant Brannick tried to describe that 
to me once. I've never seen it, though. 

Tipchak nodded, chewing. He finished the piece of yam 
and pushed the chunks around in the bowl with a filthy 
forefinger, as if one piece of dry tuber could be more 
attractive than another. He chose one. There's less of the 
fog. More order, less chaos. And the odd thing is, you got the 
Underground to thank for it. Isn't that just the opposite of 
what's supposed to be going on? The Underground is fighting 
against order, but for the time being they're creating more of 
it because right now it's useful to them. 

Hartstein shrugged. I suppose they figure that if they win, 
the new order will disappear along with all the old order 
anyway. 

The little man pointed at Hartstein and smiled. Exactly! 
See, you're not as slow as they said. You just got to 
understand the sigma effect. That's the Underground's new 
stability factor. 

Who said I was slow? asked Hartstein grumpily. 

Tipchak ignored him. How are you at visualizing things in 
a Cartesian system? 

A what? 

A graph. What was your major in school? 

Hartstein looked down at the basalt floor. I was going into 
doughnuts, he said. 

Not a lot of abstract thinking in doughnuts, said Tipchak. 

I specialized in jelly intrusion, said Hartstein. Filling em. 
I was at the top of my class in jelly doughnut resuscitation. 
Sometimes one of them will start bleeding, and you have to 

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know where to put pressure and how much. And if you drop a 
pan of them, you got to learn not to panic. You take the 
critical ones first 

Tipchak waved an impatient hand. In a matter of hours 
the Underground will be blasting this hillside with stuff you've 
never even imagined. Leave me do the talking. Where was I? 
Graphs, right. He patted the muck on the stone flooring into 
a smooth layer. With a finger he drew a long, straight line. 
This is space, he said. Distance. 

Distance, murmured Hartstein, as if it were a brand-new 
concept to him. 

Say, from here to there. What we do, we divide it up into 
units. Any kind of units. Feet, meters, light-years, whatever. 
Now look at this. He drew a second line that crossed the first 
at right angles. This is distance, but instead of from here to 
there, it measures from my left to my right, got it? 

And you can divide that up into units too, I'll just bet. I 
know all this. 

Tipchak sneered. You must have slept through your 
doughnut lecture and woke up in the middle of something 
where people were actually thinking. Now, pretend there was 
another line sticking straight up from the place where the first 
two lines cross. What's that? 

Hartstein thought. You mean, if it were really there? 

Yeah. 

It would be a stick. 

Tipchak accepted that. Maybe, he said. Maybe a stick. 
But what would it measure? 

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It wouldn't measure anything until you looked at it and 
saw it was made up into units, too. 

Tipchak spat out the yam he was chewing. He seemed 
very easily frustrated. And so? he asked. 

Distance, Hartstein said. Up and down. 

All right. Three lines measuring distance in three 
dimensions. The lines run from behind me, past you into 
infinity; from right to left to the far ends of the universe; up 
and down until there isn't any such things any more. Now we 
come to the fourth dimension. 

Hartstein smiled. I know about the fourth dimension, he 
said. 

Impossible. 

The fourth dimension is heat. You put a measuring stick in 
the deep fryer, and you see about the temperature of the oil. 

There was an ominous rumble from beyond the small 
shack. It could have been thunder, or the displeasure of God, 
or the arrival of the Underground's armada, or all of the moai 
toppling each other like dominoes, but Tipchak paid no 
attention. The fourth dimension, he said, is time. There is a 
fourth line, marked off into units, that measures distance 
back and forth from the past into the future. We can locate 
our positions in the universe using these four lines. We find 
our location along each line, and together they give us a 
single point, a unique point, a point that belongs only to right 
here and right now. 

There was silence. Seconds, minutes passed. Tipchak 
waited for Hartstein to absorb all this. More rumbling came 
from outside; it was, after all, only a distant storm over the 

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heedless ocean. In the dark, damp hut Hartstein struggled 
until, like a miracle, the idea of a mappable universe came 
alive in his mind. He had been prepared for this by his ESB-
training since his first day in the Agency, but abstract thought 
had so little value in his world that Hartstein rebelled against 
it unconsciously. 

I understand by your expression, said Tipchak, that you 
are prepared to listen to more. 

This is exciting, said Hartstein in an awed murmur. It's 
like finding out all about yeast dough for the first time, all 
over again. 

Marvelous. So now that I've explained the nature of the 
universe to you, kid, I got to do this. I got to kick out the legs 
it stands on. Remember the units I was talking about? Well, it 
seems that these days they don't stay the same, even though 
by definition they're supposed to. It turns out that a unit on 
one line doesn't have to equal the same unit on another line, 
and that now the Underground has figured out ways to 
stretch or shrink units on the same line. 

Hartstein grew disgusted. Then why bother having 
measuring lines to begin with? he asked. 

Right! shouted Tipchak, jumping to his feet, banging his 
head on the low ceiling. That's the whole philosophy that 
gave birth to the Temporary Underground. They claim that 
order and life and a neat universe are contrary to the laws of 
nature. They say that man should do everything possible to 
restore things to the way they're evidently supposed to be: in 
utter chaos. 

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Hartstein shook his head. Nature or God or whatever you 
want to call it wouldn't create the universe just to let it fall 
into chaos. Nature doesn't work that way. Nature makes 
order out of chaos, not the other way around. 

Tipchak shook his head. When you get home, he said, 
you better have somebody explain entropy to you. If you can 
understand it, you may live through this yet. He thought that 
over and shrugged. Never mind. Forget what I just said. 
Now, the Underground has been using the stretched and 
squeezed-together points on the measuring lines, thanks to 
some mathematical magic they found inside a set of 
parentheses. In some placeslike herethey've taken the 
mixed-up units and sorted them out and made them all equal 
again. They've introduced order, more order than there 
should be: the sigma effect. They've made a quasi-past here 
on Easter Island that is continuous for decades, rather than 
days or weeks. And they're coming tomorrow to establish a 
base of operations here. 

How did you know about that? How did the Agency know 
to meet them here ahead of time? 

Tipchak shrugged again. We have spies, they have 
spies... 

Uh huh, said Hartstein. 

Let's go outside again, said Tipchak. Hartstein scooted 
out through the door opening before Tipchak could finish the 
sentence. In the fresh air, Hartstein's mind began to function 
clearly again. The squalor of the hut and the opacity of the 
conversation disappeared together from his memory. 

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One of the loinclothed island men came up to Tipchak and 
spoke deferentially, addressing him as Me-Ki, or Little God. 
There was some problem about the stone topknots, which 
Hartstein now saw were modeled after the artificially colored, 
bound-up hairstyle of the islanders themselves, and not 
Tipchak's own thinning dark locks. It was obvious that not all 
of the stone caps could be put in place before morning, some 
sort of deadline that Tipchak had given them. 

Speak not to me of this, said Tipchak. He gestured to 
Hartstein. Let the judgment be Me-Ah's. He had called 
Hartstein Big God. 

As much as Hartstein enjoyed the novelty of the situation, 
he didn't have a clue as to the correct response. He looked at 
Tipchak, who gave a little shrug. Hartstein raised both hands. 
It does not matter, for I am generous. I am pleased, he 
cried. The islander looked relieved. He ran back to the other 
workers to spread the news; in a few minutes, almost all 
work had stopped. 

The hell with it, said Tipchak. They've just spent forty-
five years getting it all ready for you, but now that you're 
here, the rest of it can sit around and wait for the next big 
god. 

Okay by me. They walked up to the rim of the crater, 
from which Hartstein could survey much of the island. What 
preparations have been made for the battle tomorrow? he 
asked. 

None, really, said Tipchak. 

Hartstein didn't know how to respond to that, either. And 
why not? he asked. 

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Tipchak's expression grew shrewd. Forty-five quasi-years 
ago, I predicted your coming. Along with the little bits of 
magic I did for them along the way, your arrival here today 
makes me a big shot. Now the other thing that I did was have 
them move all their big stone heads into that arrangement. If 
you stand by the biggest one, the Guardian Face, on 
midsummer's morning the sun ought to rise straight over the 
arch of the horseshoe. They just put the Guardian up last 
month, so this year will be the first time we get to see it 
happen. Tomorrow's the day. 

The heads aren't arranged like this on Easter Island, 
Hartstein pointed out. There isn't anything about the sun 
rising over them. They were just burial markers or something 
for their big chiefs. 

No, no, no. I've spent forty-five years working up to this. 
First I 

It's Stonehenge that's arranged like that, not Easter 
Island. 

Tipchak's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. 
He said nothing. 

Hartstein sighed. You have the wrong place, the wrong 
time, the wrong people, the wrong objects. I'll bet you used 
the Stonehenge layout for it, didn't you? Tipchak nodded 
slowly. But Easter Island is in the other hemisphere, on the 
opposite side of the equator, and two thousand years away 
from the plan that made Stonehenge work. For all you know, 
the sun might rise out over the water. He pointed to a bay 
not far away from the volcano's foot. 

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I kind of wondered a little about that when the sun came 
up there this morning, said Tipchak in a small voice. 

Hartstein shook his head wonderingly. It looks like it's 
time to go home and bring in Sergeant Brannick and the 
reinforcements. 

No, said Tipchak quickly, you can't do that. 

Why not? 

The little weasel looked around for a good reason. 
Because the Underground might change units on you while 
you were gone, and you'd never be able to find this locus in 
four dimensions again. 

That sounded reasonable. Hartstein chewed his lip. So 
what are we going to do? 

Tipchak smiled. Leave that to me. I've played the white 
god thing longer than you have. I see a way out. 

The way out, it appeared, was to have the islanders revise 
the very notions Tipchak had fostered for forty-five quasi-
years. He presented Hartstein as a newer, bigger, more 
powerful god, with a Please disregard previous divine 
revelation message. There was a new revelation. 

And here he is to tell us all about it, cried Tipchak. There 
was a smattering of Easter Island applause, and then 
Hartstein was supposed to stand up and cobble together a 
battle plan. He had taken a few hints from Tipchak during the 
rest of the afternoon. It had developed that the man was a 
weasel, but he was a very good weasel. 

The women served a feast. It was night; a full moon hung 
fat and yellow over the Pacific. The breeze from the bay was 
sharp with salt, but after the heat of the afternoon, a little 

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coolness made Hartstein feel better about everything. He 
wished that he had been given a banana-leaf shirt or 
something; the night promised to be even cooler. 

Tomorrow, my enemy, Nu-Ru, the god of yams, will come 
here, said Hartstein. He paused; everyone in the village 
made appropriate sounds of concern. He will attack me. He 
will try to destroy me. There were cries of alarm. But he will 
not succeed. He will not destroy me, Me-Ah, Great God, 
because you will be beside me to drive Nu-Ru away. 

There were shouts and fierce cries from the men. There 
were wails of fear and dread from the women. The children 
were already asleep, all tucked into their banana-leaf beds 
with woven dolls in the shape of Easter Island stone heads. 

One of the men leaped to his feet and gave a boastful 
account of how he would slay the minions of Nu-Ru and win a 
place for himself in heaven. Another man jumped up and tried 
to top that story; as Tipchak had predicted, the affair went on 
for hours. Neither man from the future was required to say 
another word, or perform a single act of magic. As far as 
Hartstein was concerned, the only unpleasant aspect of the 
evening was that he was served by a young woman who was, 
of course, Pamari's duplicate here in this quasi-past. Her 
name was P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah, or Lovely Woman of Big God. It 
was disconcerting because Brannick had been proved right: 
Hartstein had indeed become used to seeing her again and 
again, in one quasi-past after another, and this time, to his 
dismay, he found his thoughts centered on the impending 
battle rather than on her. She tried to distract him all evening 
long, but he paid her little attention. Deep inside, Hartstein 

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was hurt by this knowledge. He would not have believed it 
possible for him to become so much an Agency man. 

During the feast of fish and yams there was the drinking of 
much native beer, which had been brewed from fish and 
yams. One taste was sufficient for Hartstein; he passed on his 
bowl to a young man sitting near him, who seemed to have a 
bottomless reservoir for the stuff. Is this wise? asked 
Hartstein. If they all get bombed tonight, are they going to 
be in any shape to fight tomorrow? 

It makes little difference, said Tipchak. He was letting 
himself float along on the tide of good cheer. 

You've seen what happens in the morning, you said so. 
Let me know what to expect. 

Tipchak drained his bowl and waited for one of the women 
to refill it. He waved a hand in the air. You're going to make 
a speech before dawn, he said. You're going to tell the 
warriors that one of two things is going to happen. You and 
this Nu-Ru person are brother gods, see, and your daddy is 
Me-So-T, the Sun God. The Sun God couldn't care less about 
who wins your battle tomorrow, so whichever side impresses 
Me-So-T the most before the battle gets his blessing, and 
victory. All these warriors will want a sign or something. 
They'll want to know ahead of time that you and they are 
going to win. So here's what you tell them. You say that we 
all have to go to the horseshoe of stone faces and wait for the 
sun canoe of your enemy. About eight o'clock, the 
Underground's ship is going to come flaming across the sky. 
Every damn one of these brave idiots is going to fall down on 
his flat-nosed face in the mud, bawling in terror. You tell em 

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ahead of time, you say that your daddy's sign is like this: if 
the sun canoe comes down behind us, behind the crater of 
Rano Raraku, then all will be well and we can charge down to 
glory and all like that. But if the sun canoe climbs down the 
sky in front of us, so that it disappears behind the Guardian 
Face, then we are doomed. It's that easy. 

Hartstein didn't understand any of Tipchak's reasoning. 
Why won't the Underground come down there? Behind the 
Guardian Face? 

Tipchak looked at Hartstein unsteadily. Because if they do 
that, kid, they're going to put their ship down in the middle of 
the ocean. But these sons of bitches won't think about that. 
All they'll know is that the Sun God is on your side, and they'll 
go whooping and hollering down the other side of the 
volcano, right into the static guns of the Temporary 
Underground. 

A chill went through Hartstein that had nothing to do with 
the offshore breeze. Static guns? he asked. He thought 
static guns were part of the unreal future only he had ever 
seen. 

I told you they were bringing all kinds of new stuff with 
them. Even the warship itself. It's all from the future. They're 
going to fight us with a whole destroyer full of stuff they 
dragged back from one of the worst possible futures. We 
don't stand a chance. 

But that isn't possible. The futures don't really exist, and 
you can't import nonexistent technology from a nonexistent 
future. That's one of the most basic laws of time travel. 

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Tipchak shook his head. Sigma effect, he said, as if that 
explained everything. Maybe it did. 

And all these native men. 

Tipchak's hands turned over, thumbs down, spilling all his 
beer into his lap. 

And us? asked Hartstein. 

Tipchak shrugged. We do all right. After the battle, we get 
invited aboard the ship and interviewed. 

Hartstein's stomach started to hurt. You mean they're 
going to torture us. 

No, said Tipchak, interviewed. Asked questions, get our 
pictures taken. You know. For the Underground press. It 
won't be bad; you're going to be offered a job with the 
Underground. The Commander is a nice guy, I've worked with 
him before. If you're smart, you'll take him up on his offer. If 
you turn him down, you're dead. If you try to run out of here, 
we'll jam your temporal tap in one or more dimensions, and 
you'll never be able to control it again. You'll dash helplessly 
around in both time and space. You might end up circling 
Barnard's Star in time for New Year's, who knows? 

Hartstein thought about his father, who never had a 
tremendous amount of confidence in him. He thought about 
Sergeant Brannick, who was, down deep, not such a bad guy. 
And he thought about Pamari and all the others of her. It 
seemed doubtful that he would ever resolve his situation 
concerning them, not in any satisfactory way. Not now. 

But what Tipchak said made some sense. It cleared up one 
little element that had been troubling Hartstein all day. A 
good Agenteven a bad Agentwouldn't have made the 

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mistake Tipchak had: confusing Stonehenge and Easter 
Island. That would have been impossible, because the 
Agency's ESB-training would have laid in specific information, 
and would never have included such an error. That meant 
that Tipchak had jumped back to Easter Island inadequately 
prepared. Therefore he wasn't an Agent, after all. 

He had to be working for the other side. He was a member 
of the Temporary Underground who had bought a tourist 
ticket back to Easter Island forty-five quasi-years before 
Hartstein's appearance, and then used his Underground 
temporal tap to jump back and forth. You're a rebel, aren't 
you? asked Hartstein. 

Yep, said Tipchak drunkenly. He giggled. 

Just checking. Hartstein signaled for some more baked 
fish. I want to talk to you in the morning. When you're 
sober, I want to break your face. 

Tipchak grinned and almost fell over. Make sure I'm 
awake for your great-god act; don't want to miss that. 
Night. And he fell face-forward into a bowl of beer. 

And as the others, one by one, joined Tipchak in drunken 
slumber, Hartstein's fear grew stronger. He remembered that 
someone had warned him about this, somewhere, sometime. 
But he couldn't remember who, or when, or what he was 
supposed to do about it. He rubbed his head wearily, 
wondering why he wasn't more concerned about all the 
islanders who would be massacred in the morning. He 
wondered where all his human feelings had gone. He felt like 
a hollow shell operating for the Agency, and that his true 
emotions had been left behind in the present, in a locker with 

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his uniform and valuables. P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah led him away 
from the ruin of the banquet, to a fresh and clean bower she 
had built overlooking the crashing surf. He was glad for her 
presence and solicitous tenderness, but nothing she could say 
or do all night long was able to comfort him. He did not sleep. 

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CHAPTER FIVE 
HARTSTEIN'S ADVENTURES UNDERGROUND 


During the long dark hours of the night, Hartstein 
wondered if there were things he could do to change the 
course of events, to save the lives of the islanders. Merely to 
demonstrate its strength, the Temporary Underground 
appeared ready to slaughter every one of them, to make a 
demonstration that would impress Hartstein. It wasn't 
necessary; Hartstein was already impressed with its 
ruthlessness and cynical power. But try as he might, he failed 
to come up with anything that would be able to defy the 
Underground and its weapons out of some nightmarish quasi-
future. 

If there were enough time and the right materials on the 
island, Hartstein might have shown the warriors how to build 
war-chariots, if there had been horses to pull them. All they 
had were bows and arrows and hand weapons of the sharp or 
blunt varieties. They wouldn't get within five hundred meters 
of the static gunsand that was assuming that the rebels 
would be using handheld pistols similar to the ones Hartstein 
had seen in the nonexistent Mihalik Building's Time Museum. 
There was no guarantee of that. Who could say what the 
Underground would use in its attack: static rifles, cannon, 
missiles? Tipchak could say, but he wouldn't. He just 
snickered and said that he wanted to leave it as a surprise. 
Maybe the Underground would arrive with more sinister 
weapons, based on ideas and science that Hartstein's era 

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hadn't even begun to imagine. The empty hours until eight 
o'clock would bring no solace. 

As the first pale signs of dawn glimmered over the eastern 
horizon, Hartstein stood and stretched his aching body. P-
Eh-Ah-Me-Ah clung to him and whispered in his ear, but he 
did not listen to her. He looked out across the narrow bay 
where the sea still slept, the color of iron. He waited for some 
strong emotion to take possession of him, but none came. He 
waited for fear or hate or anger, but he felt only tiredness and 
hunger. The young woman took his hand and led him from 
the bower to the Guardian Face, the great moai that stood at 
the foot of the path to Tipchak's absurd Polynesian 
Stonehenge. 

You are worried, said P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah. 

Yes, said Hartstein. In the dawn's early light, the 
Guardian Face reminded him of his father, disapproving and 
silent. 

But you are Me-Ah, the Big God. Do you think your father, 
Me-So-T, will favor your enemy? 

Hartstein turned to her, bewildered. What difference did it 
make? Whatever happened, he would not have to live out his 
own life on the devastated island. If there were native 
survivors, they would cease to exist whenever the 
Underground abandoned its base on the island. This was, 
after all, only a quasi-past. It was longer-lived than most, of 
course, but if he visited Easter Island again in the year 1620 
or 1630, everything would be whole, healthy, untouched by 
the conflict that would destroy this culture in this particular 
quasi-past. The moai would be standing where they belonged. 

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And P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah would be there to greet him. So what 
difference did it make? What was the value of life in a quasi-
past? If there was an infinitude of Easter Islanders living in an 
infinitude of similar quasi-pasts, why grieve over the loss of a 
few here and there? 

I have seen a day when these great moai did not stand in 
this horseshoe and ring, he said, brooding. They were 
scattered about the island, standing upon basalt platforms, 
dreaming upon the hillsides and beaches. 

Yes, said P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah, as they were before Me-Ki 
told our fathers to move them. 

And tomorrow, when I must return to heaven, will you 
build more faces? 

No, said the young woman. 

Her answer surprised Hartstein. No? Why not? 

We have enough, she said simply. She smiled as the 
carmine limb of the sun flung itself over the edge of the 
world. I greet your heavenly father. 

Oh, sure. Although he didn't know what the moai were 
built for in the first place, Hartstein had to agree that the 
islanders probably had plenty of them. And so was solved one 
of the great mysteries of Easter Island: why did the islanders 
suddenly stop making the immense statues, sometime just 
before the first Europeans landed on their shores? They had 
enough, murmured Hartstein. He marveled at the innocence 
of that reason; anthropologists always expected more. 

Hartstein's speech to the assembled tribesmen was short 
and direct. Everyone was gathered within the central 
horseshoe of moai, shivering in the damp coolness of early 

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morning. Hartstein pointed at the Guardian Face, which stood 
a few hundred yards down the narrow path, its back turned 
on them as it meditated on the sea. The young Agent recited 
the story of Nu-Ru and the sun canoe and the omen from the 
Sun God, and the warriors seemed cheered by it. They were 
happy with the idea of magic. They preferred advance 
knowledge, even if, as in this case, it turned out to be false. 
Signs and portents had a comforting effect on these people. 

Very good, very nice presentation, said Tipchak. Now 
there's nothing to do but wait. 

Hartstein watched the islanders working themselves up to 
a fighting frenzy, chanting and dancing. What's the point of 
killing all these people? he asked. 

Tipchak shrugged. It will be easier to operate here 
without them. And besides 

Hartstein stopped him. I know, I know: they don't really 
exist. Well, stick that one in your ear. I don't want to hear it 
anymore. 

We're going to watch the battle from up there, said 
Tipchak, pointing to the rim of the volcanic crater. Out of 
harm's way. 

That figures. Some god I am. I ought to be leading them 
into battle. 

Did you expect that this was going to turn into your own 
little myth? asked Tipchak, sneering. Sorry. Maybe next 
time. 

Hartstein remembered what he had promised the weasel 
the night before. He turned, letting his shoulder drop, and 
swung his right fist in a long, beautiful arc that ended with 

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shattering impact on the point of Tipchak's chin. The rebel 
staggered backward, grunting, and sat down heavily. He 
wobbled for a moment, dazed, his hands covering his face. 
When his head cleared, he looked slowly up at Hartstein. 
There was no anger or surprise in Tipchak's expression; he 
was probably used to getting slugged. Some lousy temper 
you got, he murmured resentfully. Both men were suddenly 
aware that the islanders had stopped their war chant and 
were watching. Goddamn dangerous thing, too. 

It was just something I needed to do, said Hartstein. He 
walked over beside Tipchak. 

So, did you get it out of your system? 

I don't think so. Hartstein turned and addressed the 
warriors: Do not be astonished, he said in a loud, 
commanding voice. Gods, too, have battle rituals we must 
perform. The islanders swallowed that easily enough and 
went back to their own hopping around. 

One man separated from the group and approached 
Hartstein timidly. Me-Ah, he murmured, nervously bowing 
his head again and again as a gesture of respect. 

Speak, said Hartstein 

Nu-Ru is your enemy, said the islander. He is coming 
here to fight with you. That is as it should be; there is always 
war among the gods. But Nu-Ru is the god of yams, who 
provides such of our food that we do not harvest from the 
sea. Will he not be angry with us, too, for fighting against 
him, as your allies? 

Hartstein wanted to tell this poor guy that next year's yam 
crop was absolutely the least of everyone's worries. Concern 

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yourself not with the policies of heaven, Hartstein said. We 
must wait for the omen. If the Sun God is against us, then 
this day you will depart this world, fish and yams and 
everything. If we march together to victory, then Nu-Ru will 
be your servant forever, and the yams will grow as plentifully 
as pebbles upon the beach. 

That sounds just fine, said the islander. He went back to 
his crowd and repeated what Hartstein had told him. 

The weasel, Tipchak, looked at Hartstein with a kind of 
grudging respect. You got a natural talent for this, kid, he 
said, still holding his dented jaw. I'm going to let the 
Commander know about it. We might have a place for 
somebody like you. 

Hartstein paid no attention. Why don't I just tell them all 
to run? he said. They could scatter all over the island. 

Tipchak shook his head. You'd pay for it, he said. You'd 
really regret it. 

Before Hartstein could say anything more, things began to 
happen very quickly. He didn't see the Underground ship 
explode into existence, but he heard the shuddering boom, 
and the shock wave almost threw him on his face. There were 
shrieks from the islanders. Hartstein turned to look and saw a 
huge needle-nosed silver ship screaming across the island, 
low enough for him to count the black tips of the baryon 
masts on the edge of each stabilizing plane. The ship was 
unlike any he'd ever seen, although there were certain 
similarities to the Agency craft of Hartstein's era. But he saw 
sinister weapons and unknown devices that meant that 

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Tipchak had spoken the truth: this ship could have come only 
from some hopeless future. 

Shrieking blasts of energy cushioned the craft's descent. 
The islanders had their sign, even though none of them was 
watching; they were prostrate with fear. For a moment the 
ship hovered, flame licking out from its steering jets, and 
then all was suddenly silent. The Underground's destroyer 
settled down out of sight on the grassy plain on the far side of 
Rano Raraku. Slowly the men of Easter Island raised their 
heads and looked around; it was obvious that the sign had 
been favorable, that the Sun God had chosen them for glory. 
A cheer went up among them. 

Come on, whispered Tipchak urgently, we got to get out 
of here, and fast. 

Hey, said Hartstein, what's the 

The dry grass between Hartstein and the warriors, the thin 
layer of soil, and the volcanic rock beneath it erupted into the 
air. There was a sharp crack of thunder as air rushed into a 
deep crater that only an instant before had been solid basalt. 
Hartstein was thrown across the landscape and landed about 
twenty feet away. He stared at the new hole, wondering 
where it had come from. His thoughts were slow and unclear. 
A hand tried to pull him up. His shoulder hurt. He got slowly 
to his feet, and he felt dizzy. He put a hand to his forehead 
and it came away bloody. Someone pulled him, and he 
followed; it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Come on, Hartstein, come on, I'm not going to carry you. 

Hartstein smiled crazily. You don't have to carry me. I'm 
fine. I'm 

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A second blast from the Underground's ship struck the 
stone pedestal of one of the moai in the outer ring. The 
pedestal fractured into a fine grayish-red powder that 
showered away on the tropical breeze. The great stone statue 
trembled as if it had come alive and then toppled forward, 
burying its insensible face in the soft mud. One of the 
screaming, terrified islanders was crushed beneath it. 

Then there was a volley of beams from the warship. The 
air was filled with the cries of the natives, the splintering of 
the rock that made up the mountainside, the thudding crash 
of falling statues, the concussions of air masses colliding. 
Tipchak dragged and pulled and hauled Hartstein away from 
the scene, up toward the summit of Rano Raraku. Hartstein's 
head cleared after a few moments. He sat down helplessly, 
sickened, and watched the destruction below. It did not take 
long. The Underground shot the arrangement of moai apart 
like bottles off a fence. The south face of the volcano became 
a blackened, pitted no-man's-land. Each shot killed and 
destroyed with an economy that seemed almost miserly. If 
the warship had appeared at eight o'clock, then the carnage 
was over by eight-fifteen. 

Hartstein was hypnotized by the sight. When the 
explosions ended, the sudden stillness hit him like a physical 
blow. He found the morbid silence more terrible than the 
attack itself. How, he said in a croaking voice. 

What was that? asked Tipchak, who sat on the edge of 
the crater, his chin propped by one hand, as if he were 
watching a bunch of kids playing kickball in the street. 

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How can they do that? They're on the plain on the north 
side of the mountain. How can they hit targets on the south 
face? 

In the future, the weapons don't necessarily work the way 
you expect them to, said Tipchak. They're not shooting 
those beams through the volcano. They're projecting them to 
specific coordinates, materializing them where their targets 
are. The first shots were just calibrating range-finders, or else 
we might have been killed. Of course, I'd seen it before and I 
knew where to stand. You owe me your life, you realize. 

Hartstein glared at him. You want another clip on the jaw 
like I gave you before? Tipchak flinched. Hartstein's face 
changed. Oh, my God, he whispered. Oh, God. P-Eh-Ah-
Me-Ah. 

Tipchak relaxed when he saw that he wasn't going to be 
hit again. She's down there, of course. 

Hartstein jumped up and ran a few steps down the path, 
but then he stopped. He didn't want to go down there. He 
didn't want to look around. 

We got business, Hartstein, the little weasel was 
shouting. We're expected. 

Hartstein's expression was grim. That's fine with me. Let's 
go. 

The bottom of slumbering Rano Raraku's crater had filled 
with rainwater over the centuries, and now it reflected the 
pure blue of the fresh, empty sky. Unfinished moai lay like 
stunned giants on the rocky shores. Hartstein and Tipchak 
picked their way halfway around the volcano, and then 
climbed down the steep slope of the north side. The 

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Underground's destroyer waited silently at the edge of a 
stand of tall, supple palm trees. 

When we get there, said Tipchak, you better let me do 
the talking. 

Sure, said Hartstein bitterly, you know these people 
better than I do. 

You bet your sweet ass. 

Hartstein promised himself that Tipchak would pay for 
what had happened that morning. He didn't know how or 
when; but Hartstein was glad that he had the means to look 
through all of eternity for something horribly appropriate. 

The smooth silver fuselage of the warship was unmarked. 
The Underground didn't go in much for flags or symbols. They 
were more interested in action, more effective than most 
revolutionaries, because they neglected rhetoric in favor of 
unabashed demolition. They let great, smoking craters and 
slaughtered people do their speechmaking for them. 

There was a low buzzing sound and a portion of the 
destroyer's hull slid back, revealing a dark interior. Please 
come in, Brother Tipchak, said a familiar voice, and bring 
our guest with you. 

That's the Commander, said Tipchak nervously. I think 
we ought to hurry. He sounds impatient. 

Why is he impatient? asked Hartstein. Time running out 
or something? 

Time running out,' muttered Tipchak, very funny. He 
shook his head disgustedly. The weasel grabbed Hartstein's 
arm and dragged him into the Underground's craft. The 
sliding panel closed behind them and for a moment they were 

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swallowed up in the darkness. Hartstein wished that he had 
taken a last look at the sky, the sea, the sun: there was a 
moderately good chance he'd never see these things again. 

Tipchak led the way. If this really was a ship from the 
future, Hartstein asked himself, how could Tipchak know his 
way around it? They passed by great boards of flashing lights, 
red, green, yellow. Digital meters measured one thing or 
another. Animated readouts spoke in low, sweet voices, 
advising the human crewmembers who ought to have been 
paying attention. The ship seemed deserted. No one minded 
the dials and controls. 

Where is everybody? asked Hartstein. 

I don't know, said Tipchak. They've just fought a hard 
battle; maybe they're celebrating. Or taking showers. Maybe 
they're watching tapes of the fighting and improving their 
skills. 

You're a big help, said Hartstein. 

They passed along the corridor until they met one that 
crossed it and led deeper into the heart of the destroyer. 
They climbed up a level, then turned into another gangway, 
then down again, then to the leftafter a while Hartstein was 
lost. He didn't think he'd ever be able to find his way to the 
outside again. 

This is the Commander's wardroom, said Tipchak. There 
was a solid steel bulkhead in front of them, with no hatchway 
evident. Hartstein waited for some futuristic miracle. 

The solid bulkhead vanished. Beyond it was a spacious, 
comfortable room paneled in dark oak. The Commander sat at 

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a long table of richly stained wood. He sipped from a glass of 

sherry and waited. 

Was that steel wall an illusion? asked Hartstein. 

No, said Tipchak. 

Then where did it go? 

Tipchak shrugged. I don't know how they did that. 

Secrets of the future, said the Commander. He indicated 
that Hartstein should take a seat at the table. He also 
indicated that Tipchak should get lost. 

So this is the Underground, said Hartstein. He looked 
around at the paneled study. Nice. 

Thank you, said the Commander. It's an illusion. The 
reality is gray-painted titanium-alloy walls with corrugations 
and rivets. But because this is a ship from the future, it has a 
few civilized features. I think these surroundings are much 
more pleasant, don't you? More conducive to, shall we say, 
plain speaking. 

Is that sherry an illusion, too? 

The Commander looked sad. Yes, unfortunately, or I'd 
offer you some. 

You brought up plain speaking, said Hartstein. How will 
I know when you're telling the truth? 

The Commander jerked, startled by the question. You 
think I'd lie to you? he said in a low, tightly controlled voice. 

I saw what you're capable of. I saw what you did to 
those 

The Commander cut him off. You saw an efficient and 
essential wartime operation, he said. You saw the 
unavoidable human tragedy. You saw a cleanly executed 

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military maneuver, planned by tactical computers, made 
necessary by the exigencies of this conflict. I do not need to 
debate the Underground's position with you; you know it 
already. But do not think that because my loyalties are not in 
harmony with yours, I am therefore a dishonorable man. I do 
not kill for the love of killing, but for the establishment of 
something you cannot even comprehend. Just because we are 
on opposite sides, do not do me the insult of assuming I am a 
criminal and a monster, a murderer, a liar and thief, a mad 
despoiler of women and children. You must believe my word, 
or else taste the sherry yourself. But then be prepared to 
accept the consequences. 

Hartstein looked into the hard, stern eyes of the 
Commander and knew that he would never find out what was 
in the decanter. 

The Commander waved a hand. Let's talk about reality, 
shall we? You are aware that there's no such thing as an 
objective past. 

Yes, I've had that drummed into me again and again. 

Good. The Commander smiled pleasantly. And the 
future? 

I've been there. 

So, you know. Can you make any statements then about 
the present? 

Hartstein didn't know what the Underground officer was 
driving at. The present seems to be the only sane place in 
the universe. Where the four space-time lines come together. 
The only place where I really know what's going on and 
what's what. 

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Ha ha, laughed the Commander, how lovely if it were 
only so. But the present is another illusion you cherish, my 
son, as fragile and vulnerable as a soap bubble. The present 
exists with no more solidity than the oak paneling or the lush 
carpeting you can see but not touch. 

You must be trying to trick me, said Hartstein. He 
remembered what Brannick had told him: don't believe 
everything they tell you. 

Ha ha, said the Commander. Why for all I hold dear 
would I want to trick you? Listen, what I wantand this is 
putting my cards on the table time, you understandwhat I 
want is for you to come to work for us. To work for the 
Temporary Underground against the evil forces of the Agency. 
There. Now that I've told you my ultimate goal, what point is 
there in fooling you? 

Why me? What have I ever done? You want Sergeant 
Brannick or somebody like him. 

Sergeant Brannick! said the Commander, smiling some 
more. 

You've met him? 

The Commander's brows narrowed. Yes, son, he said 
softly, we've met. But I want to talk about you. Why won't 
you switch sides and join the Underground? 

Hartstein shrugged. Because I joined the Agency first. I 
gave them my word. 

The Commander stared into space, evidently annoyed. 
That's no reason, he said. Do you even know what the 
Underground is trying to accomplish? Do you know what 
you're fighting? 

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Hartstein's face flushed warmly. Of course I do. You're 
trying to destroy the entire universe. What kind of sane 
organization wants to do that? 

When the Commander looked back at him, the man's eyes 
didn't seem to be those of a lunatic. If the universe craves to 
return to its original state, he said evenly, then we in the 
Underground are fighting the most holy of wars. 

I'll grant you that, said Hartstein with a tight smile. But 
how can you make an assumption about what the universe 
wants? What did you get, a special little note from God or 
something? 

The Commander stood and indicated that Hartstein should 
follow him. In a way, young man, he said, putting his arm 
around Hartstein's dirty, crumpled Agency tunic, that's 
exactly what we've got. In God's own code, mathematics. 
One day, one of our people solved a series of very difficult 
equations that unlocked the meaning of life, death, energy, 
time, and all that kind of thing. 

Hartstein was skeptical. They walked through the phantom 
study, through a narrow gangway dotted with tiny blinking 
lights. The Commander opened a round hatch, and Hartstein 
stepped into a bright room. This was the destroyer's Ops 
Center, but there were no conventional weapons in sight. 
There were blackboards and small computer consoles and 
several men and women with nervous expressions and lots of 
papers and reference material and source books. All the 
young men wore clip-on bow ties and all the young women 
wore white blouses with Peter Pan collars and circle pins. 

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This is where it all happens, said the Commander 
proudly. 

Where what happens? asked Hartstein. 

The Commander suggested that they sit at one of the long 
tables. Sister Spence, put up the Prime Sequence for this 
young man. 

One of the Peter Pan collars nodded and began scribbling 
on the blackboard. It was a long, complex set of equations, 
but Spence never consulted her notes. Evidently they all 
worked with these expressions enough so that they were 
burned forever into their memories. When she finished, 
Spence had filled one whole board and half of another. 

It all equals zero, said Hartstein, thinking that the right 
side of the equations looked thin. 

Just mathematical fiddling, said the Commander in a 
friendly way. We call them identities. But bits and chunks of 
that huge group of equations can be pulled together into 
smaller units, factored out, rearranged. That makes it easier 
to deal with. For instance, when we realized that the 
exponent of 0Khe pointed vaguely into the morass of 
mathhad to be an even positive integer, it gave us the 
opportunity to establish temporary stability loci. Like here on 
Easter Island. Isn't that marvelous? 

Terrific. But what about that quantity there in the ninth 
expression down? Didn't you divide through by (3-f/3+f)? 

Of course, said the young woman. That's the term for 
local conservation of random chronons. 

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Then, said Hartstein, frowning, the seventh term ought 
to be 5pxn-3- &micro; all over DmVc. You've got the sign 
wrong. 

The Commander looked at the blackboard for a moment. 
Is he right? he snapped. 

Hartstein looked around, just a little stunned. How had he 
known that? 

He's right, sir, said Spence, doing some figuring with her 
slide rule. Some of the Underground's people were whizzes 
with the slipstick, taking less time to make computations than 
other people needed to punch the data into a computer 
terminal. All Hartstein could do with a slide rule was multiply 
and find square roots. 

How did you know that? said the Commander in a 
dangerous voice. Oh, it's obvious: the Agency outfitted you. 
When they prepped you for Easter Island, they peeked in 
here and gave you a little calling card. Quite amusing; how 
typical of Sergeant Brannick. I must do the same for him 
some time. How bad is the damage, Sister? 

The young woman shook her head slowly. Very bad, sir, 
said Spence. What it means... She paused, afraid to go on. 

The Commander put his kind hand on the young woman's 
shoulder. Tell it to me straight, he said. Hartstein realized 
that the Commander was a wonderful man, just as full of 
compassion as Sergeant Brannick. Too bad they fought on 
opposite sides. 

It means that the sigma effect is ... no effect at all. Not 
yet. We don't really have control over local stability the way 
we thought we had. 

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The Commander was silent. All the other young men and 
women in the Ops Center regarded him tensely. They were in 
a tough spot. 

Listen, said Hartstein. You want to get rid of the DmVc 
term or else the points along the various axes will stay equal 
no matter what you do. You can't do anything about Vc 
that's a constant. So why don't you try to find values for Dm 
that will make the value of the denominator approach infinity? 
That will make the whole fraction negligibly small and that's 
where you can manipulate reality. You'll never be able to 
make DmVc actually equal infinity, but you can come pretty 
damn close. 

Why, I think that'll work! cried the Underground math 
star. 

Hartstein just gazed at his feet shyly. 

Where did you learn that, boy? asked the Commander. 

I was wondering that myself. Just the other day I couldn't 
add four doughnuts and six doughnuts. Today I'm solving 
high-order equations in my head. It's like my grandparents 
always say, that travel is educational. 

The Commander sighed. It's the Agency, youngster. You 
don't think that every time they give you the ESB preparation 
to go someplace, they don't take the opportunity to fill your 
head with all kinds of propaganda and who-knows-what as 
well? That's probably why you joined them so suddenly. They 
planted the hint on your first trip and reinforced it on your 
second. 

Hartstein thought about it. Why, those dirty 

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Hold it a minute, son, said the Commander evenly. 
They're fighting for their existence. They may be dead 
wrong, but they're struggling for their very way of life. They 
deserve a little respect for showing guts in the face of the 
inevitable. 

The inevitable, sir? Somehow, this gruff, manly, likable 
Commander was just the kind of person Hartstein wanted to 
call sir, even though he was a leader of the enemy. Hartstein 
had trouble remembering that part. 

That equation, said the Commander, pointing to the 
blackboards filled with symbols. You spotted the 
inconsistency in it, and we're awfully grateful to you. If you 
hadn't seen that, we might have begun our operations here in 
false security, and the Agency could have come roaring up 
our tails one fine morning. Now take a look at it again. Look 
deep. Do you see anything else? Take your time and look... 
The Commander's voice was murmurous, confident, friendly. 
It was warm in the Ops Center, and Hartstein felt an 
overpowering desire to... 

Sir? he cried. 

It's all right, lad, said the Commander, chuckling. You 
just drifted off for a little while. You had a long day yesterday 
and a tough night. And this morning hasn't been at all restful. 
I was just asking you about the equation. 

Well... Hartstein looked at the long strings of terms and 
bit by bit, like magic, they began to make sense to him. He 
began to see an interplay of forces, a cosmic balancing, that 
before had been only a cold scribbling of letters and numbers. 
Why, what you told me before, it's true! said Hartstein, 

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astonished. That is, if your mathematical reasoning can be 
trusted. It means that the universe is desperately trying to 
reform in its original condition, dispersed and quiet, and 
mankind is its greatest enemy, seeking to create filthy order 
where there should be peace. 

It seems so simple, doesn't it? whispered the 
Commander. Yet your Sergeant Brannick and the rest of the 
Agency forces have arguments, too, and I'm sure they sound 
just as good. But you can see for yourself: our story is told in 
unemotional algebra, the language of science. Their reasons 
are mere appeals to fear and selfishness. 

But ... but... 

The Commander stood up and stretched. It will take you 
some time to sort out all this in your mind. When you do, 
come see me and we'll have another talk. Until then, you'll 
have the freedom of my ship. Talk to anyone. Ask anything. 
You'll see what a marvelous and heroic task the Temporary 
Underground has assumed! 

Hartstein stared after him as the Commander left the 
room. Only Sergeant Brannick himself had ever inspired such 
devotion in him. He's some man, said Hartstein. And some 
leader. 

There was a question he wanted to ask Spence. The young 
woman was coding material at her desk console. She looked 
up pleasantly as Hartstein sat down beside her. Yes? she 
said. Can I help you? She sounded just like a saleswoman 
at a perfume counter. 

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The Commander said I could kind of wander around and 
ask questions. There's something I'd like you to explain, if I'm 
not bothering you. 

Her pleasant smile showed no sign of going away. 
Hartstein waited in vain for some word of encouragement. 
Well, he said at last, if the Agency can peek in here and 
copy down your whole Prime Sequence and arm me with 
some error you've made, then why couldn't they shut you 
down altogether a long time ago? I mean, all this peeking 
ahead in time and stuff. 

Oh, said Spence, dismissing the notion, we peek ahead, 
too. We stay a step ahead of them, then they jump ahead of 
us, and it all evens out. By tomorrow we'll have the Prime 
Sequence fixed up and our math weapons back in order. We'll 
introduce some squiggle that will foul up their computations, 
and then we'll be back on top. You'll see. 

But isn't there an end to how much back and forth 
wrestling you can do? 

Sure, said Spence. It's not that difficult to establish the 
limits. You sum the series of the Agency's peeking, and you 
sum the series of the Underground's peeking, and whoever 
comes out ahead wins the war. 

Hartstein was losing his patience again. Then why the hell 
doesn't somebody do that already and let us all go home? he 
cried. 

Spence shook her head. This young man was evidently an 
idiot savant; maybe not even a savant. Because a great deal 
depends on where you begin the two series. It's a matter of 
opinion who had the first advantage. She shrugged her 

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shoulders; everything was supposed to be perfectly obvious 
from that point on, but it wasn't. Hartstein wished, not for the 
first time or the last, that he was back home pumping jelly. 

You're supposed to help me make up my mind about 
joining the Underground, aren't you? 

Yes, she said. That's why I'm here. You're supposed to 
like me, and I'm supposed to persuade you. 

And you knew all about me 

because we peeked ahead and saw it all. 

Hartstein closed his eyes wearily. I can't stand it, he 
murmured. 

That's why I'm not bothering to try very hard. Nothing 
personal. Because we already know what your decision is 
going to be. 

Oh? said Hartstein, interested despite himself. He didn't 
know what his decision was going to be. 

Sure, said Spence, you're going to join us. 

So you're not going to try to talk me into it. 

Her puzzlement didn't show in her expression. Her smile 
looked as though it had been applied carefully, in layers, with 
a fine brush. Why should I? she asked. 

Right. Never mind. How do you knownow, you realize 
this is just me talking out of my ignorancebut how do you 
know that this, right here, this Underground ship, isn't a 
quasi-past or a quasi-future I'm visiting? That you aren't any 
more real than those Easter Islanders were? Maybe I'm real 
and you and all your buddies are just window dressing in the 
vast pawnshop of time? 

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She thought over her reply for a moment. You aren't 
married or anything, are you? she asked. 

Hartstein was startled. No, he said. 

Didn't think so. Would you like to fool around a little? 
With me, I mean. 

Is that the Underground sales pitch? It's not very 
original. 

Spence looked around furtively. No, she whispered, it's 
an idea of my own. I was thinking that if both the Agency and 
the Underground are working so hard to get you to cooperate, 
you must be very important. They must know that you're 
destined to do or discover something really big, something 
they wouldn't explain to us non-coms. And if that's true, well, 
I want to be with you when this whole thing is over. 

Hartstein laughed derisively. Me? 

Spence looked hurt. Well, how do you know you won't? 
And why shouldn't I make a good deal for myself if I can? 

No reason, said Hartstein. But why should I want to fool 
around with you, if I'm such an important person? 

Spence glanced around again. Because, she said. 
Because I know how to make the past and the future 
responsive. To the present, I mean. So that the past will be 
the real past and the future will be the real future. So when 
you go there, you can trust what you see and hear and learn. 
I haven't told anyone else about it yet, and I need you to get 
there. 

Hartstein felt a familiar, hollow coldness inside. Get 
where? he asked. 

She snuggled closer to him. You name it, she said. 

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And right then he recalled the words of Jesus in the 
courtyard of Jotham son of Nathan. Hartstein had been 
promised marvelous things and banners and great destinies. 
All he seemed to be getting was a girl with an Underground-
issue smile and a quick hand on the slide rule. He felt 
somehow that he deserved more. Jesus had promised him too 
that Hartstein would know now what he must do. Jesus had 
been right about that; Hartstein did know. He wanted more 
and he knew how to get it: on the snow-white wings of the 
great soaring Bird of Time. 

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CHAPTER SIX 
IN THE MEANTIME, 
IN BETWEEN TIME 


Sister Spence was trying to explain a concept to Hartstein. 
It's probably the most important idea in mathematics since 
the apple fell on Newton. 

Uh huh, said Hartstein. It sounds like old-fashioned 
doubletalk to me. The kind of stuff that gets published in 
journals but never has any practical use. 

No practical use! Spence was astonished by Hartstein's 
obtuseness. They were walking through the Underground 
destroyer's main galley. She led him into a small pantry. He 
turned on the lights, but she turned them off again. If 
anyone comes in, she said in a low voice, it will look like 
we're having physical intimacy. They're expecting that, 
anyway. How can you say something as stupid as that? This 
has more practical value than you can imagine. More than I 
can imagine, really. Let me undo a couple of buttons. 

Hartstein was still dubious. I still don't even understand 
what you're talking about. 

I can see that. Listen, it's simple. A long time ago, people 
believed that atomic particles were simple little charged 
things. Little bits of positively charged stuff, little bits of 
negatively charged stuff. 

Sure. I studied that in Outmoded Ideas 101. 

Then they found out that things could be partially 
charged. 

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I learned that too, said Hartstein, but I don't know what 
it means. It always sounded like being partially pregnant to 
me. Something either is charged or it isn't. 

You're missing the point. Spence put a hand around 
Hartstein's neck and drew him nearer, just in case anyone 
came in and found them not being close. A proton is 
supposed to have a certain unit charge for its mass. An 
electron is supposed to have a certain unit charge of the 
opposite kind for its mass. All of nuclear physics was built on 
a few basic ideas like that; but with the development of more 
refined measuring apparatus, some experimenters found out 
that their test results weren't exactly matching their 
predictions. 

Hartstein kissed her just below the ear. What does that 
have to do with your idea? he murmured. 

Well, one of the founding principles of the Underground is 
that everything in the universe is tied together. You wouldn't 
know about that, being a dog of an unbeliever. But we think 
mathematics and physics and biology and everything are 
inseparable in the practical world. These aren't independent 
fields of study. They all operate under one single set of 
unified laws. She lifted his chin and kissed his lips, and he 
shifted his position so that his arm wouldn't dig into her back, 
and they learned that they could get very comfortable indeed 
in very little space. If they were discovered, they would look 
just like two young people not exercising self-restraint. It was 
a great plan. 

So? said Hartstein. 

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Here, let me help you with that. No, listen to me. If all 
that's true, numbers ought to reflect the real world, and not 
just the other way around. So I came up with the notion of 
partially signed numbers. Numbers that are maybe two-thirds 
positive and one-third negative. Or any combination at all. 
And that's how we're going to get out of this war. 

You came up with that idea? All by yourself? 

She shrugged. I think I must have dreamed it. I woke up 
one morning and there were these notes on a pad beside my 
bunk, in my handwriting and everything. I just don't 
remember waking up and writing it all down. But the ship's 
computer hasn't been able to find any logical or operational 
flaw in what I want to do. 

Sister 

Call me Melissa. 

All right. Maybe you could move just aThat's better. 
What do you want to do? 

You mean with my idea? I want to get out of here. At first 
glance the implications seemed to support the Underground's 
position. But then I realized that what it all really means is 
that life is more important in the universe than an eternity of 
emptiness. 

They didn't say anything more for a few minutes while 
they attended to their camouflage. Melissa, said Hartstein at 
last, why did you tell me all that? When you know that I'm 
going to join the Underground? 

Her eyes opened wider. You're not really, are you? 

No, I'm not. But just a little while ago you said you knew 
that I was. 

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Oh, that. Never mind about that. They told me you would, 
but after a while I could tell they were wrong. And that gave 
me a clue that my idea is right, after all. That we can 
influence the past or the future, and escape there if we're 
careful. 

Oh. What do you want from me? 

She raised her eyebrows. He kissed her lightly on the lips. 
I can manipulate the reality, she said softly, but I don't 
have a temporal tap. You do. Help me to escape, and I'll help 
you. You must have found somewhere you'd rather live than 
our present. 

Yes, he whispered. 

* * * * 

There was a cool breeze from the hills, blowing the heavy 
afternoon air away toward the jungle, and the voracious 
insects with it. Hartstein and Melissa Spence stood on the 
banks of the river and watched the coffee-brown water roll 
by. Behind them, in the African village, the native women 
were chanting timeless rhythms as they prepared the evening 
meal. It was 1914, German Central Africa, and this was 
where she had decided to spend the rest of her life. Waiting 
for Charlie Allnutt to steam by in the African Queen. 

Well, said Hartstein uncomfortably. He wiped the sweat 
out of his eyes and wondered what else to say. He was still 
dressed in the Easter Island outfit. His banana leaves were 
fraying badly. 

Yes, well, said Spence. If she had chosen, she could have 
given her notion of partially signed numbers to the 

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Underground, and they could have used it to win the war. But 
she didn't want to do that. 

If Hartstein had chosen, he could have given the idea to 
the Agency, and they could have won the war. But he didn't 
want to do that, either. Oops, he said. 

What do you mean, oops'? 

I just thought of something. It's not going to do me much 
good to hop back to Alexandria. I don't have all the stuff the 
Agency gave me when I went there the first time. I don't 
know if the ESB training lasts this long. I might not know the 
language or anything. And I'm going to look awful silly 
wandering around Ancient Egypt dressed like this. 

I took care of that for you. It was just a matter of 
changing a couple of digits way out around the fifteenth 
decimal place. I could make the past any way you wanted it, 
so I just included a Hartstein appropriate to the time. Good 
luck. 

He hesitated to go. You're sure you want to be here? he 
asked. I mean, once I leave, you're stuck. You won't be able 
to jump out of this past without a temporal tap. 

She smiled. It's all right. This is my fantasy past. Just as 
Alexandria is yours. 

Okay, then. I guess I'll go. He gave her a kiss good-bye. 
I wish you happiness, Melissa, he said. Then he took a deep 
breath and touched his temporal tap. 

Dusk turned into afternoon. Central Africa turned into 
northern Africa. Hartstein winced in the sudden brightness, 
and noticed that he was dressed in the skirt and headdress 

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costume, standing in the street in front of the Great Library of 
Alexandria. 

Hartstein had crossed the street and started up the steps 
before a vague fear stopped him. There was something very 
wrong, but he didn't know what it was. He looked around: the 
Library, the people, the city looked just as they had the first 
time he had seen them. There was no obvious threat; none of 
the citizens looked like disguised Agents or rebels. What was 
he afraid of? Was it just the tension of seeing Pamari again? 
He suspected that she would have no memory of having seen 
him before, but he had the knowledge that she would soon be 
attracted to him. After all, they had done all that once before. 

That thought identified the source of his uneasiness. 
Alexandria and the Library shouldn't look the same as they 
had. This was supposed to be the real past, the historical 
Egypt. I don't understand, Hartstein thought as he climbed 
the stairs, this is just a quasi-past. Melissa Spence's new 
mathematics didn't affect the real world, after all. 

Following the initial shock, Hartstein accepted the idea. In 
some ways, living with Pamari in this mock Alexandria wasn't 
so terrible a fate. It beat all hell out of living in the present in 
the midst of an all-out time war. 

As he swung open the great door, he thought that he had 
become some kind of guy, a real Agency rogue, romancing 
women in the enemy camp and women who never existed. 
The Don Juan of Time, that was Hartstein. He wore a crooked 
little smile as he entered the Library. 

It was just as he remembered it: shafts of warm sunlight 
spearing down from the high windows, washing the stone 

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floor; shelves of old books in black or brown or dull blue 
bindings; a scattered handful of people, some of them 
vagrants, some of them kids doing schoolwork, maybe one or 
two people looking for something interesting to read. And 
there, in the middle of the vast reading room, was the 
librarians desk. And Pamari. 

His heart started to pound so fast and so loud that it 
frightened Hartstein for a moment. His mouth was dry, but 
his hands were damp with perspiration. He approached the 
desk and waited. She was still the most beautiful woman he 
had ever seen. 

Hello, said Pamari, can I help you? Her violet eyes 
regarded him blankly for a few seconds. Then a rosy flush 
colored her cheeks. She dropped her eyes shyly. 

Hello, he said, my name is Hartstein. 

Things just got better from there. In a few minutes he had 
invited her to dinner and she had accepted. He browsed in the 
stacks until the Library closed; then he led her to the same 
inn where she had taken him on his first visit. How nice, she 
said delightedly. This is one of my favorite little places. 

I'm glad, he said. He poured her some wine. After a 
while they both relaxed a little. 

For some reason that he couldn't explain, she was more 
interesting and more exciting than any of her twins 
throughout the mansions of time. He had cared for them all, 
as lovely reflections of Pamari, but only she was able to make 
him feel so joyful and so anxious at the same time. He was 
glad that he had his own temporal tap. It meant that he didn't 

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have to worry about being recalled to the present abruptly, 
the way his previous meeting with her had ended. 

After dinner they walked through the city, as they had 
once before; it made no difference to Hartstein that she had 
no memories of that other night. They had begun again. It 
seemed like so long ago, yet it had been only a few months. 
Hartstein's former life, the time before he joined the Agency, 
was impossible to retrieve, almost impossible to remember. 
But then, there had been very little about it worth 
remembering. 

The full moon lit their way through the quiet streets of the 
city he had chosen as his new home. He hadn't even 
hesitated; he hadn't even thought to return to the present to 
say good-bye to his family. But that was because he believed 
Melissa Spence when she said she could transport him to the 
real past, where he could have the best of both worlds: 
Pamari and the true Alexandria. 

The nearer they approached the houses and shops, the 
farther the shadows receded before them. It did not disturb 
Hartstein; he had grown used to that effect. He stopped and 
pulled Pamari into his arms. She pressed herself to him as he 
kissed her, and the strength of emotion he felt made him 
tremble. How odd that he had Sergeant Brannick and the 
Agency to thank for this happiness. Certainly he owed them 
for nothing else. 

Fog billowed along the deserted street. The night was cool 
and sweet and clean, and the fragrance of unknown tropical 
blossoms filled the air. They walked on, speaking little, 
enjoying each other's presence, happy just to hold hands and 

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be together. The fog swirled around their feet. Soon it had 
become so dense that they seemed to be wading knee-deep 
through it. 

That's strange, thought Hartstein. Fog usually comes in 
off the water, like a cloud. The only time you see fog like 
this he stopped again. Pamari looked at him curiously. 
Hartstein turned to look behind him; everything was all right 
back there. 

What's wrong? asked Pamari. 

Oh, nothing, he said. It's just that I've only seen fog like 
this in horror films, rising from the ground in graveyards and 
like that. This doesn't look like real fog. It looks like vapors 
rising from dry ice spread around a sound stage. He laughed. 
But you don't even know what I mean. I guess I'll just have 
to get used to living in a world that looks like an amateur 
theater stage set. But it's all worth it to me, sweetheart, 
because 

He turned to Pamari. She wasn't there. 

Hartstein looked around wildly. The street was just as 
deserted as it had been before. More deserted, because now 
he couldn't even see the ghostly backdrop of buildings. 
Pamari! he called. There wasn't even an echo. It seemed to 
him that he was in the middle of a vast, empty plain that 
stretched out forever in all directions. He looked up; the 
moon had disappeared, yet there was a mild suffusion of 
light. It didn't seem to be coming from anywhere. The fog 
lifted tendrils and wreathed him as he began to run through 
it. He ran in blind panic toward where he thought the Library 
should be. He called Pamari's name again and again. There 

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was no answer, no sound at all. There was no sign of Pamari 
or of anywhere she might have gone. 

At last, exhausted, he stopped. He didn't know where he 
was, but wherever it was it was nowhere. There was nothing 
to see, no buildings, no features to the landscape. Just the 
dim light and the creeping fog. 

Where the hell am I? cried Hartstein, gasping air into his 
aching lungs. A terrible pain in his side doubled him over, and 
he closed his eyes for a moment. He calmed down a bit. 
When he straightened up and opened his eyes again, nothing 
had improved. There was stillnothing. 

It was deadly quiet. The fog shrouded all sound, even the 
noise of his feet hitting the hard, unbroken ground. It felt like 
metal plate, an immense single sheet of it that now formed 
the floor of the entire universe. He lost track of the passage 
of time quickly, unable to say how long he ran in one 
direction and then another, searching for something, 
anything. It was as if he had fallen off the earth, into limbo. 
This was no real place and he was in no real time. That was 
all he knew. 

With fumbling fingers he adjusted his temporal tap to 
return him to the present. He thought that if he found his way 
home, perhaps he could learn how to return to Pamari and 
remain with her. It's Melissa's fault, he said, not hearing 
how near to hysteria his voice was. When he touched the tap, 
nothing happened. He went nowhere. Nothing changed. The 
fog rolled around him and the ghastly thin glow showed him 
only that he was trapped somewhere he could not even 
imagine. 

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Sergeant Brannick had warned him about this, about the 
world that existed when the bright moments of history had 
passed and all that remained was the eerie nonworld of 
between time. Sergeant Brannick had not even wanted to 
describe this place. Even he had seemed afraid. 

After a while Hartstein wondered if this was what death 
was like. Perhaps that was an explanation: perhaps he was 
merely dead. If it was death, it was a disappointment. If it 
was some aspect of the real universe, it was terrifying; but if 
it was death, it wasn't so bad. Hartstein had not thought of 
death very often. To him, the immediate crises of daily life 
were more fearful than the vague threat of death. Of course, 
he was learning better. 

Hartstein had had a nightmare once, about being lost or 
abandoned in the dark. He remembered it from childhood. It 
had ended with a hideous noise, like the rasping of a 
machined screw pulled from a hole in a sheet of galvanized 
iron, but infinitely louder. It had been the sound of the sky 
tearing. Hartstein looked up dazedly. He could not actually 
see the sky. There was just darkness abovenot the 
blackness of the night sky, but the darkness of shadows in 
far, unlit corners. He crouched down and buried his head in 
his arms. Get me out of here! he screamed. 

The end of the world was overdue, and he screamed again 
in the suspense. Any second now ... Now ... He felt the terror 
building, and he begged for deliverance. When the sky lit up 
like fire, and the universe disappeared, God would find him all 
alone in this place, naked and lonely and worthless. He 
listened to the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. 

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When nothing happened after a long time, Hartstein looked 
up again. He saw fearful things. He saw time laid out like 
cards along a magician's sleeve. With one quick movement of 
the wrist the magician flipped all the cards over, but Hartstein 
knew he could not learn that trick. He knew that he could not 
even hope to grasp a single card, and that immense deck was 
too much for any man or any army of men to manipulate. He 
saw moments of his life etched into a strip of time. He saw 
himself now, in this instant, trapped on a frame of time. He 
saw everything that had ever happened in the world, each 
event caught irrevocably on a slide of time. He saw rows and 
ranks and files and strips and spools of time, unreeling and 
twisting off toward infinity. 

He was not alone. There were evil things here, too. They 
ate at the edges of time. They browsed recklessly among the 
years, feeding greedily on hours of glory and days of shame. 
They left corruption and foulness on some of the frames. 
There were moments of unbearable filth and stench and 
absolute degradation, and Hartstein passed through them, 
pleading for an end to it. He had seen now what exists along 
with time, along with space, and they were loathsome, these 
things that chewed away at the borders of the real world. 

A voice spoke to him. Now you see? it said. You didn't 
listen to me. You went and believed everything they told 
you. 

Sergeant Brannick? 

Yeah. Come on, soldier, let's get out of here. 

Hartstein looked around and spotted Brannick standing not 
far away, extending a hand toward him. Hartstein didn't 

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understand for a moment. Maybe Brannick couldn't come any 
nearer for some reason. Hartstein went to him instead. It 
seemed to take forever. At last they clasped hands, Brannick 
pulled hard, and Hartstein lurched forward onto the Agency's 
recovery stage. He stood there for a while, breathing hard, 
shaking, looking at Brannick. The sergeant studied him 
gravely until Hartstein had control of himself again. 

Decided to take the long way home, didn't you, 
Corporal? 

I guess so, Sergeant. But you don't know what I saw 

Stow it, son. I know. I've been in that place, too. I've 
been there more often than I want to think about. I've seen 
those things and I know. What you got to do is get over it as 
fast as you can. You're going to be dreaming about it for a 
while and every now and then you're going to start 
remembering and you're going to get the shakes. But it 
doesn't really exist, Hartstein. That place doesn't exist. Those 
... things don't exist neither. There's nothing to be afraid of. 

It sounded as if Brannick were playing at mommy, going 
There, there and making it all better. Hartstein shuddered. 
You're sure of that? How do you know they're not real? 

For one thing, if they were real, we wouldn't be here now. 
The world wouldn't be here. They'd've eaten it by now. 
They'd've eaten all of time. How are you feeling? 

Hartstein looked around the familiar hall, and he felt giddy 
with relief. I'll be all right, he said. 

Sure you will. 

Hartstein watched as Brannick prepared a hypodermic 
syringe. What's that for, Sarge? he asked. 

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Brannick only smiled as he reached for Hartstein's arm. 
You're going to be debriefed, soldier. Just relax. This won't 
hurt a bit. The last thing Hartstein thought before losing 
consciousness was that if his quasi-past had died and faded 
around him, then the same thing must have happened to 
Melissa Spence. Only there was no one to pull poor Melissa 
out of that evil place... 

Hartstein awoke in his own bunk. He felt much better. He 
knew that the Agency had done something to him, had 
somehow removed the last traces of his fear, and he was 
grateful for that. He wondered what else they had done. 

There was an envelope sitting on a chair beside his bunk. 
He reached for it and took out a sheet of paper. It said: 

Enclosed please find one set of sergeant's chevrons. You 
came back with the goods. Brannick. 

I came back with the goods? Hartstein mused. How 
about that. 

There was a knock on the door. All right to come in? 
called Sergeant Brannick. 

Sure, Sarge. Hartstein was curious if it was just 
coincidence that Brannick showed up as soon as he awoke. It 
could be just his usual trick of knowing what everybody had 
done and was going to do. 

You can call me Brannick to my face now, but remember 
I'm still top kick. They're giving out these stripes like they 
was only worth a nickel on a bar of soap. It's not like the old 
days. Brannick sat down with a grunt in the chair. 

What does this mean? 

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What? That note? Figure it out. It means while you were 
dreaming away, safe and sound and all tucked in nice, you 
had another review and they upped you another rating. A few 
days ago I was saving your ass, and today they think you're a 
sergeant. He shook his head mournfully. 

Hartstein frowned. A few days ago? 

Uh huh. You still don't listen so good. The docs put you 
out for your own good, otherwise you might have had 
permanent hangovers from that time you spent you-knowwhere. 
When I was a recruit, they didn't think that was 
necessary. A lot of my pals are sitting around hospitals to this 
very day going mrmee-mrmee-mrmee. You guys sure got it 
soft now. Especially you, Hartstein. You keep lucking out. 
Since you came back, a lot of things have been going on. You 
missed a battle, a big one. We jumped on the Underground 
somewhere in prehistory. I don't even know when it was, we 
didn't see anything but prairie. It was one of their main 
assembly points. We must've knocked off a quarter of the 
rebel soldiers. Even captured one of their ships. Nothing too 
impressive; their ship, I mean. Couldn't have done it without 
that crazy stuff you brought back, the partial numbers 
business. That's what got you the promotion. Not the going 
AWOL. 

Does this mean I have to lead a platoon of my own men? 
I don't think I'm cut out for that. 

I don't think so, either. But you're a Special Agent, 
Hartstein. Just like me. I picked you and I trained you. You're 
kind of like my successor, son. That's why I risked scrambling 

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my own brains to get you out of that fix you got yourself 

into. 

Hartstein just blinked. 

Thank me or something, said Brannick. 

Thanks, Sarge. I didn't think I understood that number 
idea well enough for you to dig it out of my head. 

You didn't. But our weapons development people don't 
need much to go on. You brought back enough. That's what 
we sent you for, and you came through. 

Ah. So that's what you sent me for. 

Brannick gave him a disappointed look. What do you think 
we sent you for? Pineapples and coconuts beside the hula-
hula ocean? 

Hartstein remembered what had happened on Easter 
Island. He remembered P-Eh-Ah-Me-Ah and Tipchak and the 
slaughtered natives and Melissa Spence. He knew better than 
to ask if it had all been worth it. Anyway, he said, it was 
fish and yams. Tell me what happened to the Underground 
forces on Easter Island after I left there. 

Brannick shrugged. We used their own trick on them. We 
pinched them off. They're stranded now, stuck between one 
millisecond and the next. It may take a billion years for that 
millisecond to pass. 

So they're in a kind of suspended animation? For a billion 
years? 

I guess so; I've never experienced it myself. So, that 
takes care of that runt, Tipchak. And the Commander. He's 
given us a lot of trouble in the past, but now he's socked in 
tight for a long time. 

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Hartstein thought of Melissa again. There's no way to find 
her? 

You mean the rebel woman? Brannick just shook his 
head. 

Somehow you knew about her idea, and you sent me 
back to get it away from her. And you're just going to leave 
her in that awful place? 

Listen, son, there's nothing we can do. Besides, she 
wanted to go there. 

Huh? 

Didn't she tell you that she picked it out herself? That it 
was her fantasy past? 

Hartstein was confused. You mean she's back in Africa? I 
thought 

Brannick laughed, one brief, sharp sound. You thought 
she was lost forever screaming in the dark in Cleveland. 

What do you mean, Cleveland? 

Cleveland's what we call it, Hartstein, we veterans who've 
been there and seen the fog and seen those monsters 
munching away on time itself. Because it's the deadest, 
emptiest place in the universe. There's a special little insignia 
you'll be getting, just for walking around in the place, like 
when you sail across the equator. You see, you basically 
blunder through and you come back and get promoted and 
ribbons and everything. I don't get a damn thing for bringing 
you back. Not that I'm complaining. But about that Spence 
woman. She did get herself to where she wanted. Her theory 
seems to work. But she wasn't able to do the same for you. 
When you jumped out of her pastwhich was a real past, but 

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one she had created with her partial numbersyou jumped 
back into the flow of quasi-time. So you went back to a quasi-
Alexandria. 

Hartstein sat back, relieved. Then she's happy, he said. 
I hope so, said Brannick. And she's bottled up in her 
own private past. No one can get to her from here. 
That's good, said Hartstein. 
* * * * 

When Hartstein awoke, he was in his own bed. Not in the 
Agency barracks, but at home, in his parents house. He sat 
up and threw off the heavy feather comforter. It was chilly in 
the room. For a moment he couldn't remember why he was 
back in his parents house. He thought about it a little longer; 
he still couldn't remember. He was dressed in flannel pajamas 
with cowboys on them. Some strong-smelling mentholated 
gunk had been smeared on his chest, like when he was a kid 
and had a cold. He hated the way the pajama top stuck to the 
stuff. He swung his feet out of the bed. The floor was cold. 
There was a pair of bunny slippers, and he put them on. Then 
he went to the bedroom window, high up under the eaves of 
the old house. He pulled aside the curtains. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a 
luster of midday to objects below. He could see the garage. 
The snowdrifts piled high against the door, glittering and 
sparkling and promising exhaustion if he was the one who 
was going to have to shovel that driveway clear. There were 
the tracks of a small animal across the snow in the backyard. 
The tree that had supported his old basketball hoop had been 
cut down the year before he graduated from high school, but 

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it was standing now, just the way he remembered it. It was 
black and barren in the frozen winter night. He saw Lucky's 
doghouse. Poor old Lucky... 

Hartstein didn't know what to make of all this. He put on 
his bathrobe and went downstairs. 

His mother was waiting for him. Look who finally woke 
up! she said, laughing. She shook like a bowlful of jelly. 

Merry Christmas, son, said Hartstein's father gravely. He 
handed Hartstein a small package. 

Merry Christmas, Dad. What am I doing here? 

Mr. Hartstein led his son into the living room. There was a 
big Christmas tree near the picture window, full on the 
bottom, skinny on the top, just the way Hartstein's father 
liked it. He always said that he liked his women and his 
Christmas trees shaped like pears; everybody always got a 
laugh out of that. The tinsel had been put on carefully, branch 
by branch, and the little colored lights blinked a warm, happy 
welcome. But best of all, asleep on the living room carpet 
beside the couch in his old place, was Lucky. 

Lucky! cried Hartstein. The old spaniel rolled over in his 
sleep. 

Sure, son, said Mrs. Hartstein. What would Christmas be 
without Lucky? Or without the three of us together? 

Hartstein unwrapped his package. Inside, there was an 
envelope. He took out a sheet of paper. It said: 

Sgt. Hartstein: 

This is not a quasi-past, although in some 

ways it may look like one. This past has been 

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created for your benefit, but it is in every other 
way independent of the present. You could 
stay here forever, but we're not going to let 
you. You have work to do. You came back from 
Easter Island with serious doubts about the 
purposes of the Agency. It's not just for your 
peace of mind that those doubts must be 
answeredthe fate of the world may ride on it. 
We are preparing another mission for you as 
soon as you return, which will be in twenty-
four hours. 
Capt. D'Amato 

P.S. Your folks sure are darn nice people. 
Who is Captain D'Amato? asked Hartstein. He sat down 
on the plastic-covered couch while his father began to dig 
through the pile of presents. 

He came and he left that for you, dear, said Mrs. 
Hartstein. He sure was a darn nice young man. 
This is for you, Ma, said Mr. Hartstein, handing her a big 

square Christmas package. It's from Dick and Jane. 
How nice of them, she said. 
Hartstein felt very uncomfortable. This scene seemed to be 

made up from memories he had of holiday seasons from his 
childhood. He could understand why the Agency would send 
him back here to rest and recuperate. But how did they 
expect him to find his answers? There was nothing here to 
sway him in either direction. 

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Son, said Mr. Hartstein, I'm glad you're awake now. I 
wanted to talk to you about the Agency. 

Uh huh, Dad, said Hartstein. 

You know, the Agency is doing its level best to make 
things good for everybody, not just here and now, but all 
around the world and in the past and in the future. They're a 
swell bunch of folks, and I really think you could do a lot 
worse than helping them out as much as you can. 

Your dad's right, son, said Hartstein's ma. Do you 
remember that time your grandmother slipped on the ice and 
hurt her hip? Who do you think took her to the hospital? The 
Agency ambulance, that's who. And do you remember when 
your uncle Ned didn't have the money to open his own 
hardware store, who loaned him the money? The Agency did. 

How are Grandma and Uncle Ned? asked Hartstein. 

His father looked at him curiously. They're both dead, 
son. You know that. 

Oh. I just thought 

His father cut him off by raising a hand. He looked just like 
the Commander doing that. I know we haven't always seen 
eye to eye, my boy. And I know that sometimes I'm a gruff 
old man who seems to have lost touch with what you kids are 
up to these days. But believe me, son, I've never had 
anything but your best interests at heart. If you love your 
mother and me, you'll promise us that you'll do anything the 
Agency tells you to do. 

Something was just a little fishy here, too. Dad, I 

The doorbell rang. 

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Land sakes! said Mrs. Hartstein. It's five o'clock in the 
morning. Who could that be? She got up and answered the 
door. 

Excuse me, ma'am, but I saw your lights on. I know it's 
awful early and Christmas morning and all, but I've had an 
accident. I was hoping 

Sergeant Brannick! cried Hartstein. What are you doing 
here? 

The burly Agent came into the living room, shaking snow 
off his handsome uniform. Private Brannick, young man, he 
said, but I hope to become a sergeant someday. His voice 
was serious but kindly. 

Sit down, Mr. Brannick, said Hartstein's father. Maybe 
we have a Christmas present here for you too. 

So, said Brannick with a smile, your son likes the look of 
the Agency uniform, eh? 

I'll say he does, said Mrs. Hartstein. All the young men 
of our community do. And I'll bet it's a hit with the young 
ladies, too. 

Ha ha, said Brannick, I guess I can attest to that. Son, 
how do you feel about the Agency? 

Hartstein paused. This was just too much. I love it, he 
said. I love everything about it. I think it's the greatest thing 
in the whole wide world. 

Good boy, said his father. 

You have a sharp son there, sir, said Brannick. 

Don't we know it, said Mrs. Hartstein. 

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Well, I guess I have to be going, said Brannick. Merry 
Christmas to all, and to all a good night. He went back into 
the darkness from which he came. 

Is this real? asked Hartstein. 

Of course it is, darling, said his mother. 

They opened a few more packages and Mrs. Hartstein 
began making hot chocolate. The sky began to lighten a little 
above the Sikulowiczes house across the street. 

There was a knock on the front door. My goodness, said 
Mr. Hartstein. He answered the summons. Hello? he said. 

Mr. Hartstein? said a man's voice. I was wondering if I 
could have a few words with your son. 

Certainly. Come into the living room. That's my boy right 
there, in the cowboy pajamas and the bunny slippers. 

The gentleman who entered the room was very tall and 
lean. He had a handsome face that seemed to radiate 
intelligence. His eyes were dark and quick and magnetic. He 
wore an elegant camel's-hair coat and he was smoking an 
expensive French cigarette. If the man hadn't evidently been 
so full of Christmas good-fellowship, his eyes and his pointed 
beard might have made him look absolutely satanic. 

Dr. Waters? asked Hartstein, wonder in his voice. 

My boy, said the inventor of time travel, I just want to 
tell you that if you had any doubts about what to do with your 
life, about where your talents would be put to the best use, 
about how you might guarantee your happiness and that of 
your loved ones, well, I'm here to tell you that the Agency is 
your best bet. 

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Hartstein gulped. He knew that few people had ever had 
the privilege of meeting Dr. Bertram Waters in person. Dr. 
Waters, don't you remember me? You made a recording that 
I saw in the Mihalik Building. In the Time Museum. 

Waters and Mr. Hartstein exchanged glances and chuckled. 
Mihalik Building? said the scientist. Time Museum? I've 
never heard of them. And why would they want me to make a 
recording? 

Hartstein understood this was a young Dr. Waters. I must 
have been dreaming, sir, he said. 

Dr. Waters nodded pleasantly. Well, you're young enough 
to have your dreams in peace, son. But sooner or later you'll 
have to take up the responsibilities of adulthood. You'll have 
to do your duty so that other people, folks just like your 
wonderful mom and dad, can continue to dream in peace. 
And that's just what the Agency is all about. 

I know. God bless the Agency. 

By the way, said Waters in an offhand way, this was 
buried in the snow outside your door. It's addressed to you. 
He gave Hartstein a soggy Christmas card. On the front was a 
sketch of a mouse in a nightcap, all settled in for a long 
winter's nap. Inside there was a message from the Time 
Marshals themselves. It said: 

Sgt. Hartstein: 
You have done excellent work in the past. We 
hope you will continue to fight so diligently for 
the cause of truth and justice. You can aid us 
most by locating the headquarters of the 

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Underground and getting as much information 
from them as possible. They seem to like you. 
We'll take care of the military end, but you 
must do the sensitive reconnaissance. Hope 
you and yours have a pleasant holiday season. 
The Highest Echelon 

They want me to infiltrate the Underground again, said 
Hartstein with some disappointment. 
The Underground? asked Dr. Water. The Temporary 
Underground? 

Yes, sir. But the only time I've ever encountered them 
has been in a quasi-past. I wouldn't even know how to begin 
looking for their headquarters in the present. 

Oh, said Dr. Waters, I have their number right here. He 
gave Hartstein an embossed business card. They have a toll-
free listing, too, but that's just a recording. Well, got to run 
now. Merry Christmas, everybody. He let himself out. 

Hartstein's mother came in with the hot chocolate. Did 
that nice young scientist leave? Well, I guess that about 
wraps things up. Son, you ought to go back upstairs and get 
some more rest. You've got a busy day ahead of you. 

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CHAPTER SEVEN 
THE DIFFERENTIATION OF SERGEANT HARTSTEIN 


When Hartstein awoke, he was back in his bunk in the 
Agency barracks. Refreshed? asked Sergeant Brannick. 

Hartstein rubbed his eyes. Why, I've just had the 
strangest dream. And ... and you were there, too. 

How curious. But it was only a dream, son. You were here 
all the time. Well, we've got a full day's work ahead of us. 

Yes, so my mother told me. You know, I didn't really trust 
that dream, Brannick. It felt too real. And too unreal at the 
same time. How do I know that I'm not still sleeping? How do 
I know that this isn't just a dream, too? How do I know that 
I'm not still in that foggy dark hell, what you called 
Cleveland? I could still be there. Maybe you never got me out 
of that place. How do I know I'm 

Brannick looked stern. We don't have time for that. You're 
supposed to be over all that by now, Hartstein. You're just 
going to have to take our word for it. You were just asleep, 
right here in your bunk. You didn't go nowhere. 

Hartstein was skeptical. If I didn't go anywhere, he said 
slowly, why do I still have this? He held up the embossed 
business card. Under the legend temporary underground and 
the phone number, it said Operators Are Standing By to Take 
Your Call. I'll just bet they are, said Hartstein. 

I put that card into your hand, said Brannick. 

Dr. Waters gave me this card himself. 

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Dr. Waters? Ha ha, that's a good one. The Dr. Bertram 
Waters? What would Dr. Waters want with a brainless ape like 
you? No, I put that card into your hand while you were 
asleep. 

Why? 

Brannick shrugged. I was on my way out. I got tired of 
waiting for you, so I put it in your hand so you'd find it when 
you did wake up. 

I dreamed about this card. How could I do that? 

Just a coincidence; happens all the time. Now, come on. 
There's a big mission on for today. You want to be briefed or 
not? If you'd rather lounge around all morning, we can send 
you into danger completely unprepared. It's your choice. You 
can end up holding your breath through all eternity just like 
that weasel, Tipchak. 

I'm coming, Brannick, said Hartstein grumpily. He 
dressed quickly and put the Underground's card in a pocket. 
So what kind of mission is it? 

You'll love it, said Brannick. 

They walked down the hall to the Special Agents briefing 
room, where the complex and carefully orchestrated 
operations of the Agency took shape. The room was already 
half filled with the regular officers and Special Agents who 
would carry out this fierce attack on the Temporary 
Underground. Brannick nodded to a man in a major's uniform. 
He's all right now, said the sergeant, indicating Hartstein. 
The two sergeants took seats near the rear of the assembly, 
and the major went to the podium. 

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Gentlemen, the major said, today we will strike a 
crushing blow against the enemy. If fortune is with us, if we 
all do our jobs with precision, this may be the beginning of 
the end for the Underground. Captain D'Amato will give you 
the details of the combined operation. 

Captain D'Amato was a handsome man in his early forties. 
He was tall and athletically built, with short, wavy blond hair 
and clear blue eyes. He wore a carefully trimmed blond 
moustache that gave him the devil-may-care appearance of a 
World War I fighter pilot. He carried a riding crop as a kind of 
personal signature. Thanks to the invaluable work of 
Sergeants Brannick and Hartstein, said D'Amato, we now 
have in our possession a weapon of terrible power. It is a 
mathematical concept that permits us to alter the reality of 
the past or future as we will. It also enables us to have 
certain limited control over how that past or future may 
influence our present. A murmur passed through the ranks of 
silver-and-blue-tunic-clad Agents. Yes, said the captain, we 
can now restructure certain aspects of reality by 
mathematical means. The exact process involved is most 
secret, so let us move on to how this weapon will affect what 
you will be asked to do today. 

He pointed to a large map of the world. His pointer struck 
it in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Here, gentlemen, is 
today's battlefield. Yes, I know it looks to you like an 
immense expanse of white-capped salt water, rising and 
falling in restless swells that mirror the infinite imagination of 
that Spirit which created and inhabits us all. That was the 
case yesterday, but it is not so today. This morning at 

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approximately eleven hundred hours, the Temporary 
Underground will be attacked upon the beaches, upon the 
landing grounds, in the fields and in the streets, in the hills of 
the continent of Atlantis. I know what you're going to say: 
Captain D'Amato, there is no continent of Atlantis. And how 
wrong you'd be. Today, there is a continent of Atlantis. It is 
occupied by the Temporary Underground, and we are going to 
go there and take it right away from them. 

There was a pause while everyone tried to understand 
what the captain was talking about. Then, when only limited 
understanding came, a great and enthusiastic cheer went up 
instead. 

D'Amato waited for the shouts to die away. Atlantis was 
created in the following manner: There is a quasi-Atlantis 
which is often visited by tourists and is well-known to some of 
you. But it exists only in a vague and short-lived quasi-past, 
only because a sufficient number of our contemporary citizens 
have a kind of belief in Atlantis. If that belief were 
strengthened and made more definite, Atlantis would take on 
an even more elaborate existence in this quasi-past. As it is, 
the place fades away and dissolves into between-time in 
roughly sixty minutes. 

Using the new concept of partial numbers, we have been 
able to lift Atlantis out of its quasi-past and bring it to our 
present. We can maintain it here as long as we wish. We can 
throw it back into the past at any moment, or we can 
continue to support its existence here. It is the ideal place for 
a showdown with the Underground, endangering no civilians 
and subject to no accidental interference from them. 

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None of this seemed relevant to Hartstein, because he 
already knew what his assignment would be: to infiltrate the 
main body of the Underground at their objective-time 
headquarters. It didn't occur to him that they might have 
their headquarters elsewhere, in a quasi-past or future, 
moving from one to another as conditions required, or that 
they might have used Spence's partial numbers to establish a 
command post in a tailored pocket-universe to which the 
Agency would never have access. 

I think, said Captain D'Amato, that since all the unit 
leaders have received their mission indoctrination files, that 
the best thing now would be to break up into your groups. 
Your unit leaders will give each of you your individual 
assignment and answer all your particular questions. Should 
there be any difficulties, please direct your inquiries to Major 
Li or myself. You'll have about two and a half hours to 
complete your planning sessions and to relay the orders to 
your platoons. Be sure to leave plenty of time for your 
logistical needs. There will be no ESB prep for this operation, 
because in moving Atlantis to the present we shifted all 
language and cultural factors of this novel setting to match 
our common present-day social environment. So, you need 
not be concerned about the nature of the people of Atlantis, 
unless the Temporary Underground has been able to wrest 
those factors out of our control. In that case, no ESB prep 
would be effective in any event. 

Sergeant Brannick indicated that Hartstein should follow 
him. Our orders differ from theirs a little, he said. 

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We have to dig our way into the Underground, said 
Hartstein. At least, I have to. I don't understand why you're 
including yourself in; the Underground knows you too well. 
You won't be able to get by their security people. 

Brannick nodded. They know you, too, Hartstein. But that 
doesn't make any difference. They know we're coming, and 
they're waiting for us. Believe me, they want to talk to you. 
And they hope they'll be able to pry some secrets out of me. 
They won't. But their headquarters are on Atlantis, you 
know. 

Atlantis? But what about this card? With the phone 
number on it? 

Brannick dismissed the card without a glance. That phone 
number is a dead end. All you get is their answering service. 
Their real headquarters are on Atlantis. It used to be in the 
quasi-past, phasing in and out of existence every sixty 
minutes to avoid falling into between-time, maintaining an 
objective continuity in a subjective time frame. They did it 
with Spence's partial numbers. 

So they're using that weapon too. I was afraid of that. 

Brannick indicated that he, at least, wasn't terribly 
concerned. The Underground and the Agency are able now to 
make massive adjustments in the rate of flow of time in any 
direction, and to the proper relationships in space as well. 
This war must end soon, or all the normal circumstances that 
human beings think of as sane and rational will disappear, 
and the worldthe entire universe of observable 
phenomenawill dissociate into random, unpredictable 
events. All because of Melissa Spence. 

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The Agency wouldn't allow that to happen, said 
Hartstein. That sounds very much like the Underground's 
principal goal. Allowing a mathematical weapon to have that 
effect would be a tacit victory for the rebels. 

Exactly, said Brannick. We have to use their tactics and 
their weapons for a little while, as much as we abhor them. 

At Easter Island, the Underground created more order 
than the universe required. And in Atlantis, the Agency is 
undermining order. The two sides have made a complete 
turnaround, a one-for-one reversal of roles and swapping of 
ideologies. 

So? said Brannick. We use whatever weapon comes to 
hand. We use the enemy's own program against it. And they 
do the same to us. Ironic, I suppose. But nevertheless, the 
end justifies the means, or else the Agency wouldn't even 
consider adopting the Underground's methods even for a 
minute. You can trust me on that, son. 

They entered their ready room, where they could study 
their unique assignments as part of Operation Surf City. They 
sat at a long table and Brannick opened their envelope of 
orders. Brannick? said Hartstein. I just thought of 
something. 

Brannick said nothing; he gazed at the young man tiredly. 

If the past is subjective, said Hartstein, and so is the 
future, that means to a large extent the present is subjective, 
too. There's no such thing as the present. Our worldI mean, 
the real world exists out there just as a matter of consensus. 
There's nothing to make the present any more solid than any 
random quasi-past we visit. 

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Brannick chewed his lip. Son, he said, every single 
person you've met since you first walked in the Agency's front 
door has been trying to tell you that. I've told you that at 
least three times. The people in the past and in the future 
told you. Melissa Spence told you. Your friend the weasel told 
you. Even the Commander himselfdamn his eyestried to 
tell you. But you've been too bubblebrained to understand. 
You've clung to the ancient idea that the earth is something 
special, and that there's something holy and inviolate about 
the present moment. It's the only thing that's hindered you 
as an Agent. Until you made that realization, you were 
doomed to spend the rest of your life as a mudface sergeant, 
taking orders and charging blindly into the claws of the 
enemy. But I sure am glad to hear you say what you just did. 
You should be fine from here on. 

Thanks, Brannick, I guess. But you didn't catch what I 
meant. How can the Agency rationalize fiddling around with 
the present? Introducing a whole new continent full of cities 
and people and culture that we'll have to deal with. Fighting 
like that in a quasi-past is fine and good, but tampering with 
the present seems an unforgivable act of desperation. 

Brannick put down the papers he was looking at. 
Hartstein, you're not seeing the big picture. The 
Underground is right, as far as a few points are concerned: 
the universe is tied together by a single very simple set of 
laws. Those laws can be expressed easily in equation form, 
although some of the equations themselves require complex 
and sophisticated mathematics. Your friend Spence was right 
about all that, but she was wrong when she thought the 

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Agency's beliefs contradicted hers. We have to believe the 
same thing; otherwise, why would we be so concerned about 
what the Underground wants to do? The rebels are trying 
their best to disrupt these equations. On one hand you have 
the Underground threatening not merely to harm the world, 
but to eliminate it entirely. From that point of view, all the 
Agency is trying to do is maintain the status quo. And yes, we 
are desperate. Desperate to stay alive. Do you have any 
moral objection to that? 

No, said a chastised Hartstein. But I wonder why the 
Agency has chosen to be so shifty. So out-and-out fraudulent. 
I can see right through its ploys sometimes. For instance, 
why is everyone so nice to me? I mean, when I visited my 
folks in that past, my father was acting like kindly old Dad. 
He never acted like that in real life. You were kindly old 
Private Brannick. Kindly old Dr. Waters. And the Underground 
is the same waykindly old Commander. Do you people think 
I'm buying that act? I'm not as stupid as I look. I'm going 
along with everything until somebody slips up. I wouldn't be 
at all surprised to find out that the Agency and the 
Underground are the same people. And every one of you is 
old and kindly. 

Uh huh, Hartstein. Are you finished? Because we have 
other things to worry about. Atlantis, for one. 
* * * * 

Atlantis was a nice place. It looked a little like the Greek 
islands. There were low, round hills of bald rock with small 
goats climbing around looking for something to nibble on. 
There were short, broad trees bearing strange-looking fruit 

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and scrubby bushes with exotic flowers. There was the 
fragrance of roses and the faint sound of reed pipes 
everywhere. Fluted columns as creamy white as magnolia 
blossoms lay in ruins on the hillsides, and in the distance 
there were the baroque towers and battlements of the capital 
of this unreal land. 

The main attack was centered on the southeast side of the 
island continent. Brannick and Hartstein were delivered 
farther to the north, about four miles from the battle. They 
had another mission. 

If the number 2 means the same thing to everyone in the 
world, if it can be counted on to stay the same thing forever, 
then human minds can proceed to learn, to build, to provide 
for themselves necessities and luxuries, life and culture. 
Civilization is based on a few essential definitions, many of 
them unspoken because there has never been a need to 
enunciate these things: that life is better than death, that 
right is better than wrong, that civilization is worth something 
after all. But the Temporary Underground had done the thing 
no one had ever had the mad courage to do; they declared 
these things and then rejected them, one by one and in 
combination. 

How would the world look today if man had not been able 
to trust the universe to stay constant in some regards? 
Perhaps there would be no people at all. Perhaps without a 
means of exploiting his natural intellectual superiority, man 
might have been eliminated by stupider and stronger natural 
foes. If, for instance, the number 2 was made equal to 
1.999996, there would have been no basis for human minds 

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to build the towering edifice of civilization upon. The number 
4 would still be the same by definition, but it would not equal 
2 times 2, which now equaled 3.999984000016. From the 
discrepancy between the two, a powerful force was released 
which could destroy forever the progress of millennia. It was 
possible now to do just that, to assign new values to old 
constants, to make the rock-solid science of mathematics a 
quicksand which would swallow up first physics and chemistry 
and then cosmology and ultimately all life itself. But it was 
the Agency's weapon, and the Agency had no intention of 
destroying the universe, only that little bit of it that 
represented its enemies. It was a weapon that could only be 
used with the greatest caution. 

Take a look at that, said Sergeant Brannick. He passed 
the field glasses to Hartstein. They were crouching behind a 
low wall of bright yellow ceramic tiles that bordered a wood of 
aromatic evergreens. A broad road paved with some tough 
green material led through the trees; at the far end of the 
road there was a large estate of some kind, a palace or villa, 
with a collection of smaller buildings nearby, all roofed with 
strange squat domes and towers of brilliant polished metal. 

Hartstein looked through the glasses. The glare from the 
bright roofs hurt his eyes. There was a banner hanging from a 
balcony of the main building: brannick and hartstein you are 
fools and you will die like fools. Oh hell, murmured 
Hartstein. 

Brannick laughed. You got to learn to expect that, son. 
It's just a psychological trick of theirs. Don't let them have 
the satisfaction of upsetting you. 

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But how did they know we were coming? 

They knew, that's all. And we knew they knew. So we're 
coming anyway, because they won't expect us to. 

Did they peek ahead? Is that how they knew? 

Right, said Brannick. 

Then when they peeked, they saw that we knew they 
knew, and that we were coming anyway. So they won't be 
surprised. 

Well, when we peeked, we saw that they knew we knew, 
and we gave up and went away. So we won't. 

So what good is all this peeking if it doesn't necessarily 
mean anything? 

Brannick shook his head. You have to have some kind of 
military intelligence to go on. You just can't waltz into a battle 
unprepared. To Hartstein, Brannick's reason sounded about 
as effective as the native warriors on Easter Island jumping 
and whooping around a bonfire before a fight and waiting for 
a mystical sign from the Sun God. 

What do we do? asked Hartstein. 

There was silence while Brannick stared through the 
glasses for another few seconds. We do what we're ordered 
to do. We reconnoiter around the Underground's 
headquarters. We make a decision concerning the possibility 
of attacking and capturing the building and its contents, and 
we return with that information to Marshal Farias. This is how 
we're going to do it. You go all the way around through the 
woods and approach the building from the rear. Stay out of 
sight as long as you can. Estimate the number of 
Underground troops guarding the place, inside and out, and 

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the number and type of weapons they're using. See what 
they have in the way of defenses, gun emplacements, 
armored vehicles, and so forth. I'm going to go straight down 
the road and try the same thing from the front. I don't expect 
to get very far, but it will take the heat off you. 

Hartstein frowned. What are you going to do if you get 
captured? 

Brannick gave him a little smile. I've got my temporal tap. 
I'll just hop back or ahead a little. 

That's no good, Brannick. If you stay in the future for ten 
years, when you come back to now you'll still be a prisoner. 

Maybe I just won't come back. If they have me lined up 
against a wall and I'm staring down the barrels of their rifles, 
I'll go and I won't come back. 

But 

Shut up, Hartstein, said Brannick softly. Just go do your 
job. 

The two men went in opposite directions. Hartstein looked 
over his shoulder; Brannick was not looking back. He was 
marching slowly down the long road toward the headquarters 
of the rebel army. Hartstein thought that the sergeant had 
the best posture of anyone he had ever seen. 

The sky was as clear as if God had washed it and left it out 
in the fiery sunshine to dry. A light breeze whipped the upper 
boughs of the evergreen forest. Birds sang and called to each 
other; Hartstein wondered what kind of birds they were. He 
angled through the trees away from the building until he 
covered what he guessed to be about half the length of the 
road. Then he cut back toward the Underground's 

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headquarters. After about a quarter hour he came upon the 
back of the spacious clearing in which the villa stood. He lay 
down among the slender saplings on the edge of the clearing 
and studied the rear of the stone building. There didn't seem 
to be anyone about. He saw no defenses of any kind; that 
bothered him a great deal. There was nothing to stop him 
from rushing from his place of concealment and reaching 
either of the two large bronze doors that led into the villa. 
That bothered him, too. 

About now Sergeant Brannick should be reaching the front 
of the building, encountering whatever sort of defenders the 
Underground had stationed there. Hartstein heard nothing but 
the twitter and chirp of birds high above him. Then, suddenly, 
there was something more. There was a low hum and a 
rumble, so far away that he felt the sound more than he 
heard it. The vibrations increased in strength and the pitch of 
the noise rose until it became almost painful. The ground 
shook and the trees flailed the air as if caught in an invisible 
storm. A small pane of glass shattered in one of the villa's 
windows. 

And then a familiar craft screamed down to a shuddering 
landing on the grass, not fifty yards from Hartstein. The 
outline of the thing was unmistakable. If it wasn't the 
Commander's craft from the quasi-future, then it was a sister 
ship. Hartstein thought for a moment, undecided whether he 
should continue with the reconnaissance and risk being 
spotted by the crew of the Underground destroyer, or return 
to the Agency invasion headquarters to report the ship. The 

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weapons that craft carried could devastate the Agency 
positions. 

An amplified voice boomed from the destroyer. 
SERGEANT HARTSTEIN! WE SEE YOU IN THE BUSHES. 
THERE IS NO REASON TO BE AFRAID. PLEASE, COME 
ABOARD. WE ARE MOST ANXIOUS TO SPEAK WITH YOU. 

I'll just bet you are, anarchist swine, Hartstein growled. 

THERE ARE FACTS CONCERNING THE AGENCY THAT ARE 
KEPT HIDDEN FROM YOU. WE FEEL THAT IF YOU KNOW 
THESE THINGS, YOU MAY BE PERSUADED TO WORK WITH US 
WHOLEHEARTEDLY. YOU ARE UNDER NO OBLIGATION OTHER 
THAN TO LISTEN TO OUR ARGUMENTS WITH AN OPEN MIND. 
OTHERWISE YOU WILL BE BLASTED INTO YOUR 
CONSTITUENT ATOMS IN TEN SECONDS. NINE. EIGHT. 
SEVEN. SIX 

Hartstein jumped to his feet and sprinted across the 
carefully trimmed lawn to the Underground ship. He pounded 
on the place where he thought the sliding hatch should be. 
Let me in! he cried. I'll listen, I'll listen! 

The hatch slid. VERY GOOD, SERGEANT. PLEASE, COME 
IN. 

Hartstein stepped into the craft; the hatch closed behind 
him, and in the blackness he felt as if he had been swallowed 
by a giant fish. That was him, all right, Old Jonah. Or 
Pinocchio, at least. 

Pinpoints of colored light flickered around him. There was a 
low-pitched hum and a rattling racket that sounded like an ice 
machine. Once again Hartstein wondered where all the crew 
members were. He wondered how he was going to find his 

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way about the ship. This one seemed identical to the 

Commander's, which was still locked into the Easter Island 
quasi-past. Even if it were identical, Hartstein wouldn't know 
his way around. The only part of that craft he remembered 
clearly was the pantry where he had had such an interesting 
conversation with Melissa Spence, but he knew he couldn't 
hope to find even that familiar place in the maze of 
gangways. 

So, Hartstein, we meet again. 

Yipe, said the young Agent, startled. He turned around, 
but he saw no one in the darkness. Who's there? 

Me, said the voice, Tipchak. 

Tipchak! But you're 

Dead? Not me, pal. Not old Tipchak. I'm too tough to kill. 
It'll be a long time before the Agency finds a way to get rid of 
Terrible Tipchak, Time Rogue. 

Then this is the Commander's ship. But it's supposed to 
be stuck back on Easter Island. The Agency played the 
Underground trick of distorting the temporal coordinates. 
You're all supposed to be trapped forever in some kind of 
stasis. 

Hartstein heard Tipchak's disgusting snicker. But we're 
not. The Commander gave orders to follow you and that 
Spence person after the two of you disappeared. Our 
monitoring equipment registered your escape, but it gave us 
ambiguous data about your destination. The Commander was 
not at all pleased about losing Sister Spence and her partial-
number theory, although it was all recorded in our ship's 
computer. But he was afraid that she'd given it to you, and 

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that you'd take it to the Agency. Which is, after all, precisely 
what happened. But he's willing to let bygones be bygones. 
He's a very forgiving man, Hartstein. 

So you left that quasi-past before the Agency sealed your 
particular Easter Island off. I can't say that I'm thrilled to see 
you again, Tipchak. I thought you were something I never 
had to worry about again. His eyes had grown accustomed to 
the darkness, and he saw the little weasel standing nearby. 

Let's go. The Commander is waiting. Tipchak turned and 
headed down the corridor. Hartstein followed, lost in urgent 
thought. 

After a while they stood before the metal bulkhead that 
was the entrance to the Commander's wardroom. The 
bulkhead vanished, just as it had on Hartstein's previous visit, 
and the Commander was just as he had been then, seated at 
the table, drinking quasi-sherry from a cut-glass decanter. 
The Commander smiled broadly at Hartstein. Come in, 
Sergeant, he said. Join me. You've made quite a name for 
yourself since last we spoke. Tipchak, go find something to 
do. Leave us alone. 

There was a resentful grunt from Tipchak, and the small 
man went off to do something despicable in another part of 
the ship. Hartstein took a seat across from the Commander. 
The kindly old Commander, he reminded himself. This leader 
of the Underground was not as trustworthy as he wanted 
Hartstein to believe. 

Some sherry? said the Commander. 

Sherry? Real sherry this time? 

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Yes, real sherry. I stocked up when we returned to our 
base. Atlantis isor was, I should saya major producer of 
sherry in ancient times. Or it is now, after I made a few 
adjustments in their reality. Just a matter of altering a few 
numbers here and there. But it's actually quite acceptable as 
sherry, don't you think? 

Very nice. You want to talk me into betraying the Agency, 
isn't that it? 

The Commander laughed, a pleasant, innocent sound. You 
seem very defensive today, son, he said. The last time you 
were here, you enjoyed yourself more. A shame Sister 
Spence is no longer with us, but if you look around, perhaps 
you'll discover that such friends are easy to find in the 
Underground. 

You can stop throwing your women at me,Commander. 
I'm not going to sell out the Agency and allow you to destroy 
the universe for the sake of a few moments of pleasure. 

I didn't mean anything of the kind, said the Commander. 
He looked a little hurt. Sometimes young people forget who 
their real friends are. But enough of that. Let me make a few 
points about the Agency. Then I want you to think over what 
I tell you, ask me any questions you may have, and be 
certain that I'm not trying to con you into anything you don't 
want to do. That's all I ask, that you listen to the truth, and 
that you evaluate it fairly. 

Fine, said Hartstein. Where's Sergeant Brannick? 

Brannick? Did he come with you? 

Hartstein bit his lip and said nothing. 

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The Commander decided that the best thing was to change 
the subject. Have you ever wondered whose Agency it is? 
he asked. 

What do you mean, whose'? It's everyone's Agency. It's a 
service to everyone. 

The Commander allowed himself a brief smile. How nave 
you are. I don't believe I've ever met so nave a sergeant 
before. Do you know what they call you behind your back? 
They call you The Candide of Time. Hartstein, the Agency 
controls a vast, almost unimaginable amount of power, not to 
say material wealth. Are you so certain that this gathering of 
power is for the benefit of all mankind? 

You can't deny that the Agency has provided material 
comforts to every single person on earth. There is no poverty 
anywhere. Great steps have been taken to eradicate many 
diseases. The 

I know. I do grant the Agency its due in these areas. But 
these things were unavoidable, don't you see? Even the most 
evil governments in history provided some benefits to their 
populations. And next you'll tell me that the Agency is not a 
government, but I disagree. It has all the privileges of a 
government without the blessing of legitimacy. The Agency 
has been consolidating power for many years, and those who 
control the Agency therefore control the worldthe world as 
we know it, the world as we'd like to know it, the world as we 
will wake up tomorrow and find it. However that may be. 

No one controls the Agency, said Hartstein. 

You're wrong, said the Commander softly. "One person 
controls the Agency. The supreme power and wealth that the 

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Agency has accumulated is all in the hands of a single 
demented man. Would you care to take a shot at guessing 
who it is? 

I don't have the slightest idea. Sergeant Brannick, 
maybe. 

You fell into an elementary trap, son, although in this 
case it happens that I was telling the truth. When I asked you 
to guess, you said that you couldn't, which implies that you 
have accepted the premise that someone is, in fact, in control 
of the Agency. Which is true, as I said, but you still shouldn't 
let people bully you with polemical gimmicks. No, it isn't 
Sergeant Brannick. It's Dr. Bertram Waters. 

Dr. Waters! That's crazy. Dr. Waters died more than fifty 
years ago. 

The Commander drummed his fingers on the table 
impatiently. The fact that Dr. Waters died in any given year 
does not rule out the possibility that he may have lived the 
majority of his life in a time decades later than that year. We 
have time travel now, son. 

I know that. But when you go into the past or the future, 
it isn't real. I've spent months having that drilled into my 
head. So if Dr. Waters lived many years ago and invented 
time travel, and used it to go into the future to live, he 
arrived in a quasi-future, not what we call the real present. 
He couldn't be here to control the Agency. 

There! That was fine reasoning. The Commander beamed 
at his ace student. But you neglected one thing. What if Dr. 
Waters had help from the real future, from a time when 

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legitimate time travel has been perfected, when people can 
travel back to the true past or ahead to the true future? 

That couldn't be, said Hartstein. There's never been the 
slightest sign of any such visitation from the true future. 

None that you know of, said the Commander. Maybe the 
Agency or a part of the Agency is guarding that knowledge 
jealously, for its own nefarious reasons. Maybe Dr. Waters is 
alive at this moment, manipulating you and the rest of the 
Agents who are out there giving their lives, and manipulating 
the Underground too and the poor citizens of the world. Can 
you grant that possibility? 

It took a little thought. When no one was speaking, the 
Underground destroyer made gentle background noises like a 
kitchen full of appliances at midnight. Commander, said 
Hartstein at last, if I grant that possibility, you must grant 
the next logical step. 

Which is? 

That from this war the Agency must emerge the victor, in 
order that the world survives into that future from which Dr. 
Waters has received the help in the first place. 

My, somewhere in the last few weeks you've really 
learned to think. But no, what you're saying isn't necessarily 
true. 

Hartstein felt it happening to him again; a thundering 
wave of words and fallacious arguments and convoluted 
reasoning towered above him, ready to crash down and 
drown him. How can it mean anything else? he cried. 

The Commander took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 
Although there is a true future, son, it is only true in the 

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sense that it exists as a result of our actions in the present. 
What we mean by true future is in reality a finite though 
immense set of alternate futures each of which could develop 
with equal probability from the world as we know it at this 
instant. With every passing second the set of possible futures 
changes; some futures are eliminated as impossible under the 
new circumstances, while others are created by the same 
situation. Dr. Waters received help from people in one or 
another of these potentially true futures. But there are 
futures equally likely in which the Underground wins this 
conflict, and you know what that entails. 

Hopelessness, said Hartstein. 

We prefer to think of it as an absence of the degradation 
of the nature of the universe. 

Whatever. 

Did you know that the Agency has begun a program of 
educating people through their ESB sessions that not only is 
the Agency all-powerful, but that it has always been all-
powerful? 

That point bewildered Hartstein. What good does that 
do? he asked. 

It reinforces the Agency's grip on the present. Soon 
people all over the world will believe that the Agency has 
been in existence since the dawn of time; then, when anyone 
visits a quasi-past in any period or place at all, the Agency 
will be there. As the ruling force. At that point, the Agency 
will have won the last shreds of power remaining in the hands 
of the free individual. There will be a tyranny such as the 
world has never known, and it will last forever because no 

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one on earth will think it possible to exist without the 
Agency. 

The notion chilled Hartstein. He knew it was very plausible; 
the Agency certainly had the means, and they had been 
giving tourists and students and adult citizens ESB training for 
many reasons for years. It would not take long for the Agency 
to accomplish what the Commander suggested. That's the 
most horrible thing I've ever heard, said Hartstein. 

Good! Then you'll 

But eliminating the universe altogether isn't a rational 
solution, either. 

The Commander wasn't upset by Hartstein's ambivalence. 
We never expected you to become our fanatic supporter, lad. 
We don't count on your working tirelessly toward our ultimate 
goal, although we'd love to have you. We ask but one thing 
from you, and that's this: help us to keep the Agency from 
winning its ultimate goal of absolute and eternal domination. 
Your conscience will be clear; you can do that without 
necessarily aiding us. Do you see? 

Hartstein nodded slowly. Perhaps there was a way of 
blocking the Agency without clearing the way for the 
Underground. And vice versa. It required some thought... 

Will you work with us? asked the Commander. 

Yes, said Hartstein, up to a point. 

Fine. We will not ask you to compromise your principles 
or endanger yourself or your friends. 

Hartstein had yet to see how that was possible. What do 
you want me to do first? he asked. 

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We want you to prevent the Agency from destroying the 
Underground command center here in Atlantis. If we can win 
this battle today, we will move our headquarters elsewhere, 
and Atlantis can be returned to its proper quasi-past. 

A stalemate, said Hartstein. I suppose you have just the 
right way for me to go about it, too. 
Of course. The Commander smiled and poured him some 
more Atlantean sherry. 
* * * * 

Captain D'Amato looked worried. This operation wasn't 
going so smoothly as headquarters had hoped. Agency men 
were dying by the hundreds on the beachhead. The 
Underground seemed to anticipate their every move. And the 
Underground had some grotesque weapons that the Agency 
knew nothing about. Of course, the Agency had a few tricks 
left up its silver-and-blue sleeve. 

The captain stroked his blond moustache and waited. He 
could do nothing more until he received reports from the 
forward positions. Marshal Farias himself would arrive in a 
few minutes, and then the headquarters staff would begin to 
revise the strategic timetable. It was obvious now that some 
revision was necessary. 

The Agency had taken over a farmhouse just south of the 
landing areas for use as a makeshift field command post. 
Captain D'Amato looked out a window toward the ocean. 
Bright violet beams of energy split the air above the Agency 
positions. There was the eerie, intermittent noise of a 
battlefield, the booming of guns and the cries of dying men 
reduced to mild and gentle sounds by the distance. A young 

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lieutenant knocked briefly on the door and entered the room. 

Captain, he said, Sergeant Hartstein is back. 

Just Hartstein? Brannick's not with him? 

No, sir. That was more bad news. 

D'Amato rubbed his temples and waited for the news to 
get worse. 

Captain D'Amato, sir, said Hartstein. I've just come 
back from the Underground headquarters in Sector Six. I've 
had an interview with the Commander. 

The Commander! But he's supposed to be out of this war. 
Or did he come here from a point before we trapped him in 
the Easter Island quasi-past? 

No, sir, said Hartstein. He and that destroyer from the 
future managed to escape. But he believes that I'm willing to 
cooperate with the Underground, and he thinks he has reason 
to trust me. I have the entire rebel battle plan. 

D'Amato just stared for a moment. This was news better 
than any he could have hoped for. The difficult situation in 
Atlantis could yet be turned around. First, he said, before 
we discuss that, what of Sergeant Brannick? 

Captured, sir. He's somewhere in that main building, I'm 
sure. I was too closely observed to do anything about him. I 
felt my primary duty was to get back here with their 
strategy. 

Exactly right, Sergeant, but don't worry about Brannick, 
he'll take care of himself. They won't get anything out of him. 
And we'll get him out of there if we have to take this whole 
unreal continent apart stone by stone. Now, let's see what 
you have. 

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Hartstein took a seat by the captain's table and began 
telling him the falsehoods invented by the Commander. 
Hartstein knew this would cost the lives of thousands more 
unlucky Agents; he felt like a filthy traitor. 

In response to the deceptive Underground plans, Captain 
D'Amato ordered a company of men to charge the enemy's 
left flank. The left flank was supposed to be vulnerable; it was 
not. The company was decimated, and as twilight fell on 
Atlantis, the news of the disaster came to the darkened 
farmhouse. Marshal Farias brought it himself, muttering 
orders into his wrist-communicator. The noise of the weapons 
never ceased, nor did it grow quieter as it should have, had 
the Agency forces been able to leave the beach and storm 
inland toward the Underground stronghold. 

Did you send Company B into the Underground's left 
flank? asked Marshal Farias. He seemed almost exhausted by 
the long and terrible battle. 

Yes, sir, said Captain D'Amato. He and Hartstein stood at 
attention. 

And you did so without consulting Major Li or myself? 

D'Amato winced. I thought it necessary to take advantage 
of a momentary weakness in the enemy's position, sir, he 
said. 

A weakness that did not, in fact, exist. 

Yes, sir. 

Marshal Farias gazed around the bare room. Where did 
you acquire this information? he asked. 

From Sergeant Hartstein, sir, who had just returned from 
the Underground's headquarters. 

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Farias turned his cold black eyes on Hartstein. Why 

Hartstein touched his temporal tap and was gone. 

The Commander had promised him two things in return for 
Hartstein's aid: that Hartstein would be able to escape into 
the real future, with the assistance of the Underground and 
its manipulation of partial integers; and that when Hartstein 
wanted to return to the present, he could do so at whatever 
place he wished. Hartstein had chosen to return to the 
Underground's Atlantean villa, figuring that if the 
Underground was going to hold off the Agency in this battle, 
then it would be foolish to return behind Agency lines, to try 
to explain to Marshal Farias and Captain D'Amato what had 
gone wrong. And if the Agency did win the battle after all, 
then he could be there for the moment of victory. 

So this is the real future, at last, murmured Hartstein. He 
looked around; he wasn't in Atlantis any longer, but rather 
back in the Agency Building. It was familiar and comforting. 
When he looked through the windows, he saw no towering 
needle-thin skyscrapers or monorails or fourteen-lane 
highways or any of the things he had seen in the 
subterranean quasi-future he had visited. Hartstein reminded 
himself that this wasn't, in fact, the real future but a real 
future. He walked down the hall toward the Agents briefing 
room. He stopped by a door that in the present opened into 
an administrative office suite. Now there was a peculiar 
legend on the door: dr. bertram waters, chairman, plasmonics 
dept. Hartstein paused with his hand on the knob, then 
shrugged and opened the door. 

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Inside, there were two people in white lab coats standing 
beside an immense wall of complicated electronic equipment; 
it was all bizarre futuristic stuff, and Hartstein recognized 
none of it. He did, however, recognize the two people. One 
man, tall and dark with magnetic eyes, was the elder Dr. 
Waters he had seen so often in historical documentaries. His 
chief assistant was himself, the Hartstein of this future. 

It was a little startling to see himself standing there 
smiling, looking no older, no more the worse for wear. 
Hello, said Hartstein1. 

Hello, said Hartstein2. We've been expecting you. I 
suppose you've come from the Battle of Atlantis. Operation 
Surf City, right? 

Yeah. Do you remember that? 

Sure, said the Hartstein of the future. Do you want me 
to tell you how it all comes out? 

What good would that do me? I can't trust anything I 
learn in a quasi-future. 

Hartstein2 laughed. 

Dr. Waters nodded sagely. This isn't a quasi-future, son, 
said the inventor of time travel. Do we look like insubstantial 
spooks to you? 

You look like all the other nonexistent people I've ever 
met. How do I know this isn't a quasi-future? 

Because the Commander explained that he was sending 
you into a real future, didn't he? asked Hartstein2. 

Can I trust the Commander? 

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Dr. Waters went to a desk and unlocked a drawer. He took 
out a file folder and handed it to Hartstein1. This is for you, 
he said. 

What is it? 

It's a complete summary of everything you need to know 
to function without your usual handicap of ignorance, said 
Hartstein2. Everyone has been telling you the truth, but only 
in part. Of course, everyone has been lying to you some of 
the time, too. Those pages will clear up everything for you 
and give you some ideas about how to handle the next few 
important developments. Consider it a gift from an infinitely 
benevolent universe. 

Thanks, said Hartstein1. He glanced at the folder; there 
were twenty-five pages of notes, covering both the Agency 
and the Underground, along with suggestions for improving 
his relationship with his father, good grooming hints, and a 
recipe for a radical variety of futuristic doughnut. Of course, 
this was merely one of a set of possible real futures; if the 
Underground won the war, this future would never come into 
being, and these notes would be totally fraudulent and 
meaningless. But Hartstein felt he had to put his faith 
somewhere... 

Now you have one more important step to take, said Dr. 
Waters, seemingly looking into Hartstein1's very soul with his 
uncanny eyes. 

I have to take all this material back to the present and 
explain myself to my superior officers. 

Well, said Hartstein2, that, too, but first you have to go 
farther into the future. You must talk to yourself one year 

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from now to find out what the results of our giving you that 

information will be. 

I see, said Hartstein1. 

Taking that information from us alters the nature of your 
present, which is our past. Consequently, this possible future 
of yours may not exist after you take the folder back. So you 
must go ahead before you go back, to be certain that we've 
done the right thing. 

Hartstein1 nodded. He didn't want to inspect their 
reasoning closely; what they were telling him opened a can of 
worms that only the Bird of Time itself could love. He thanked 
both himself and kindly old Dr. Waters, said good-bye to 
them both, and touched his temporal tap. 

Nothing much changed. He remained in the room. Some 
magazines and journals on the desk were replaced by others, 
but otherwise everything was the same. Dr. Waters and 
himself stood waiting for him. Right on time, said Dr. 
Waters. 

You're here for the data, said Hartstein3. 

Uh huh, said Hartstein1. A year ago you were concerned 
about my taking this information back to the present. My 
present, I mean. 

A good thing you came here, said Hartstein3. We have 
another folder of supplementary material for you. Without it, 
the first batch would have been ambiguous, and could have 
gotten you and the Agency into a lot of trouble. He gave 
Hartstein1 a second folder. There were an additional twenty 
pages. 

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Thanks a lot, said Hartstein1. Well, I have to report back 
to Captain D'Amato now. This will give me a good excuse for 
why I ducked out of Marshal Farias's interrogation. 

You can't go yet, son, said Dr. Waters. You must do the 
same thing as before: jump ahead a year to see what the 
effects of this second folder will be. Then you can return to 
your present. Better safe than sorry, you know. 

An ounce of prevention, said Hartstein3. 
Of course, said Hartstein1. Well, thanks again. He 


touched his temporal tap and leaped ahead another year. 
Welcome to the World of Tomorrow, said Hartstein4. 
Never mind that, said Hartstein1. Just give me what you 

have to give me and let me get going. 

Dr. Waters laughed tolerantly. Ah, the impetuosity of the 
young. I wish I could have that kind of energy again. What I'd 
accomplish in my old age, with youthful vigor coupled with 
the experience of a lifetime! 

Don't you have something for me? asked Hartstein1 

impatiently. 
Ha ha, said Dr. Waters, holding out yet another folder. 
Thanks, said Hartstein1. There were sixteen pages of new 

information. That meant another jump. He jumped. 
Hartstein5 gave him twelve and four-fifths pages. 
Hartstein6 gave him ten and a quarter pages. 
Hartstein7 gave him eight and one-fifth pages. 
Hartstein8 gave him six and two-thirds pages. 
Hartstein9 gave him five and a quarter pages. 
Hartstein10 gave him four and one-fifth pages. 
Hartstein11 gave him three and two-fifths pages. 

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Hartstein12 gave him two and two-thirds pages. 

At that point, Hartstein1 got fed up. This can go on 
forever, he screamed. 

Dr. Waters raised a placating hand. Almost forever, he 
said. 

Hartstein12 shrugged. I know how you feel. I remember it 
as if it were only yesterday, instead of more than a decade 
ago. 

What did you do about it? asked Hartstein1. 

I asked Dr. Waters here, just as you're going to do. 

What should I do, Dr. Waters? asked Hartstein1 furiously. 

Dr. Waters began to pace up and down the room, ignoring 
the blinking signals and whispering voices coming from the 
elaborate electronic equipment. He lit one of his rare French 
cigarettes. It seems to me that every time you jump a year 
into the future, the next Hartstein gives you new information, 
but fewer pages each time. Am I correct? 

Yes, said both Hartsteins. 

Well, it's a simple matter of finding out what the sum of 
the series is. You can say that the information you're 
obtaining is the function of the particular Hartstein who gave 
it to you. Eventually you're going to reach a point where the 
Hartsteins are giving you very small bits of new material, 
which will be negligible enough so that they won't have much 
effect on your present if you choose to ignore them. What you 
must do is find out the operative limit of the valuable 
material, and then integrate the corresponding number of 
Hartsteins. 

Ah, said Hartstein1. How do I do that? 

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He doesn't yet know as much mathematics as I do, sir, 
said Hartstein12. 

Dr. Waters took out a pen and wrote something on the 
folder Hartstein12 had given to Hartstein1 and showed him an 
equation. This is what you need to solve. 

That is, the sum of all the pages all the various Hartsteins 
will give you from now until the end of time. Although this is 
an infinite series, it has a finite solution. We'll just ask our 
impressive and generally quite dependable machinery here to 
see if there's a common pattern to the number of pages each 
Hartstein has given you in your first eleven stops. Then we 
will simply integrate the equation, adding up all the separate 
areas under the Hartstein curve, as it were. Dr. Waters 
laughed as if it were some kind of clever joke. Hartstein1 was 
just plain ticked off. 

A moment later, the electronic equipment delivered its 
verdict: there was a ratio between the number of pages from 
each Hartstein, making the whole a geometric progression 
amenable to solution. The formula for that sum was Sinfinity = 
a1/1q, where q represented the ratio in question, and a1 
represented the number of pages in the first group. In this 
case, q equaled a fraction in the neighborhood of 4/5 and a1 
equaled 25. Therefore, Sinfinity came to a total of 125. 

When you get a hundred twenty-five pages, said 
Hartstein12, you might as well quit and go home. Any further 
jumps into the future would be pointless. 

I could say that about the last several jumps as it is, 
muttered Hartstein1 grumpily. 

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Now, now, said kindly old Dr. Waters. He was an 
inveterate peacemaker. According to the formula, you'll have 
a hundred and twenty pages after you meet Hartstein16. From 
then on you'll just be receiving fractional pages from us. So 
just make four more jumps and then you'll have plenty to 
show Marshal Farias. 

He'll be real happy about it, said Hartstein12. I 
remember the look on his face. He was relieved and grateful 
and frankly admiring of our ingenuity. 

Uh huh, said Hartstein1. He wondered who was going to 
try to make sense of the 120 pages while thousands of 
Agency men were being blasted into drifting vapor on the 
beaches of Atlantis. He hoped that the Chronic Marshal would 
suggest that the data was better off under the scrutiny of 
more agile minds than Hartstein's. Thanks for everything, 
he said, then touched his temporal tap. He was in no mood to 
put up with any such nonsense from Hartstein13. 

* * * * 

After he had made the additional four jumps, Hartstein 
returned to the present. I'm back! he shouted. The 
Underground's headquarters was noisy with celebration. 
Champagne corks were popping like bottle rockets; the tiled 
corridors were slick with dropped cake and ice cream. Paper 
napkins and plastic cups littered the grounds just as if the 
rebels had gone into the franchised fried-chicken business. No 
one paid very much attention to Hartstein and his bundle of 
papers. All the Underground soldiers and technicians were 
singing drunkenly in the villa's dark rooms. Vague shadows of 
rebel men and women coupling on the vast lawn gave the 

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place an air of harmless abandon. Hartstein was happy to see 
that the Underground was able to let its hair down now and 
then, yet he dreaded witnessing the reason for their party. 

The Commander joined him as he wandered about looking 
for Brannick. What's this? asked the Commander, indicating 
the pages Hartstein had received from his selves. 

Oh, nothing. I'm looking for Brannick. I can't go back 
without him. I owe him my life, you know. 

Ah yes. Well. I was hoping we'd get to keep him, but if 
you're claiming him then I suppose we'll let him go. He and I 
have a kind of rivalry, you know. Goes back a long time. But 
this round is mine. He'll know that when he wakes up. You'll 
have to help him back to your lines. He's not in great shape, 
I'm afraid. 

Hartstein's stomach began to hurt. You didn't torture him, 
did you? he asked. 

The Commander laughed. No, of course not. We're not 
animals. We just drained his mind a little. He'll have to lean 
on you all the way to the beach. That's five miles or so. And 
your folks are trying to get the hell out of here, so it's good 
that you came back when you did. You wouldn't want to be 
stuck here when this place goes back into the quasi-past. 
We're probably going to seal it off there, you know. No more 
Atlantis for anybody. 

The Commander led Hartstein to the cell where Brannick 
was lying unconscious. It took a few minutes for them to get 
Brannick roused enough to stagger along with Hartstein's 
support. The two Agency sergeants began the long walk down 
the green-paved road, beneath a full orange moon and a sky 

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of bright stars like the dust of broken glass. The Commander 
stood on the lawn in front of the villa and waved good-bye, a 
good suburban host after a long night of fun and games. It 
had been pleasant, but now it was time to go to sleep. 
Everyone had to get up early in the morning. Tomorrow was 
another day. 

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CHAPTER EIGHT 

THE SOUND OF 

n HANDS CLAPPING 

Hartstein accepted the praise graciously and walked 
proudly from the assembly. Sergeant Brannick followed him, 
no expression at all on his rugged face. Hartstein reached out 
to push the polished brass doors, but they were pulled open 
by Agency corporals in dress uniforms. They saluted 
Hartstein. He would have to learn to get used to it. 

Brannick called to him, and Hartstein stopped and turned 
around. I'm happy for you, Lieutenant, said Brannick. I'd 
like to shake your hand. You never stop making me proud of 
you. And besides that, I owe you something. You know that 
I've never been very good at 

Sergeant, said Hartstein, I never want you to think that 
you owe me something. You've saved my neck more times 
than I want to remember, so it made me glad that I could 
return the favor this once. But I'm still a few rescues behind. 
Just because they made an officer out of me, it doesn't mean 
that our relationship has changed any. You're still my teacher 
and my friend. And I'd rather you didn't call me sir. At least 
not in private. 

Brannick relaxed and gave the youth an easy smile. Good 
to hear that, he said. I didn't think you'd get all inflated on 
me, but sometimes the bars on the collar warp a kid's mind. 
And this war ain't over yet; you're still going to need your tail 

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saved now and then. I hope it's me that's there to do it. 
You're the best I ever trained. 

That's enough of that, Brannick. Let's forget all about it 
and concentrate on what we've got to do next. 

Brannick agreed. Whatever you say. But I'm not 
forgetting that you could have left me with them. With the 
Commander. I'm not forgetting that you got me out of there 
under fire, at risk to yourself. 

So tell me, did they promote me for that, Sarge, or for 
bringing back the hundred and twenty pages they're so 
excited about? 

Ha, Brannick snorted, I'd like to think my wrinkled old 
hide was what they were worried about; but I know better. 
Those pages are a superweapon, Hartstein, maybe just what 
we need to end this war. They're drawing up plans for the 
final battle right this minute. We'll hear about it before 
morning. 

Hartstein understood well enough. The Agency didn't have 
the precious time to waste, not after the calamitous defeat in 
Atlantis. The thing to do was to strike back quickly with every 
weapon at the Agency's disposal. They had to recoup their 
losses. 

When you were promoted, Hartstein asked, were you 
reviewed personally by the Overlords themselves? 

Of course not. They have better things to do. 

Then why do they give me their personal attention? 

I don't want to tell you. 

Why the hell not? Do I have to order you to tell me? 

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Brannick's shoulders slumped a little, but then he 
recovered. Every time I tell you, you get mad. The Overlords 
are interested because they know you're someone particularly 
important in this war. They know that somehow the outcome 
of the conflict involves you. They know because they looked 
ahead and saw it. 

You're right, Brannick, I don't want to hear about it. 
Melissa Spence thought I was someone special, too. That's 
why she approached me with her idea. 

Not quite. You're important, but you're not special, son. 
You may be the hinge that the future turns on, but you're 
expendable and easily replaced. You are not the active will of 
the universe, but the physical machine through which it will 
work. You are not the engine, but the transmission. You're 
just Lieutenant Hartstein, the Fulcrum of Fate. 

It didn't make things any better. Can I resign that job? 
he asked. 

You might not have to. You might get killed tomorrow. 
Maybe that's how you're supposed to make your 
contribution. 

Great. Wonderful. Just make sure they spell my name 
right on the victory monument. 

What Sergeant Brannick hopefully called the final battle 
was a concentrated effort that would attack every known 
Underground cell in the present, the quasi-pasts and futures, 
and the limited real past and future. It would be the largest 
combined military operation in the history of the world. 

It was also the greatest gamble anyone had ever taken. 
The five Overlords felt the immense pressure, but they were 

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chosen to lead because they were able to think and reason 
clearly in such grave situations. There wasn't a single Agent 
who doubted his leaders, and each one was prepared to go 
into battle wherever and whenever he was sent, in defense of 
his continuum. If the Agency failed, very soon there would be 
nothing left in the universe to recall the existence of either 
faction. 

The preparations for this final struggle were huge and 
time-consuming, but they could be made in the past and 
returned to the present when they were completed. Thus, the 
attack itself could be launched with as little as twenty-four 
hours notice. Hartstein felt a slight nervousness because 
whatever he was assigned, it would be the most important 
mission of his career. He was a lieutenant now but he was still 
a Special Agent, working alone on the lonely battlefields of 
time. He paced his narrow quarters and thought of the weight 
of responsibility on his shoulders. He thought of his father; 
since Hartstein had joined the Agency, he had seen his 
parents only in the unreal Christmas visit. What would Mr. 
Hartstein think of his son now? Had Hartstein at last earned 
his father's respect? The answer to that was in the future 
somewhere, a future that would not be at all unless Hartstein 
and his fellows succeeded in their objectives. 

Hours later, after dinner, Captain D'Amato called Hartstein 
into a conference room. Hartstein was surprised to see that 
the captain was alone. Sit down, Lieutenant, said D'Amato. 
He moved restlessly in his plush armchair; he was holding a 
sheaf of papers, and his hand trembled. 

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Hartstein said nothing; he sat in the other chair and 
waited. 

Your assignment, Lieutenant Hartstein, said the captain, 
holding the papers up. It's a difficult one. 

I don't expect any of them are particularly easy, sir, said 
Hartstein solemnly. 

Exactly so. But this is a vital mission. Your success could 
undermine much of the Underground's theoretical basis, and 
therefore render them virtually helpless. Much of their math 
weaponry would cease to have validity, and we would then be 
in a position to eliminate them quickly and without danger to 
our own forces. 

Hartstein raised an eyebrow. I'm honored to be given 
such a job, sir, he said. 

Glad to hear it. Briefly, son, you are going back into the 
real past, to Ancient Greece. You are going to impersonate an 
Athenian philosopher, and you are going to introduce ideas 
contrary to those of the Underground. Now that we're able to 
make the present responsive to changes in the past, these 
philosophical notions will have the force of Euclid, Plato, and 
Aristotle. They will alter the perception of the universe just 
slightly, but just enough to make the existence of the 
Underground impossible. 

Philosophy, sir? asked Hartstein. I thought that we were 
fighting this war with pure mathematics. How does Ancient 
Greek philosophy have any effect? 

Sometimes there is a fine line between science and 
mathematics on the one hand, and philosophy on the other, 
particularly when you're dealing with the very large or the 

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very small, the infinitely new or the infinitely old. Even though 
those philosophers lived twenty-five centuries ago, and few 
people today read their works or even know their names, 
their ideas have colored the thinking of every generation that 
came after them. Their theories and attitudes have been 
passed down through all the years as a heritage, that which 
we call civilization. Change the ancient foundation of scientific 
thinking, and you change the way we look at our world today. 
That is what you must dobut carefully. If you operate too 
broadly, the result may be disastrous. 

I don't know if I'm quite the right person to carry this out, 
Captain. 

You are the right one, Hartstein, we are all certain of it. 
But you needn't worry too much. We have a detailed outline 
of just what you're supposed to say and to whom you're 
supposed to say it. Take it and study it tonight, and in the 
morning report to ESB for your preparation. 

Yes, sir. 

Good luck, Lieutenant, said D'Amato. 

Good luck to you, sir, and to the rest of the Agency. I 
hope when I finish in Greece and return, it will be to a world 
without the Underground. 

If we fail, son, said the captain somberly, you won't 
have a world to return to. 

That night, Hartstein read the briefing thoroughly; but he 
had had very little previous education in philosophy, and 
some of the arguments he read made no sense at all. An 
introductory note said that he shouldn't worry about that, 
because the ESB treatment would give him insight into the 

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Greek philosophers he needed to understand. Finally, after 
the second time through the difficult material, Hartstein gave 
up, trusting to the Agency to endow him with whatever he 
lacked. He dropped the pages to the floor, turned his face to 
the wall, and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

In the morning he decided that there was one more thing 
he had to do. Sometime in the night the realization formed 
that it wasn't only philosophy he needed to learn, but more 
math as well. If he hoped to protect himself and do his job, 
he required a more fundamental grasp of the major weapon 
of this war. He was curious why the Agency hadn't seen fit to 
instill that knowledge earlier. It was as if they had sent him 
out with a slim dagger to fight unknown enemies in the dark. 

Fortunately, it would be easy to remedy that situation. He 
dressed quickly and decided to skip breakfast. He went first to 
the ESB department reserved for the use of the Agents. This 
was a more elaborate facility than that used by tourists to 
prepare for their brief holidays in the quasi-past. Virtually 
anything an Agent had to know in order to carry out orders 
was available to authorized personnel. It was a quick and 
efficient way to learn languages, history, and the basic ideas 
of any science or art. What the Agent did with this knowledge, 
of course, depended on that individual's own talents and 
inclinations. 

A young woman, an Agency corporal, sat at a desk 
processing a large pile of forms. It was early in the day, but 
she was already harried and unhappy. Excuse me, said 
Hartstein. 

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She looked up, not pleased by the interruption. When she 
saw that he was a lieutenant, she gave him her attention but 
not her enthusiasm. Yes, sir. What can I do for you? 

I would like to take a course or two in intermediate 
mathematics. From algebra through plane geometry, trig, 
calculus, and so on. Enough so that I'll be able to handle 
myself where I'm going. It seems like all the Underground 
agents I run into have a much better education than I do. 

The corporal nodded. I see. But I'm afraid, sir, that 
information is classified. 

Classified? But it's basic high school and college math. 
How could it be classified? 

Since the disaster in Atlantis, all potential weapons 
sources have been declared top secret, and mathematical 
training is now given only on a need-to-know basis. 

But I need to know. Hartstein felt the familiar frustration 
of dealing with low-level personnel, the men and women who 
sat at desks and stood behind counters and decided his fate. 
How rarely they understood that circumstances vary from 
person to person, and how less likely they were to venture 
beyond the safe limits of their specific orders. 

We'll see what you're cleared for, sir, said the young 
woman. She took Hartstein's identification and typed it into 
her terminal. A moment later the data appeared on her 
screen, out of Hartstein's sight. She turned to him. I'm very 
sorry, sir, she said. It says here that you're cleared for any 
amount of math you wish to take. Take this card and follow 
the blue line. The technicians will give you whatever you 
need. 

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Hartstein took the card she offered and followed the blue 
line. It led to the ESB treatment booths. A tech sergeant took 
his card, saluted, and led Hartstein into one of the booths. 
The couch was comfortable and the lighting dim. Which 
course do you want, sir? asked the sergeant. 

General mathematics, said Hartstein. From algebra 
through calculus. 

Yes, sir. Just relax. We have an excellent new course in 
vector analysis and another in game theory. Would you like 
those as well? 

No, I don't think I'll need all that. I just want to be a little 
ahead of the Ancient Greeks. None of them will know 
calculus, so it ought to give me an advantage. And then I'll be 
on an even footing if I run up against any rebels from here on 
in. 

The treatment lasted only an hour, and Hartstein emerged 
from it feeling no different, with no obvious flood of 
mathematical appreciation coloring his thoughts. Just as he 
had not consciously been aware of the insertion of the 
Egyptian language and customs prior to his first tour of 
Alexandria, so now his new knowledge of elementary and 
advanced math slept in his mind, waiting for him to call it 
forth. 

While he was in the ESB section, Hartstein also took the 
prep he needed for his mission to Ancient Greece. Hellenic 
philosophy, culture, the language, and hints as to the 
strategy he should follow in debating with the great analytical 
minds of antiquity filled his unconscious. It was almost time 

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for him to report to the transmission screen. He had only one 
more stop to make. 

Well, well, well, said the young man in the costume and 
props department. He looked at Hartstein critically, one hand 
on his hip, the other languidly stroking his downy cheek as he 
thought. A lieutenant now, I see. And the absolute darling of 
the Agency. You know, you're quite a celebrity to us poor 
clerks. I like to think that in some small way I've contributed 
to your marvelous, cometlike ascendancy. 

I'm an officer now, said Hartstein, and I expect to be 
treated like one. 

Oh, said the corporal, feigning chagrin, please forgive 
me. You want me to salute, don't you? Is that it? Please say it 
is. I've been simply praying that you'd make me salute. 
There was an intrinsic precision and snap missing from the 
young man's salute. 

Hartstein returned it anyway. I need to be fixed up for 
Greece, he said. 

I'll say you do. 

I'm going back to Ancient Greece, about 460 b.c. I want 
to look like a respectable philosopher. 

Just leave yourself in my capable hands. 

Hartstein didn't intend to reply to that suggestion. He 
waited for the corporal to go into the storeroom and return 
with an appropriate costume. It did not take long. 

Here you are, Lieutenant, sir. He put a plastic bag on the 
counter. The costume inside was more voluminous than 
anything Hartstein had worn except, perhaps, the Palestinian 

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outfit. Still, it was only a white togalike mantle and a pair of 
sandals. 

I'm glad to see those, said Hartstein. I'm tired of going 
back into periods where I have to run around risking my neck 
with nothing on my feet but bruises. 

Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan. My, my, how I'd love to 
see you in your element. It must be thrilling, sir. 

Hartstein didn't know if the props corporal was mocking 
him or not. He let it pass. No jewelry or anything else? 

Just this. The young man handed over a long, slender 
staff. That's your badge of office, you know. You can't be a 
good peripatetic educator without your staff. If one of the 
boys gets out of lineyou know, spitballs and paper wads 
you go whoops! with the old stick. Spare the rod and spoil the 
child. That's how the West was won, n'est-ce pas? 

There was a moment of silence while Hartstein tried to 
gauge the corporal's attitude; it was impossible. For an 
instant Hartstein wanted to inaugurate his staff across the 
young man's skull. He took the costume into a dressing room 
and changed. One of the makeup artists supplied him with an 
appropriate beard and hairstyle. When Hartstein appeared 
again, the props corporal was astonished. Oh my heavenly 
days! he cried, clapping his hands together. Why, look who 
it is! It must be Socrates himself, or Zeus, or Sir Laurence 
Olivier, or somebody! I wish I had my autograph book with 
me today. How grateful I am that I'm not just some poor 
scullery maid in the cafeteria. I wouldn't miss this for the 
world. 

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Cold air had no problem finding a way up under Hartstein's 
toga. If the Greeks were so civilized, he muttered, why 
isn't there decent underwear? 

The corporal pretended to blush and avert his eyes. I just 
can't stand it anymore, he said. What are you up to in that 
outfit? 

I'm going back to change the Greeks ideas of 
mathematics and the universe. 

Oh, how rugged and sly we are. But do you know enough 
to take them on? I mean no disrespect, my lord, but they 
have people like Pythagoras playing on their team. 

I took an hour's worth of ESB math training this 
morning. 

The young man looked honestly impressed. Say 
something in equations for me. 

Hartstein shook his head. I can't. You know how it is. It 
won't come until I need it. 

The corporal was enthusiastic. I'll coach you. If a point is 
that which has no part ...' 

What's that? asked Hartstein. 

That's Euclid's very first definition, you ninny. I mean, 
sir. 

Uh huh. A point is that which has no part.' A look of 
amazement crossed his face. Why, then it follows that 
straight lines parallel to the same straight line are also 
parallel to each other! And, of course, that if an equilateral 
pentagon be inscribed in a circle, the square on the side of 
the pentagon is equal to the squares on the side of the 

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hexagon and on that of the decagon inscribed in the same 
circle! And then ... and then... 

Ah, murmured the young corporal, only Euclid and 
Hartstein have looked on beauty bare. 

Hartstein could not reply as he stared off toward infinity, 
visions of the endless minuet of numbers moving stately 
through his head. His mouth hung open and he began to 
teeter just a little. 

Hello? said the props clerk. He prodded Hartstein a bit 
with a forefinger. The lieutenant started a slow, magnificent 
topple. The corporal caught him by one arm. 

Thanks, said Hartstein dreamily. 

Are you all right? 

It was beautiful, Hartstein murmured. All ... white and 
hard and clean. 

Well, at the risk of depressing you utterly, I ought to 
remind you that you have an important mission, and that 
we're not just doing this to get you ready for the masked ball 
of the Krewe of Proteus. 

Yes, of course. Hartstein returned the young man's 
salute and stumbled away toward the purple glow of the 
transmission screen. 

A few minutes later Hartstein was wandering the hills 
beyond Athens, sometime during the Golden Age of Pericles. 
The chilly air of early spring refreshed him and cleared his 
still-dazzled mind. Goats and sheep tore at the sparse grass 
around him. Bald discolored stone, the bones of the earth, 
gaped through the black soil. Not far away was a grove of 
trees, empty and barren but promising a future of fruit. In the 

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damp wind, with patches of snow still clinging to the ground 
in protected places, that future seemed impossibly far away. 
On a hilltop in the distance, Hartstein saw the Parthenon as 
Euripides and Sophocles had seen it, unbroken and proud. 
Grasping his long staff, Hartstein began to walk toward the 
city. 

After a quarter mile, a young man, evidently an aristocrat, 
joined him on the road. They greeted each other, and the 
Athenian youth asked respectfully, Are you then a teacher? 

Yes, said Hartstein. I have come to set the others right. 
For all their greatness, your philosophers have ignored a 
simple truth and entertained themselves with inventing 
various false semblances of truth. Only they are wise enough 
in the ways of argument to see their deceptions, but I will 
open the eyes of the unschooled. Thereafter these wicked 
teachers of Athens will no longer lead young minds astray. 

His words excited the Athenian. My name is Brosias, son 
of Diogoras. I am a student of Gorgias of Leontini and his 
followers. 

Ah yes. The Sophists. It is they whom I have come to 
challenge. 

May I walk with you, sir? I'd like to hear your arguments. 

As you wish. Was it not Gorgias himself who said Nothing 
exists; but even if it did, we could not know it'? Your teachers 
pride themselves on being able to confuse and bewilder, 
rather than to make clear. They value rhetorical athletics over 
genuine knowledge and wisdom. 

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Brosias shrugged. That is nothing new, sir. That's the 
same thing Socrates is telling everybody. Nobody listens to 
him, though. 

Hartstein laughed indulgently. They will, soon enough. 
That ugly old hound has an idea or two worth considering. 

They skirted the Acropolis proper and came into the Agora, 
the broad area at the foot of the north slope. This part of the 
city has often been described as the marketplace, but that 
gives only a little of its flavor: yes, there were tradesmen and 
craftsmen here, a bazaar of Greek and imported commodities 
for sale; but one found new ideas here as well, and the 
excitement of discovery. New machines, new theories were 
unveiled, demonstrated by geniuses or charlatans to 
fascinated audiences. Ethics in business and private life 
developed in the Agora in an attempt to govern relations with 
domestic neighbors and foreign nations. Taking these 
accomplishments one step further into the abstract, 
philosophers questioned their fellow citizens about matters no 
one had ever bothered to think about before. Perhaps to the 
average Athenian such subjective problems had little practical 
value, but then they could not know that nearly three 
thousand years later the fate of the world depended on them. 

Look, sir, said the honest Brosias, there is Protagoras, 
the finest lawyer in the city. He is a Sophist, and he is able to 
win any case at all through the force of his logic. 

Not his logic, chided Hartstein, but his manipulation of 
mere words. He tangles the listener up in trivial 
considerations of various words and their meanings. 
Meanwhile the sense and spirit of the vital question itself dies 

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ignored at his feet. He cares not for the truth of his argument, 
but only for its success. Can you not see where that leads? 

Brosias frowned, deep in thought. After a moment he gave 
up. No, I can't, he said. 

It leads to the assumption that all arguments are equally 
valid. And then it follows from that, that no arguments are 
essentially valid, and therefore such things as philosophical 
inspection and the pursuit of justice are based on worthless 
notions, and are completely without objective merit. 

I have no difficulty accepting that, said Brosias. 

That gave Hartstein some trouble. He was prepared to 
speak with people who still felt that truth and morality were 
constant and desirable. But if the Sophists had persuaded 
some of these youngsters that such abstract concepts are 
purely relative, then his assignment would be more difficult 
than he had imagined. 

Lo, my teacher himself is speaking to those artisans, said 
Brosias as they approached a part of the Agora given over to 
potters, leatherworkers, and other craftsmen. 

I can see by his staff that he is a philosopher. 

I shall introduce you, sir. I'm afraid you didn't tell me 
your name. 

I am Epimander of Miletus. Epimander was the name of 
one of the authors Hartstein discovered in his first visit to the 
Library of Alexandria, the perpetrator of Self-Realization 
Through Hubris. There was no record of any actual classical 
philosopher by that name, and it sounded good to Hartstein. 

Miletus, the home of obsolete thinkers, said Brosias with 
an impudent grin. That's what Protagoras calls it. 

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They stood beside the Sophist and listened to him debating 
with the Athenian citizens. Hartstein was not impressed either 
by Protagoras's philosophy or his skill with words. Perhaps the 
man had earned a great reputation here, in the early morning 
of civilization; but where Hartstein came from, the Greek 
would have a tough time holding his own with a high school 
senior. 

Sir, said Brosias, I wish to introduce Epimander of 
Miletus, who has come to question you about your methods. 

Protagoras turned around and smiled. He held out a hand 
in a very unclassical gesture. Hartstein, isn't it? I've been 
waiting for you. 

Hartstein's spirit sank. Here, too, the Underground was 
ahead of him. It was not going to be just a matter of 
adjusting the attitudes of these Ancient Greeks: it was going 
to be a deadly contest for the hearts and minds of the 
audience, using rhetorical skill as a weapon. He shook the 
man's hand. How are we going to work this? he asked. 

The rebel looked around at his listeners. Why don't you go 
ahead and attack my way of thinking. Then I'll try to 
enumerate your errors. When one of us looks like a big 
enough fool, it'll be over. 

Hartstein was frightened. He was sure that someone else 
should have been sent in his place. This Underground 
impostor was certainly well trained and confident. Hartstein 
himself had only the benefit of his brief ESB treatment that 
morning. He prayed that it would be enough. I understand 
that you teach your students to argue either side of a legal 
case, he said. 

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Yes, that is true, said Protagoras. First, it enables them 
to plead on behalf of all clients, even when my students have 
no personal interest in the matter. Second, it stretches their 
imagination and forces them to think in new and creative 
ways. 

That sounds good at first hearing, said Hartstein, but I 
would like to show how destructive such a technique will 
prove to be in the long run. He turned to one of the attentive 
potters. You, sir, do you feel that if called upon to sit on a 
jury, that you would be able to render a good and true verdict 
in the best interests of justice and the state? 

Why, of course, said the potter. 

And are you of the same opinion? Hartstein asked 
another man. 

All Athenian citizens would be, said the second man. 

And what is it that makes you so confident? asked 
Hartstein. 

The first man thought for a moment before replying. One 
man may be mistaken or misled or of dishonest inclinations, 
said the potter. But a jury must have an inner sense of 
justice. As a group of sincere and disinterested citizens, a jury 
is able to find the truth in any legal dispute. That is the basis 
of our system, and one of the foundations of our great state. 

I agree, said Hartstein. Yet this man Protagoras is 
teaching his students to argue even the unjust side of a 
question, to mislead a jury in deliberate fashion for the profit 
of a guilty client. He is able to persuade men through the art 
and craft of his words, which may sound more truthful than 
they are in fact. 

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Aristophanes made the same complaint in his new play, 
said a silversmith who had joined the crowd. He portrays a 
contest between Just and Unjust Argument, and it is Unjust 
Argument who wins every time. 

Hartstein paused to consider his next step. But such a 
thing goes against all reason. There must be a general 
knowledge of what is right and what is wrong, even though all 
the philosophers in the world play with their meanings. Each 
man knows inside when an action is right, and when it is 
wrong. 

Do you mean to say that there are such things as 
absolute universal laws? asked Protagoras, still smiling 
placidly. 

Even without his ESB preparation, Hartstein would have 
recognized this as the first stage of a rhetorical trap. I say 
that a man may invent justifications for wrongdoing, yet still 
know that it is wrong. 

Yes, that is true, said the Underground agent. Right is 
right, and wrong is wrong. All things that are, are; and things 
that are not, are not. And it is the man himself who knows 
these things: that right and wrong, being and not-being 
exist. Will you accept that? 

Yes, said Hartstein hesitantly. 

Then what is it about a man which enables him to know 
these things? 

Only his mind, sir, said Brosias. 

Good lad. His mind, of course. Man is the measure of all 
things. Or more precisely, in the words of Anaxagoras, Mind 
orders all.' 

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That is a primary tenet of our beliefs, said one of the 
leatherworkers. The mind of man is the source of all 
blessings which do not come directly from the gods or nature. 
We take the growing things and cultivate them for food. We 
take stone and build houses. We shape our environment as 
we will. 

Very good, said Protagoras. Therefore, it follows that 
justice also does not exist except in relation to the mind of 
man. Truth exists only in relation to the jury selected to find 
it. By this I mean that the truth and justice of a matter before 
our court may not be the same as that before a court of, for 
example, the northern barbarians, if indeed they have one. 
Our ideas of justice do not always reflect the ideas of the 
Egyptians or the Scythians or the Persians. 

But, sir, said a second potter, what you are saying cuts 
us off from any great and everlasting notion of truth. Surely 
you are not denying the existence of the gods and their 
institutions? 

No, no, of course not. But what we as mere mortals 
perceive as truth and justice and honor are ideas that have 
developed because of man, not gods. They exist because men 
live together in communities and so must formulate abstract 
concepts in order to keep peace with each other. There is no 
truth or justice beyond the mind of man. 

Your predecessor, Gorgias, said that nothing exists, said 
Hartstein. Is this an example of how the mind of man orders 
all things? 

Protagoras laughed. Gorgias was merely demonstrating 
that as the knowledge of the world is not constant but relative 

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to the observer, then it is impossible for one man to convey 
his precise knowledge to another, for each man has his own 
view of the world. 

It was clear that Protagoras was well on his way toward 
persuading these Athenians of the Temporary Underground's 
view of the universe. Hartstein had to do something to 
counteract the rebel's success. Tell me once and for all, sir, if 
you believe in any set of fundamental laws of human 
behavior, independent of whatever cultural influences may be 
used to modify them. 

Protagoras shrugged. Will you accept the statement that 
only that which is, exists; and that which is not, does not 
exist? As you granted earlier? 

Certainly, said Hartstein. 

And if anything exists, my friend, it must be either finite 
or infinite. Do you not agree? 

I suppose there is no third alternative. 

Yet through simple logical means, with which no one has 
found fault, Parmenides arrived at the conclusion that what 
exists is pure being, and is necessarily infinite. 

That is a well-known hypothesis we have all studied, said 
Brosias. 

And another philosopher uses precisely the same method 
to prove that pure being must necessarily be finite in nature. 
Only a false proposition, my friends, can lead to such a 
contradiction. Therefore, I submit that nothing exists, but 
only the illusion of existence exists; and that the universe is 
content to have nothing exist, and that the universe and the 

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mind of God would be blessed to have the illusion of existence 
removed forever. 

Hartstein opened his mouth but found nothing to say. All 
the others in the audience turned to him, waiting for a 
devastating refutation of Protagoras's reasoning. It was clear 
to Hartstein that such a confrontation was pointless. He had 
another plan: he touched his temporal tap and was gone. He 
conceded the first round to the Underground. 

* * * * 

Jumping ahead to twenty years after the death of 
Protagoras, Hartstein went to visit Democritus, the man who 
organized the atomic theories of earlier philosophers such as 
Leucippus. Let the Underground have Protagoras, thought 
Hartstein. I'll provide a firm foundation for the materialist 
side. A tendency to accept the idea of atoms here will result 
in a clear advantage for the Agency in centuries to come. 

Democritus came to Athens as a young man, drawn by the 
excitement generated by the circle of thinkers assembled by 
Pericles. At first, Democritus had felt rejected and just a little 
resentful. Hartstein wondered if the Underground had warned 
the Athenians not to speak with the young Democritus, that 
his theory of atoms was dangerous and impious. 

Hartstein found Democritus in the middle of the Agora, 
trying to interest passersby in his little hard bits of matter. He 
was shouting and waving his staff, but no one was listening. 

You know, said Hartstein, that sounds very interesting. 

I'm glad you think so, said Democritus. It's almost 
impossible to get these Athenians to pay attention. Those 
Sophists screwed everything up for a long time. Listen to this, 

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I heard it from a young woman, one of their students. A 
woman, yet! She said, Either things exist or they don't. If 
they don't exist, then there can't be atoms. If matter does 
exist, it is either finite or infinite. If it is infinite, there cannot 
be atoms, because there must be a quantity of not-being 
between each atom, which would necessitate an infinity of 
not-being for the entire universe, and an infinity of not-being 
would not permit the existence of any matter. If matter is 
finite, then once again there cannot be atoms, because in this 
case as well there must be not-being as a separator of atoms, 
and I cannot accept the being of not-being, or an argument 
that claims both the existence and the non-existence of 
something at the same time. That, my friend, is Sophistry, 
even more absurd than that of the damned Protagoras 
himself. It is all just verbal tap-dancing. 

Tap-dancing? I didn't know there was tap-dancing in 
Ancient Greece. 

Democritus blushed. What do you mean, Ancient'? 

But Hartstein wouldn't be so easily bluffed. You aren't 
from this century, are you? You're another agent of the 
Underground. 

Well, said the false Democritus, you found me out. What 
can I say? Be careful, Hartstein. We'll meet again. The rebel 
touched his temporal tap and disappeared. Hartstein did the 
same. 

* * * * 

The appearance of the Agora hadn't changed very much. It 
was now several decades earlier, during the height of 
Periclean Athens. Hartstein needed to speak with Anaxagoras 

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and change that great thinker's mind about a few things; in 
that way, Hartstein could destroy the arguments of 
Protagoras in advance and prepare the Greeks to accept the 
atomic theory of the true Democritus. He decided not to 
waste a moment; he stopped a wealthy merchant walking 
through the marketplace with his wife and three children. 
Excuse me, sir, I am looking for Anaxagoras, the scientist 
and philosopher. I am new in this wonderful city, and I was 
hoping you could point him out to me. 

I hope you enjoy your stay, said the merchant. That's 
my little shop, right over there. If you need anything in the 
way of rugs or fabrics or dyes, come see me. Nothing I like 
better than doing business with newcomers to our city. A 
good way to expand my export business, you see, if you tell 
all your friends at home about my line. 

This is my home, said Hartstein curtly. 

Yes, of course. You're looking for the scientist. That's him, 
right over there, hitting that poor slave over the head with his 
staff. 

Thank you. Good day to you and to your lovely family, 
sir. Hartstein crossed the way and waited for Anaxagoras to 
stop punishing the slave. 

Are you waiting to address me? asked the philosopher. 

Yes, said Hartstein, when you're finished. I understand 
that you believe mind orders all things. 

Anaxagoras looked astonished. I have considered that 
idea, yes, but I haven't told anyone as yet. How could you 
know about it? 

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I have a way of knowing all that is of importance to me. 
You are quite certain of your conclusion? 

A wary expression crossed the Greek's face. Of course I 
am. What else would order all things? 

Perhaps there is a divine will that defines everything so 
that the human mind may comprehend them. 

Anaxagoras looked afraid. Divine, you say? You are not ... 
divine yourself, by any chance? Apollo, perhaps, or one of 
those? 

Hartstein laughed. He wanted it to be deep and booming, 
but it wasn't. He sounded more like a pet cockatoo than one 
of the Olympians. You're still superstitious, I see. But I 
wonder, do you mean that each individual has a separate and 
equally true world, or that the total consciousness of human 
minds creates the world by cooperative effort? For if the 
former is true, how can we coexist in different worlds? And if 
the latter is true, then the world must change from day to 
day, as the consciousness of it changes. 

Interesting, very interesting questions. I see that you are 
more than a mere educated Athenian. I will tell you. In the 
beginning all things were mixed together, except Mind. Mind 
set the mixture in motion, and the heavy particles drifted to 
the center, while the lighter particles were forced to the 
outside. Thus the sun, moon, and stars are hot stones thrown 
out of this vortex into the sky. They are not, as our ancestors 
believed, gods. 

And do you have equally mechanical explanations for 
other phenomena, as well? For rain, for instance, and 
lightning? 

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Anaxagoras looked unhappy. These Athenians are not 
going to be pleased to hear my ideas. My new philosophy 
requires a complete change in beliefs. It will not be a simple 
matter to persuade them all. 

Hartstein nodded sympathetically. Perhaps I could 
suggest a way to make it easier for you. You must make a 
slight change in your conception of the nature of matter. 
Nothing that would change your creative framework, just a 
greater emphasis on atoms and less on the generative power 
of the mind. 

But 

Hartstein would not be interrupted. Your idea of religion is 
that there is a Mind that remains pure and unmixed in all 
things. That's a sound idea in some ways, but you're right 
these people won't buy it. They'll think it's atheism. They 
picture their gods sleeping on clouds and plucking lyres. 
Forget about mind for now; just rely on the Athenians 
willingness to believe in the existence of tiny particles. 
Everyone understands tiny particles. 

Anaxagoras shook his head. I'm sorry, sir, but my 
sponsor would not approve. 

Your sponsor? 

The philosopher pointed. Yes. Over there. It is Pericles 
himself. 

Hartstein looked. Smiling at him across the marketplace 
was the same rebel agent who had impersonated Protagoras. 
Once again, the Underground had anticipated Hartstein's 
plan. 

* * * * 

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As Hartstein saw it, the Underground had taken the first 
skirmish as Protagoras; there had been a draw with 
Democritus; and the rebels controlled Anaxagoras. Hartstein 
felt that a solid victory with Zeno of Elea would even the 
score, for much of the logic used by the later philosophers 
derived from Zeno. So the Agent jumped a few years back 
and many miles to Elea in Italy. 

Zeno is most famous for his four paradoxes of motion. Of 
these, the most familiar is his Achilles and the Tortoise. 
According to Zeno, if Achilles gives the tortoise a head start of 
any amount in a race of any length, the poor man can never 
catch up to the animal. This is because before Achilles can 
pass the tortoise, he must run to point A where the tortoise 
started the race. But the tortoise has moved on to point B, so 
Achilles must run to that point, but the tortoise has moved on 
to point C, and so on until the torpid creature crosses the 
finish line. Meanwhile Achilles, swift of foot, has been reduced 
to tippy-toeing in microscopic fractions of inches after it. 
Zeno's other three paradoxes are also entertaining and 
treacherous; Hartstein wanted to get this master puzzler on 
the side of the Agency. 

When Hartstein popped into the Eleatic academy, Zeno 
was going over the tortoise paradox for the benefit of the 
young men in his class. It did not take long for Hartstein to 
recognize that Zeno was the same Underground agent who 
had posed as Protagoras. There can be no such thing as 
atoms, said Zeno loudly, for Hartstein's benefit as well as the 
class. Parmenides has proved the nonsense involved with 
postulating a void or a not-being that separates points of 

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time or space. The same is true of matter. If something is 
not, then it has no properties, and thus cannot hold atoms 
apart. We must conclude that there are no atoms, and 
therefore there is no matter. There is only Mind, or something 
like that. But as to matter, space, and time, they are the 
imposition of human limitations upon the perfect order of the 
universe. 

Hartstein interrupted. It seems I'm following you 
backward through time, listening to you palm off that anti-
atom line in one form after another. You're doing the 
philosophical equivalent of taking out a cigarette lighter and 
astonishing the natives. 

Zeno smiled unperturbably. You know that and I know it, 
my friend, but these children will never learn it. And do you 
know, I am not so far from the truth. With the development 
of partial numbers, these old paradoxes have gained new 
meaning. If we assign a partially negative quantity to 
Achilles's velocity, not only does he never overtake the 
tortoise, he loses ground with every stride! But that is too 
much for these young minds to comprehend. You must look 
elsewhere if you hope to destroy all our work, Hartstein. I 
have won this engagement as well. 

* * * * 

Hartstein was very hungry, but he didn't have a penny or 
an obolus or whatever the ancients used for cash. He hadn't 
planned to take so long to accomplish his mission. He thought 
he'd visit ancient Athens and have a little talk with Socrates 
or somebody, and that would be that. He didn't figure on 
running into the Underground on the same errandand once 

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again nobody had bothered to warn him of the possibility. 
Now he needed, besides lunch, a complete reevaluation of his 
strategy. Next before Zeno, chronologically and ideologically, 
was Parmenides. If Hartstein failed there, too, he would try 
Heraclitus. Before Heraclitus there was Pythagoras, a big shot 
in the pantheon of both the Agency and the Underground. If 
Hartstein could claim Pythagoras, it didn't matter how many 
later philosophers the rebels cornered. But if the Underground 
co-opted Pythagoras first, then the only thing to do was travel 
further back and try for the philosophers from Miletus: 
Anaximenes, Anaximander, and, finally, the world's first 
philosopher, Thales. 

Things went worse for Hartstein the more he delved into 
the past. The Underground had set up a little intellectual 
boundary around each philosopher that prevented him from 
disrupting what the rebels had accomplished. The 
Underground had mixed, distorted, misquoted, and perverted 
the rational thought of centuries in order to support their own 
position. If left undisturbed, mankind would develop through 
the ages with a firm, unspoken, unconscious conviction that 
the world does not truly exist, that there is no such thing as 
matter, and that what we view as reality is only an 
uncomfortable illusion that annoys the universe. In the 
present, it would be the Underground that had the support 
and backing of the people, not the Agency. 

In the time of Parmenides, the Underground taught that 
only being exists, and that being is unchanging. 

Before Parmenides, Heraclitus paved the way by saying 
that the universe may seem like eternal flow and change, but 

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behind that evident strife is a cosmic orderthe logos. That's 
as far as Heraclitus took the idea; but when the Underground 
finished with it, they made everyone believe that the logos 
wasn't really crazy about the flow and change and strife and 
would really appreciate it if we'd all go away. Parmenides was 
the same rebel agent who had been Democritus, and the part 
of Heraclitus was played by the gently smiling man who had 
previously impersonated Protagoras and Zeno. 

The scene shifted to Crotona, a city in southern Italy. Here 
Pythagoras made his home. Combining the roles of religious 
leader and philosopher and scientist, he was one of the most 
influential men in that part of the world. The Pythagorean 
philosophy favored neither the Agency nor the Underground, 
but balanced between them. It stated that numbers were 
things, which the Agency found useful; but it also said that 
things were numbers, which the Underground could definitely 
use in order to rid the universe of both things and numbers. 
Before Pythagoras, the Milesian philosophers said To be is to 
be material. That was a fine notion for the Agency to 
encourage and defend. Unfortunately, Pythagoras took his 
second thesis and ran very far with it, into the realm of 
abstract and mystical applications. That was the kind of stuff 
the Agency wanted people to forget about. 

Hartstein was expecting to find an academy of young men 
sitting around Pythagoras chanting Things are numbers and 
Numbers are things. He was very wrong. He was very 
surprised, too. When he arrived, he did find an academy of 
young men sitting around Pythagoras (he was the 
immoderately serene rebel again). But they were chanting a 

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syllable that sounded like m. Hartstein hadn't been 

prepared for that at all. 

What's all this? he cried. What have you done? 

Pythagoras gazed at him blissfully. May this unworthy one 
humbly offer your honorable self a cup of tea from this 
miserable pot? he asked. 

Are you kidding? What's this oriental stuff going on here? 

Zen, said Pythagoras. Listen to the words of Lao-Tze: 
The Tao never does, yet through it everything is done; If 
princes and dukes can keep the Tao, the world will of its own 
accord be reformed. When reformed and rising to action, let it 
be restrained by the Nameless pristine simplicity. The 
Nameless pristine simplicity is stripped of desire. By stripping 
of desire quiescence is achieved, and the world arrives at 
peace of its own accord.' 

Peace. Meditation. Oneness. Nothingness. 

"Nothingness!" shrieked Hartstein. Oh my God! He saw 
immediately what a disaster that could mean for the Agency 
in the present. The Underground had sidetracked pre-Socratic 
philosophy from a consideration of the material nature of the 
universe to a preoccupation with nothingness. There could be 
no worse catastrophe. Hartstein decided to skip both 
Anaximenes and Anaximander, and leap all the way back to 
the beginning, to Thales of Miletus. He adjusted his temporal 
tap and jumped. 

When he arrived, the first thing he saw was the 
Commander's destroyer. Well, well, if it isn't Captain Future, 
said Tipchak. We meet again, Hartstein. 

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CHAPTER NINE 
NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT 


This was the third time Hartstein had been aboard the 
Commander's destroyer, but it was the first time he had gone 
anywhere in it. There was no sensation of motionan 
advantage of technology from whatever future the craft came 
from. They left the Ionian past and traveled back to the 
present, to the great rallying of forces that would culminate in 
the final battle between the Underground and the Agency. Or, 
rather, the battle which was already raging around the world 
and all along the tortuous avenue of time. 

Everyone on board was very friendly. The Underground 
men and women knew Hartstein and were aware of the 
service he had rendered to the rebel cause. They weren't 
aware that some of that service had been entirely 
unintentional. The Commander, for instance, was under the 
impression that Hartstein's poor showing in pre-Socratic 
Greece had been a conscious effort to blunt the Agency's 
attack. We owe you one, my boy, said the Commander in a 
fond way. We can appreciate a man who lives by his 
principles. I don't suppose you're yet entirely sympathetic to 
our cause, but it makes me glad to know that you're no 
mindless tool of the Agency, either. 

You say that you owe me one, said Hartstein coldly. If 
you win this battle and have your way with the world, how 
will you repay me? 

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The Commander laughed. Oh, I guess we won't need to 
worry about that anymore, he said. Hartstein didn't share his 
amusement. 

He was wearing a tunic borrowed from one of the 
Commander's aides, and a pair of patched trousers donated 
by another rebel soldier. He was still wearing the Greek 
sandals and the false beard. It itched so much he wanted to 
tear it off. 

Rebel soldiers made sure that he was comfortable, brought 
him food and free drinks and magazines to read. There was 
stereo music for him to listen to, with a choice of eight 
different programs. There would be a holofilm after lunch, and 
then they would arrive in the present. There was a rare 
feeling of expectation aboard the ship, one which Hartstein 
shared in a sickened way. It was the end toward which they 
all had worked, one way or another. It was the final battle, 
and it felt like graduation day. 

As if Hartstein's appetite hadn't already been thoroughly 
spoiled, it was ruined completely by a visit from Tipchak. The 
weasel felt like gloating, and he couldn't get anyone else to 
listen to him. Say, Hartstein, he said, smirking. I never 
thought when I first ran into you that you would end up to be 
a hero. And an Agency hero and an Underground hero, too. 
How about that? 

Yeah, right, how about that. Hartstein was listening to a 
recording of an Armenian goatherd singing to her animals. He 
couldn't understand a word of it, and the girl's voice creaked 
like a five-hundred-year-old windmill, but all in all it was 
preferable to Tipchak's notion of conversation. 

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You getting butterflies in your stomach? asked the small 
man. 

Butterflies? What for? 

Tipchak raised his eyebrows in surprise. I'd've thought 
you'd be getting butterflies. The end of the world and all that; 
some people would be upset about it. Not me, of course, 
because I'm a loyal Underground soldier and I have my 
convictions to comfort me. But you don't have that, or, at 
least, not so's you'd notice. So what's it like, knowing you're 
going to snuff out like the flame of a candle in the next couple 
of hours? 

You tell me, scumsucker. Convictions, my ass! If you have 
any convictions at all, they're for high crimes and 
misdemeanors. Just leave me alone. 

Tipchak shook his head pityingly. Butterflies. You've got 
buzzards flapping in your gut. He turned and left the narrow 
room where Hartstein had been billeted. 

Tipchak's departure immediately improved the 
environment, but it was still far from pleasant. Hartstein had 
enough of the shrill goatherd and threw the earphones across 
the room. He wondered how the Agency was doing against 
the rebels in the present. It wouldn't be long before he found 
out, but the trouble was that he wasn't going to like the 
situation regardless of who was winning. 

It had all come down to this: the final battle, with but two 
degrees of disaster to choose from as the ultimate result. 
Take your pickabsolute and eternal slavery, or peaceful 
nonexistence. 

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There was a knock on the door and the Commander looked 
in. Mind if I come in and chat? he asked. 

Hartstein didn't answer. 

The Commander sat in a chair beside Hartstein's bunk. 
Having second thoughts? he said. 

It occurred to Hartstein that if the Commander wasn't 
sitting in that chair playing friendly neighborhood psychiatrist, 
it was Brannick. It was time to put a stop to it once and for 
all; there wouldn't be much opportunity to speak his mind 
later. Do you mean, am I having second thoughts about 
helping the Underground? Yes, I am. I'm having second 
thoughts about helping the Agency. I wish there had been a 
way to blow the whistle on both gangs of lunatics; but I 
thought there would be a way out of this without anybody 
getting hurt, and without the poor, average man-in-the-street 
ever finding out how close he came to having the farm bought 
for him. 

You sound bitter, son. 

Hartstein's anger flared. You don't have to patronize me 
anymore, you son of a bitch. There isn't anything left to get 
out of me. I'm just a passenger and a spectator from here on 
in. 

The Commander smiled. I can appreciate how you feel. 
You think you've been used, don't you? You think you've been 
manipulated and lied to and cheated. Well, all of that is true. 
But you've never been able to see this whole thing in 
perspective. Sometimes it's necessary to cheat and lie in 
order to perform an ultimate good. The end justifies 

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Nothing justifies what you're doing. Or what the Agency's 
doing. 

The Commander paused. Then there's nothing more I can 
tell you, son. He stood up. We'll arrive in the present in 
about thirty minutes. We'll be touching down in the 
Seychelles, a pretty string of islands. The weather's beautiful 
this time of year. Why don't you go down to the Ops Center 
and ask for Sister Ojani? She's been waiting to show you our 
new superweapon, the one we're going to use to rid the world 
of the Agency's filth forever. 

A superweapon? asked Hartstein. More powerful than 
partial numbers? 

The Commander seemed amused by the idea. Partial 
numbers are not an offensive weapon, lad. They are like the 
Trojan horse, in a way. They are the ultimate dirty trick, like 
giving a Z-Ray projector to the most conscienceless murderer 
in history. When I stumbled upon partial numbers, I knew 
immediately that their misuse by the Agency would do them 
more damage than correct use by the Underground ever 
could. 

When you discovered them? 

Oh yes. Who do you think gave Melissa Spence the idea in 
the first place? It was all an elaborate and clever plan to get 
the concept into the Agency's hands. Why, of course I lied to 
you and dear Sister Spence, but it was all for the greatest 
good. I wasn't foolish enough to think you'd believe that, so I 
arranged the little charade for your benefit. 

Hartstein's belly felt as if it had been filled with foul chunks 
of dirty ice. Did she know about all that? 

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The Commander's expression was kindly. No, son, of 
course not. I'm not so evil as that. 

Hartstein had something to say to that, but he didn't. 
There was no point. And you have something up your sleeve 
that makes those partial numbers look like nothing, I guess? 

Just something I've forgotten to tell you about before. 
Come with me. The Commander led Hartstein to the Ops 
Center. They said nothing to each other in the corridor. Just 
inside the Ops room, the rebel leader pointed to an old 
woman. That's Sister Ojani, he said. She'll answer your 
questions. I must go now. We only have a little time left. He 
turned and went back into the passageway. 

Sister Ojani was an elderly woman with wispy white hair 
and deep black eyes. Her face was as wrinkled as a dried 
plum, but her expression was as cheerful as a clear 
conscience could make it. She seemed to be anticipating 
some great and transcendent joy. Lieutenant Hartstein? she 
said in her thin voice. Sit down beside me. 

Hartstein did as he was asked, feeling like a timid young 
boy in an ancient fairy tale. Sister Ojani was either a wicked 
witch who would roast him for lunch, or an enchanted 
beautiful princess who would let him wake from this 
nightmare safe and sound. 

I'm only going to say this once, she said. The whole is 
greater than the part. 

I know that, said Hartstein. 

The whole is greater than the part. That is one of the 
basic definitions on which Euclid's geometry is based. In fact, 

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almost all of mathematics comes from simple, common-sense 

ideas like that. 

I know that. 

Everybody knows that. But what few people realize is that 
the whole is also greater than the sum of its parts. She 
covered his hand with her ancient fingers. Her dry skin felt 
like old paper. 

Hartstein blinked. That's a truism, ma'am. That's a kind of 
folksy proverb that sounds good but isn't real in any kind of 
mathematical way. A triangle with three sixty-degree angles 
still totals a hundred and eighty degrees. The quantity a + b 
doesn't equal anything more than b + a. Even if one or both 
of those unknowns are partial numbers, the commutative and 
distributive laws still hold. 

Sister Ojani laughed. It was a dry, shrill, cackling sound. 
Hartstein gave up on the beautiful-princess theory. Wrong 
again, little one, she said. Do you not see? The process of 
addition has a value of its own. Two quantities sitting in 
different seats in a theater have no relationship to each other 
at all, yet when we add them together, a mystical bond is 
created that moments before was unthinkable. It is the act of 
addition that brings that bond into being. The act of addition 
is responsible for a new unity in the world. The process has a 
value of its own, independent of the values of the quantities. 
Man has always ignored that specific value, because he 
wished the mathematical operations to have a classical 
simplicity and logic. We have clung to that ancient idea, 
blinding ourselves to the truth and inventing all sorts of 
constants and other factors to make our equations work out 

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correctly. We must say, Oh, this formula comes close to 
predicting what happens in real life, but we have to figure in 
K one way or another to get true accuracy. What is the use of 
a formula that contains some made-up constant K that we 
can never put our finger on? And all the time the trouble has 
been caused by our refusal to abandon outdated ideas of 
arithmetic, ideas that predate the earliest written 
mathematical texts. 

What are you saying? asked Hartstein. That two plus 
two equals something more than four? 

That's right, that's absolutely right. Assuming both twos 
in that equation are purely positive, the sum is on the order 
of 4 + 1/10n, where n equals the objective operations value. 

The objective operations value, said Hartstein. I 
suppose there is such a value for all operations: subtraction, 
multiplication, and so on. Sister Ojani nodded agreement. 
And the precise value of n 

Must be determined by the context, she said. It is a 
difficult and time-consuming procedure, even for our 
computers. 

But that would mean that everything we know about the 
universe, everything from the circumference of the earth to 
equations like force equals mass times acceleration, all those 
things are slightly incorrect. 

You got it, son. And, naturally enough, the act of adding 
the 1/10n requires the addition of an even smaller but 
discrete value, and adding that... 

The potential for disruption in the world at large was 
immense. It was an even greater threat to mankind than the 

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theory of partial numbers. It was something the Agency must 
know about as soon as possible. 

Sister Ojani cackled again. You are thinking about telling 
the Agency, she said. 

The wicked-witch thesis seemed ever more likely. Yes, 
he admitted. 

How do you know it isn't a second dirty trick? 

I don't know that, said Hartstein. 

And they probably figured it all out for themselves by 
now. They buy their computers from the same people we get 
ours from. 

Then 

Then it will be pure hell when we arrive in the present. 
With both sides attacking each other with partial numbers and 
objective operations values, the concept of reality will mean 
very little. I'm not looking forward to seeing what's left of it. 

I'm a little afraid, too, said Hartstein. I just hope 

An alarm rang through the ship, warning them that timefall 
and landfall were imminent. That was as much of the 
Underground's ultimate secret as Hartstein was permitted to 
learn. 

Do you know what I see, Lieutenant Hartstein? asked the 
old woman. 

There was a loud scraping noise, and then the scream of 
the braking jets drowned out all conversation for several 
moments. When the sound died away at last, the ship had 
come to rest somewhere in the present. No one was in a 
hurry to run outside and find out what was going on. 

What do you see? asked Hartstein. 

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I see you, dear, hurrying to the Agency lines with this 
new information, hoping to spare your friends and save your 
own life, hoping that they will round us up like obsolete 
outlaws. You would be a hero, the Sergeant York of Time. 
That is what you want. It will not happen. 

Hartstein turned away. You know that for certain? he 
asked. 

No, of course not. The whole world's turned upside down. 

Hartstein smiled. That's what the band played when 
General Cornwallis surrendered. 

Who? 

Nobody, said Hartstein. He was planning his escape. 

It's all a game, mused Sister Ojani. 

The alarm for General Quarters sounded, and suddenly the 
ship was all movement, noise, and purpose. Men and women 
ran to their battle stations, fetching sidearms and helmets 
and other equipment. Sister Ojani did not stir from her chair. 
It's all a game, she murmured. 

Something about her sentiment annoyed Hartstein. I'm 
glad you can see it like that, he said. A game! A goddamn 
game of cosmic chicken is what it is. He stood up and left the 
Ops Center. He wandered into the corridor with no clear idea 
of where he was going. He walked toward the bow of the 
ship, flattening against bulkheads to let grim-faced rebels 
pass in the narrow gangways. He still had no idea where the 
Agency forces were, or what his next few moves might be. 

The Commander came up to him and put a friendly hand 
on his shoulder. Don't be frightened, he said. 

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Hartstein was astonished. Aren't you supposed to be, you 
know, commanding or something? Why are you just out 
walking around like I am? 

The Commander smiled. These people have been drilled 
so well that they really don't need me to tell them what to do. 
As a matter of fact, my job is almost over. It's all in the hands 
of the soldiers and the math artillery people. I guess I'll just 
oversee everything and make suggestions to my officers if 
things don't work out as planned. But other than that, I'm 
probably going to be just as much a spectator as you say you 
are. Why don't we go into the solarium and see what's 
happening outside? 

Hartstein wanted to be alone, to find a way out of the ship 
and on his way to the Agency lines with his new knowledge. 
The last thing he wanted was to be in the personal retinue of 
the enemy leader. 

Were you planning on getting out of here? asked the 
Commander. You can just forget about that. I'm not letting 
you go until this battle is over. You'll have to consider 
yourself my guest while 

The bulkhead behind the Commander glowed a lovely 
lavender shade, the color of wisteria in April. There was a low 
hum that increased in volume as the bulkhead began to melt 
away. There was no heat, although the futuristic alloy dripped 
and sloughed and vaporized until there was a gaping hole 
large enough to admit an adult bison. And there were a lot of 
adult bison just on the other side of the breach. The bone-
jarring hum disappeared suddenly, but rang in Hartstein's 
ears for some time. He looked at the Commander, who was 

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evidently displeased by this damage to his ship. What's 
that? asked Hartstein. 

A hole, said the Commander. I'm going to have to 
report this to damage control, but there's not a lot they can 
do about it now. 

Hartstein looked outside. He couldn't imagine what had 
caused the damage. There was nothing out there but bison 
and prairie and low mountains in the distance. Where are 
we? he asked. It was supposed to be an island in the 
Seychelles, which are not famed for their prairies and bison 
population. 

How the hell should I know? said the Commander in a 
surly tone. He turned and hurried away. Hartstein was all 
alone in the passageway. He put his hand on the outer 
bulkhead, cautiously testing the edge of the hole. It was not 
hot; he took advantage of the situation, wriggling through the 
hole and dropping to the ground. 

He immediately felt he had made a bad mistake. He landed 
heavily in the coarse grass, and when he looked up the 
Commander's ship was gone. It had vanished silently, without 
leaving the least sign that it had ever rested on the prairie. 
But then, when Hartstein stood up and brushed himself off, 
he saw that the prairie, the bison, and the mountains had 
vanished as well. It occurred to him that perhaps he had done 
the vanishing, but he didn't want to get his points of 
reference confused. For the sake of continuity, he preferred to 
think that the world had vanished or changed, and that he 
had stayed in the same place. It didn't really make any 
difference. 

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A man in fifteenth-century plate armor, mounted on an 
armored horse, rode up to Hartstein. Lieutenant, he said, 
you must make the final disposition of the knights. 

It was no difficult matter. Hartstein had fought in many 
battles, and so had these handpicked men. The only problem 
was the weather; it was cold and wet, and the army had 
traveled a great distance in the last few days. The battle 
would take place in the morning, but until then the knights 
had to solve the problem of passing the night without caking 
their armor in mud and rendering it useless for the conflict. 
Removing it and sleeping on the ground was out of the 
question. 

Perhaps this rain will stop soon, said Hartstein. The 
constant beating of the raindrops on his helmet was driving 
him crazy. 

We cannot count on that, Lieutenant, said his aide. 

Then we will have to spend the night in the saddle. 
There's no other way. 

Yes, sir. The damned English have been living on just nuts 
and bad meat, and we must nap fitfully on our chargers in the 
cold, wet air. It will not be a pretty engagement on the 
morrow. Both armies will be ragged and miserable. If the 
English don't kill us, we will die of sickness from these 
conditions. Twenty-five thousand French knights assembled at 
Agincourt, and the king will be lucky to see the return of 
twenty-five hundred. 

Enough, Godchaux, that sounds like treason. Pass the 
word among the knights: they are to keep their equipment in 

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fighting condition, whatever little sleep they get tonight. After 
the battle, they will be able to sleep as long as they like. 

Those who haven't been put to eternal rest already, 
murmured Godchaux as he kicked up his mount. 

Hartstein turned to consider the disposition of the army. At 
dawn, the English would try to break through the French 
position between the two woods. At least, that was what he 
expected them to do. After all, the English had invaded 
France, so it was up to them to test the defenses. Hartstein 
could keep his knights reined up in the gap between the 
woods forever. Let the English try to get through! 

Of course, he thought, his army outnumbered the English 
four to one. Perhaps a massed charge could obliterate the 
enemy threat once and for all. Hartstein knew that he would 
spend all night long arguing strategy with himself. He felt cold 
and lonely and very weary, but he was not afraid. 

At dawn the rain stopped. Hartstein awoke, realizing that 
he had fallen asleep sometime during the long hours after 
midnight. His muscles were stiff and sore, and as he 
stretched he saw that he was in the midst of a dense forest, a 
jungle, to be exact. Tall ferns towered above him, shutting 
out some of the light but none of the heat of a tropical sun. 
Dragonflies the size of owls flitted through the steamy air. 
Strange, frightening cries broke the stillness. There was a 
rank, fetid odor in the air that brought Hartstein close to 
nausea with every breath. He turned around and saw a 
bubbling black pond not far away. There was a huge dark 
shape in the middle of the pond, struggling to free itself from 
the viscous stuff. The creature filled the air with its savage, 

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hopeless screams. Hartstein turned away. A man approached 
him through the gigantic ferns. 

Hartstein, said the man. It was Tipchak. He ran toward 
the young Agent. 

What is this? asked Hartstein. 

There was the crash of a fern not far away. A tall gray-blue 
thing slunk among the boles. Smaller animals skittered 
through the underbrush. Something leaped from branch to 
branch over their heads. The helpless beast in the tar pit 
voiced its dying rage. 

I don't know, said Tipchak, his eyes wide with terror. 
About a quarter-mile through there, I was captured by these 
seven-foot-tall African natives. They dragged me to their 
village and put me in a big iron pot. They were going to cook 
me, Hartstein! It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. It 
was like a bad joke. 

The two men stared at the prehistoric scene around them, 
wondering which way to go, in which direction were sanity 
and stability and safety. 

Back the way I came, said Hartstein. Staying here is no 
answer. The Agency and the Underground have let all hell 
loose. We've got to find some secure place in our own time. 
The Agency must have a headquarters near here where 
they're maintaining the present. It's our only chance. 

You're not taking me into no Agency headquarters, 
Hartstein, said Tipchak in a wild voice. They'll kill me. I'd 
never get away alive. We've got to find the Commander. 

Forget the Commander. We're going this way. It began 
to rain, a slashing, hot, heavy rain that stung his skin. 

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Thunder rumbled and lightning struck around him with sharp, 
deadly cracks. He felt Tipchak's hand on his arm, pulling and 
tugging in the opposite direction. 

This way, Hartstein. I saved your neck once, and it looks 
like I have to again. 

Hartstein slapped the little man's hands away. I don't 
ever want you touching me again, Tipchak, remember that. 
We're going my way. If you don't like it, find your own way 
through this jungle. He turned his back. A moment later a 
towering creature, an allosaurus, broke through the ferns and 
stared down at them with small red eyes. Saliva drooled from 
its huge, dagger-toothed jaws. 

Christ, Hartstein, muttered Tipchak. 

Don't move. From somewhere, Hartstein thought he 
heard the powerful strains of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. A 
bolt of lightning illuminated the carnivore's immense head, 
followed instantly by a detonation of thunder. Hartstein 
looked up at the dinosaur and held perfectly still. He was sure 
that he couldn't outrun the beast; maybe it couldn't see well 
enough to identify the two men as prey if they stood 
absolutely motionless. Tipchak broke first; he turned and ran, 
and the allosaurus almost grinned in pleasure. Its tremendous 
thighs lumbered forward for a few steps, and then it lurched 
into a thundering, ground-eating lope. Tipchak looked over 
his shoulder and gave a single inhuman shriek. The allosaurus 
had almost overtaken him before Tipchak tumbled head over 
heels down a low bank and into the tar pit. He cried for help, 
but Hartstein could do nothing for him. The allosaurus stood 
at the edge of the pit, waiting for Tipchak to extricate himself; 

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but the weasel would never be able to do that. Hartstein was 
sickened. He backed away from the terrible scene, up against 
the trunk of a giant fern. When he turned around, he was 
somewhere else. 

He was in the middle of a vast parkland. On the horizon, in 
a full circle around him miles away, were tall hemispherical 
structures. He had never seen anything like them before. 
There were paths radiating from the very point where he 
stood, as if he were at the center of the world. The paths 
were paved with a perfectly smooth cream-colored material, 
straight and wide. He began walking along one of the paths, 
toward a hemisphere that was tinted the green of new spring 
leaves. 

He walked for many minutes, and the hemisphere soon 
loomed above him, a vast city in a green glass bottle. He 
could see that inside, near the top of the dome, a bright ball 
of yellow floated like a miniature sun. He saw houses and 
carriages and steeples and children playing innocent games 
on the sidewalks. He saw gardens and theaters and civic 
buildings with stern, fluted columns. 

How do I get inside? he asked himself. There was a frail-
looking steel ladder on the outside that allowed him to climb 
up toward the north pole of the hemisphere. He started up 
the hanging ladder. Men and women on the inside of the 
bottle gathered and pointed at him in wonder. He climbed up 
and up and up. He grew dizzy and tired. The sun beat down 
on him and his head swam, but still he climbed. He climbed 
above the level of the rooftops on the inside. He did not dare 
look down at the ground. His hands holding the metal sides of 

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the ladder perspired, and the rungs themselves dug painfully 
into the soles of his feet. 

There was a narrow landing built into the dome near the 
top, an inlet of perhaps four feet square, with a heavy green 
metal door leading inside. Hartstein tried the door; it was 
locked fast. He pounded on the door, sure that someone in 
the city must have climbed up to meet him and now stood 
waiting to unlock the door at his knock. Was this a city of the 
future? Had he somehow stepped across some new wartime 
threshold of the eons, from the Jurassic to a distant time yet-
to-be? He panted with exhaustion; he tried again, but the 
door still would not open. He turned away, determined to 
climb higher, but the ladder had disappeared. He stood now 
not hundreds of feet in the air, but upon a broad marble 
stairway in a great castle or palace. 

Shadows thrown by gas lamps flickered on the damp stone 
walls. Many graceful statues, miniature copies of classical 
figures, stood in niches up and down the staircase. Hartstein 
started down the steps hesitantly, unsure where he was now. 
A man in a dark cloak appeared below. Rupert of Hentzau, 
Hartstein muttered. 

The other young man looked up and noticed Hartstein. My 
king has returned to Zenda, he said brightly. He drew his 
sword. 

Hartstein did not descend further; let Hentzau come to 
meet him, while Hartstein enjoyed the superior position. He, 
too, drew his sword. I have desired this meeting, he said. 

As have I, said Rupert. He tossed his handsome head 
and waited, the point of his sword down as if in no concern at 

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all for his life. He loosed his cloak and let it fall to the floor. 
Every movement had such an unstudied grace and 
carelessness that it was impossible not to admire Rupert, for 
all his ambitious and self-serving ways. If you intend to wait 
there upon me, he called to Hartstein, then this will be a 
very long night indeed, for I shall not give you such an 
advantage. 

Hartstein understood. Then will you permit me to join you 
down there? 

Why, of course, sire. The sarcasm in his tone was heavy 
though without rancor. This final duel was inevitable, but it 
was not motivated by hatred. It was merely a matter of 
leaving to Fate the decision of who was to be master of a 
woman's affections. 

Hartstein went down the venerable stairs. Both men took 
their positions calmly and silently. They saluted each other; 
Rupert added an elaborate flourish that only underscored the 
irony in his attitude. They touched blades, and then Rupert 
leaped to the attack. 

Hartstein parried and riposted; Rupert danced backward. 
Hartstein followed, then fell back before a feint and a lunge 
that touched him on the shoulder. It was not a serious 
wound. They cut and leaped at each other in grim silence, 
back and forth in the cold hall. Far away, a larger and more 
deadly battle was taking place for the future of the kingdom, 
but it was not fought with more determination and skill than 
this wordless duel for the hand of the beautiful Flavia. 

At last Rupert maneuvered Hartstein into a position where 
the Agent could retreat no farther. Backed against a wall, 

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Hartstein fought on with renewed strength, yet he was unable 
to make Hentzau give up an inch. With a devilish twist of his 
blade, Rupert disarmed him; Hartstein's sword clattered 
across the stone flags with a terrible racket. My prayers are 
with you, said Hentzau with a sardonic smile. I shall tell her 
that you died as you lived, but she will not understand 
precisely what I mean. He thrust home, but Hartstein flung 
himself to the side, only to receive a stunning blow with the 
flat of Rupert's blade. Hartstein fell to his knees, dazed, one 
hand to his throbbing temple. He awaited momentarily the 
final thrust. 

When it did not come, he raised his eyes. He was sitting in 
a narrow enclosure, the cockpit of some flying machine. He 
was far above the black storm clouds, flying into the sun with 
three other fork-tailed aircraft beside him. Pull up, Hartstein, 
pull back on your stick, you're drifting down, came the voice 
of Captain D'Amato in the receiver in his helmet. Hartstein 
pulled back on the stick and the P-38 climbed to its proper 
position. They flew onward in formation, toward some 
dreadful destination. All was peace and serenity high above 
the war-torn ground. The perfect blue of the heavens blessed 
Hartstein with a feeling of warmth and quiet. 

It was not to last. A voiceit was Major Li'scried, Six 
bandits at ten o'clock low, climbing fast! 

Hartstein tipped his right wing up a little and looked down. 
He saw the enemy fighters approaching in a tight V 
formation. As he watched, they spread out, making a more 
difficult target. They were single-engine fighters, no match for 
the P-38s in speed and high-altitude performance, but much 

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more maneuverable. They roared through the Agency 
formation, firing their guns and screaming on into the sky. 

Hartstein chose one and followed it up. The Underground 
pilot wasn't aware that Hartstein was on his tail, and slid over 
into a shallow, lazy dive, searching the air for something to 
attack. Hartstein announced his presence with a long burst 
from his .50-caliber machine guns. Stay on him, Hartstein, 
called D'Amato. Wax his tail, boy. 

The enemy pilot, suddenly aware of the trouble he was in, 
turned over hard right and dropped out of sight. Hartstein 
followed him down, shrieking through the wind. The rebel 
plane was highlighted against the dark clouds, flashing in the 
sunlight, helpless. 

They suckered you, Hartstein! Now you've got one in your 
deep six! Shake him! 

Hartstein turned hard right and dived until he had 
accelerated beyond 350 miles per hour. He leveled out in 
another turn and slipped to the left. The enemy plane hadn't 
anticipated the maneuver and was now silhouetted against 
the clouds. Hartstein climbed to the level of the others in his 
formation, ignoring the bandit that had been on his tail 
because he saw that two of the enemy were diving on 
Marshal Hsien's plane. 

Two coming down on you from your three o'clock high, 
he called to the Overlord. I'll be there in a second. He 
turned into the path of the rebel planes and, choosing one, 
flew directly at it, machine guns stuttering a deadly greeting. 
Hartstein saw a series of hits stitch the rebel, then he was by 
it and turning in a swift, tight circle. Marshal Hsien had 

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skidded out of the Underground's way to momentary safety. 
Now the Overlord and Hartstein looped back, on the tails of 
the enemy fighters. 

Thanks, Hartstein, said Marshal Hsien. I never saw 
them. You saved my life. 

Later, sir, said Hartstein. He hit his firing button again 
and his tracers drew a fiery white line across the fuselage of 
the first Underground plane. It fell into the storm clouds, 
trailing a ribbon of black smoke. The second enemy made 
another pass at the Overlord's plane. It began to fire short 
bursts, but Hartstein did a quick wingover and looped down 
and around to the left and then climbed into the bandit. The 
rebel sat in his sights like a duck on a frozen lake, and with 
his first burst Hartstein saw it explode into a blinding yellow 
fireball. 

I owe you my life again, Hartstein, said Marshal Hsien. 
Captain Hartstein. 

A battlefield promotion! said D'Amato. Congratulations, 
son. 

Thank you, sir. How about the rest of these rebel 
monkeys? 

The other enemy fighters broke off contact and were 
running into the sun. Let them go, said Hsien. We have 
more important work to do. 

Right, said Hartstein. He was still glowing from the 
excitement of the battle, and the thrill of the sudden 
promotion. 

Hartstein, wake up! 

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He had been daydreaming. He focused his attention on 
what Marshal Hsien was telling him. 

We cannot escape, Captain, said the Overlord. Not with 
that gang of rebels guarding the road. If our army is to 
survive, someone must clear the way. I want you and that 
ragged company of yours to do the job. I've told you many 
times that your men are not soldiers in the sacred tradition, 
but you also know that I count on their skill and courage. 
That is why I give you all the most important missions. 

Yes, sir, said Hartstein. The men are all ready to show 
you that your trust is well placed. 

Good. Do your best and good luck to you. All our lives 
depend on your success. 

Hartstein saluted and returned to his men. As Marshal 
Hsien described them, they were a motley crew of veterans. 
There was Weng, the grizzled old dogface, scarred and blind 
in one eye and humorless, but a veritable killing machine; 
Chu Jen, the kid, the handsome young dandy whose youthful 
appearance belied his deadly skill with the bow; How San, the 
fastidious swordsman whose reputation as a ladies man he 
always denied; Bo Bo, the comical old worrier and 
complainer; and, of course, Sergeant Brannick and 
Mademoiselle Zaza, the beautiful French volunteer whose 
darkest secret no man would ever learn. 

Well, is there some action, Captain? asked Weng 
hopefully, as Hartstein ducked into the rickety hut they had 
taken over. 

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Enough for all of us, pal, said Hartstein. Get all the 
others and bring them here. We're going to clear the road for 
the Overlord. 

Okay! Weng ran to a small wooden shack where the rest 
of the Jade Cloud Jokers were gambling away their future 
pay. Hartstein smiled proudly. The regular army called them 
jokers, but that was just envy. The Imperial Chinese Army 
had no other platoon like Jade Cloud; their shining record of 
victories was what permitted them a degree of autonomy, 
almost a perverse individuality. The Overlords themselves 
beamed benignly on the men of Jade Cloud, amused by their 
appearance, pleased by their fighting strength. 

They came running, with old Bo Bo bringing up the rear as 
usual. Sit down, men, said Hartstein. And ladies, he 
added, nodding to Mademoiselle Zaza. We've got a tough nut 
to crack today. I wanted to tell you about it myself, knowing 
how much you all like impossible assignments. Well, you 
apes, we haven't faced anything like this since we took on the 
Mongols and their ten-foot giants. 

Yeah, said Chu Jen, grinning, but we cut them down to 
size, didn't we, Captain? Weng clapped the kid on the 
shoulder in comradely good spirits. 

Yes, we did. But now we have the whole Underground 
advance party camped on the road between here and the 
Agency lines. They've got us all sewn up here, and that 
includes Marshal Hsien. So, the regular army passed the ball 
to us and told us to kick those rebels the hell off our 
doorstep. Then the Overlord and his boys can go on with the 
business of winning this war. 

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That suits me, said How San. 

But there is only six of us, complained Bo Bo, and there 
are at least a hundred of them. 

Zair are seven of us, mon ami, murmured Mademoiselle 
Zaza in her languorous voice. 

Oh, said Bo Bo, sighing, in that case, it's different. 

Everyone laughed at Bo Bo's anxiousness. 

While the entire army could not move surreptitiously 
around the Underground position, the Jokers could. They cut 
through the woods and found themselves some two hundred 
yards behind the rebels. Captain, said How San, let me 
take Weng, and we'll account for at least twenty of the 
bastards. We'll take care of that unit on the left side of the 
road. 

All right, pal. But first I want Chu Jen to take his bow and 
pepper their rear. That'll soften them up for you. 

"Mon capitain," whispered Mademoiselle Zaza, I too can 
make ze attack on ze rotten rebels. I weel keel une douzaine 
of zem, as zey keeled my seestair. I weel make ze diversion 
for ze rest of you. 

Very good, Zaza, said Hartstein. Bo Bo, Chu Jen? 

The fat old man and the handsome youth looked at him. 
Their quirks of personality were gone now; this was a matter 
of life-and-death. They waited to hear their orders. Yes, 
Captain? said Bo Bo in a level voice. 

After Chu Jen punctures a few of those rebels, I want you 
and him to charge the main body on the right side of the 
road. Weng and How San will join you when they've finished 
off the other gang. Meanwhile, Sergeant Brannick and myself 

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will cut back to hit them from the other side. We'll catch the 
suckers in a three-way squeeze. 

Very good, Captain, said Bo Bo. The Jokers moved out 
silently, each intent on his own part in the plan. 

Let's go, Captain, said Sergeant Brannick. 

Hartstein tested the edge of his sword. It was perfect. He 
nodded to Brannick, who was armed with a sword slung 
across his back and a bow. One moment, Sergeant, said 
Hartstein. I want you to know how much I've appreciated the 
help you've given me. I couldn't have bullied those lugheaded 
gorillas halfway across China without you. 

Brannick grinned. Don't thank me, sir. It's you they look 
up to. Now let's go get them Underground sons of bitches! 

They charged out of the cabin, but there was nothing 
there. There's nothing here! cried Brannick. 

I can see that, Sergeant. Hartstein felt fear choking his 
throat. His breathing came rapidly. The road, the shack, the 
trees had all vanished. There was nothing to see in the dim 
light but the gentle fog, curling in wisps around their feet. 

It's ... it's between-time, Hartstein! 

I know. I don't know what it means. 

But this isn't a quasi-past! It's the real world! The real 
world can't fade into between-time. How can this be 
happening? Maybe it's those things, the time-eaters. Maybe 
they've finally destroyed us all. This can't be happening! 

Tell it to the Marines, Sergeant, growled Captain 
Hartstein. Then he screamed and screamed and screamed. 

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CHAPTER TEN 
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER 


Hartstein ran through the fog, as he had done once before. 
This time he felt anger rather than fear, because he was 
certain that the meddling of the Agency and the Temporary 
Underground in the nature of the universe had caused this. 
They had adjusted and altered and reshaped reality to fit their 
needs, and perhaps they had tinkered once too often, had 
made one too many little changes. A pleat here and a tuck 
there could be assimilated by the universe, but the wholesale 
renovation caused by this struggle for power might have 
weakened the entire structure of reality. Hartstein despaired 
of learning what had finally brought the real world down 
around his ears and, to tell the truth, he didn't really care 
who was at fault. It was too late for that. It was too late for 
blame, or for victory or defeat. 

Here he was in Cleveland, in the endless world between 
the worlds, but this time there was no one to save him. The 
whole universe had decayed into this dead zone of faint light 
and shimmering fog. If there was anything to be grateful for, 
it was the absence of the obscene things Hartstein had 
witnessed beforethe devourers of the feast of time. It might 
have been that Brannick was right, that they didn't really 
exist. The monsters might have been a function of the quasi-
past, and as this between-time world derived from the actual 
world, the creatures themselves had no existence here. 

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Still, it was very little comfort. The ground was as hard 
and featureless as ever. Hartstein knelt and ran his fingers 
over the surface: it was neither warm nor cold; it was dead, 
without vibration; he felt no crevices or ridges or places 
where edges might have been joined. The fog swirled around 
his chest. It could not be described other than to say that it 
was fog; it had no color or smell, it was neither damp nor dry. 
If thirst or hunger did not kill Hartstein, it would be the 
boredom. He stood up and walked on through the emptiness. 

It had only taken a few seconds for him to lose Sergeant 
Brannick. Somehow, in this horrible unworld distances 
changed with capricious frequency. The two men had stood 
inches apart; seconds later, without moving, they were out of 
sight of one another. When Hartstein walked, each pace 
might have been miles long, or microns. There was no use in 
trying to find anyone else here, or screaming for help, or 
sitting still and waiting for rescue. All Hartstein could do was 
wander alone and hope. 

Time passed with the same disregard for consistent order. 
It was pointless to wonder how long he had searched: hours 
might have passed, or centuries. At last, however, a thought 
came to him, a notion that had been implanted with his new 
mathematical knowledge by the Agency's ESB treatment. He 
remembered a curious topological idea. If you took a map of 
the world or a grid of numbers, or anything broken up into 
recognizable areas, and placed over it a second and identical 
map, each point on the second would lie directly above its 
mate on the first. Now, if you crumpled the top map in any 
way or shape or form, or stretched it or compressed it or 

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folded it, and dropped it on the bottom map, there must be at 
least one point on each map that still retained their original 
contiguity. This was called the fixed point theorem. And 
Hartstein knew immediately that here was the key to his 
freedom. Even if this between-time world of Cleveland 
extended to positive and negative infinity, there would be one 
point where it touched the real world, where he could cross 
from one to the other. That was how Brannick had rescued 
him before, through that single point. The difficulty now, 
though, was finding that point. Of course, Hartstein reasoned, 
he had all of eternity to look... 

There was something standing in the fog, a sign on a post, 
shadowless in the gloom. Hartstein ran to it; he had never 
seen a sign here before, he had never seen any object in this 
dead world. 

Go Back! Danger! Go Back! 

* * * * 

i heard a fly buzz when I died. 

No, I didn't. I just lied. 

* * * * 

Death, Hartstein, Destruction, 

Personality Dissociation, Madness! 

* * * * 

Go Back! Danger! Go Back! 

Go back where? Hartstein wondered. He walked on. He 
came to another sign. 
NEVER PUT OFF UNTIL TOMORROW 

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WHAT YOU CAN PUT OFF UNTIL 
YESTERDAY 


A third sign: 

Dear, Dear, 
Bread and beer, 
If you was smart 
You wouldn't be here. 


And a fourth sign: 

War is hell. 
This is war. 
This is hell. 
Turn the lights off 
when you leave. 
Drive carefully and 
arrive home safely. 


Hartstein didn't realize it at the time, but the signs were 
the sound of the universe clearing its throat. It wanted to 
speak to him. 

Dr. Waters approached him through the fog. Hello, son, 
he said in a kindly voice. 

Hello, Dr. Waters. I understand that you're behind the 
Agency, that you control it and are using it to consolidate 
unimaginable wealth and power. 

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Dr. Waters chuckled. His piercing eyes glittered. That's 
right, my boy, I'm as bad as the Queen of Spades. It's been 
weighing heavily on my conscience, particularly now since 
I've learned how my schemes have spoiled the world for 
everybody. He made a broad gesture taking in all of 
Cleveland. I'd like to make it up to you somehow, but all I've 
ever had was my scientific genius. Perhaps I can show you a 
few more clever tricks that neither the Agency nor the 
Temporary Underground know about. 

That would be great, sir, said Hartstein. 

Look here. Partial numbers and objective operations 
values are all well and good, but they only indicate where the 
true treasure is buried. People are afraid of mathematics 

With good reason, said Hartstein, looking around 
fearfully. 

Perhaps. But mathematics can do things for us that our 
so-called scientific knowledge tells us is impossible. How 
would you like me to give you the secret of practically 
instantaneous interstellar travel? 

Goddamn, Dr. Waters, that would be swell. 

Dr. Waters smiled. Then look at this diagram. He held up 
a complex geometric figure. 

I have given you the universe, dear boy, said Dr. Waters 
after he explained his discovery. See that you do right by it. 

Dr. Waters faded away like the ghost of Hamlet's father. 
Hartstein glanced down at the paper the old scientist had 
given him, but when he opened his fingers he held only a 
handful of fog. 

* * * * 

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A table was prepared for him in the midst of the drifting 
nothingness. A silver salver had been placed on the table. 
Upon the salver was a single fortune cookie. 

This fortune cookie has been put here for a purpose, 
Hartstein reasoned. It must contain an important clue about 
why I am here, and how I may be saved. 

He took the cookie with trembling fingers and broke it 
open. There was a small strip of paper inside. He read it. It 
said inspected by number 12. Hartstein dropped the paper 
and the cookie and pressed on through the mist. 

He saw two men standing beside a box. Hey! he cried, 
running to them. They did not seem to hear him; they were 
looking at the box. Hartstein saw that it was a coffin. He saw 
that it was himself laid out inside it. He thought he looked 
very natural, as if he were only sleeping. One of the two men 
was Hartstein's father. The other was a small owl-eyed man 
whom Hartstein didn't recognize. 

Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on, murmured 
Hartstein's father. 

Amen to that, said the owl-eyed man. Hartstein 
recognized the scene from The Great Gatsby. 

But I'm not dead! shouted Hartstein. Can't you see me? 
Can't you hear me? 

The other two turned away from the casket and walked 
through the barren landscape. I couldn't get to the house, 
said the owl-eyed man, as if explaining something. 

Neither could anybody else, said Hartstein's father. 

Go on! Why, my God! they used to go there by the 
hundreds. 

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What are you talking about? cried Hartstein. He felt like 
Scrooge walking in on someone else's Christmas ghosts. 
Why do you think I'm dead? 

The owl-eyed man took off his glasses and cleaned them. 
The poor son of a bitch, he said. 
* * * * 

A thick, dusty book sat on a battered wooden desk. 
Hartstein riffled through it slowly; every page in the book was 
printed with the same words: 

Hartstein, here is something to consider. Perhaps the 
reason that the Underground so well anticipated your every 
move was that the props and costume corporal whom you so 
blithely disregarded was in reality a topnotch spy for the 
rebels. Remember, you always told him where you were 
going and what you were planning to do. When they're not 
otherwise busy, pal, loose lips sink ships. 

This is either true or it is not true. Only the names have 
been changed to heighten the ambiguity. 

More signs, like a roadside advertisement on the soft 
shoulder of time: 

Thomas Henry Huxley says: Science commits suicide 
when it adopts a creed. 

Morris Cohen says: Science is a flickering light in our 
darkness, it is but the only one we have and woe to him who 
would put it out. 

Sir Osbert Sitwell(Who are these people? Hartstein asked 
himself) says: In reality, killing time/Is only the name for 
another of the multifarious ways/By which time kills us. 

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Raymond Chandler says: When in doubt, have two guys 
come through the door with guns in their fists. 

And 

Ben Hecht says: Time is a circus always packing up and 
leaving town. 

And time had left town for good, as far as Hartstein could 
see. The whole town had left town for good, too. As far as 
Hartstein could see, there was nothing to see. 

But then, after more walking and deepening despair, 
Hartstein saw a monstrous shape in the pale light. It was tall 
and black and unmoving, a monolith, like a fallen angel 
chained in place, frozen in a lake of ice. Only its huge narrow 
head glowered up above the curling tentacles of fog. It was 
the Guardian moai, the great Easter Island head that waited 
stoically for the end of the world. Now that its moment had 
come, it spoke to Hartstein. 

Welcome, Captain, it said. 

Thank you, said Hartstein. Glad to be here. 

You are nothing, Captain Hartstein. You are a zero. Do 
you know what a zero is? 

I have a passing acquaintance. 

A zero is a doughnut, Hartstein. A zero is a nothing with 
the illusion of a boundary around it. You are such a zero. 
Perhaps you are the only consciousness that exists here, 
Hartstein, but that means nothing to the void. Let x equal the 
void, the zero, the cold nothingness that desires nothing more 
than to exist without you. You are a quantity, a unit, a 
wholeness that is like a grain of sand to an oyster. You are (x 

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+ 1), an imbalance, an anomaly. Let us represent x, the void, 
by the integral. And then show him yet another equation. 
And, therefore, x = 0 = Hartstein. You are zero. You are 
nothing. 
I understand, said Hartstein. I'll try not to let it get in 
my way. 
Dean Rusk says: The pace of events is moving so fast 
that unless we can end some way to keep our sights on 
tomorrow, we cannot expect to be in touch with today." 

In the murky desert of between-time, Dean Rusk's words 
failed to cheer Hartstein. He staggered on to the next sign. 

Bette Davis (in Dark Victory) says: Nothing can hurt us 
now. What we have can't be destroyed. That's our victory 
our victory over the dark. It is a victory because we're not 
afraid. 

That was easy for her to say; she had George Brent with 
her and the theater gave away free dishes once a week. 

Out of the fog, out of the night, like mysterious travelers 
came Frank Mihalik, the Odysseus of Time, and Cheryl, his 
girlfriend. They smiled at Hartstein and waved. 

This is amazing, said Hartstein. First I make friends with 
Dr. Bertram Waters himself, and then I get to meet the 
Odysseus of Time. 

I'm pleased to meet you, too, said Mihalik. He was a 
young, strong, handsome man. Cheryl, the Penelope of Time, 
was attractive and intelligent. They were a great team, and 
they had inscribed their names in the annals of courage with 
their exploits in the arena of time. 

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Do you have any idea how we can get out of this? asked 
Hartstein. 

No, said Cheryl pleasantly, but we have a couple more 
incredible superweapons that you can give to the Agency. 
We're sure that these will be just the things to stop the 
Underground's merciless and inhumane master plan. 

First, said Mihalik, you know that there are certain kinds 
of vectors that have no magnitude, merely direction. Well, 
we've perfected a kind of calculus that deals with the other 
kind: vectors that have magnitude but no direction. 

What good is that? asked Hartstein. 

Cheryl smiled prettily. They help you describe certain 
things in the real world for which vectors and tensors aren't 
quite sufficient. And once you learn to manipulate pure 
magnitude, you can apply it in powerful ways, with 
undreamed-of results. Pure magnitude is a weapon the likes 
of which even Dr. Waters has never imagined. 

Pure magnitude without direction? Give me an example. 

Mihalik thought for a moment. Hubert Humphrey, he said 
at last. 

Ah, said Hartstein. He didn't bother to make notes. 

And then we have a way of factoring out the operations 
signs in an equation, canceling them out or otherwise 
removing them, thus leaving only numbers and no 
processes, said the Odysseus of Time. That would be a good 
defense against the Underground's objective operations 
values. They would just neutralize each other. 

Too late now, said Hartstein. 

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I suppose so, said Cheryl. Well, Captain Hartstein, we 
wish you the best of luck, and may God bless. 

Mihalik and Cheryl smiled and waved. They took a single 
step into the fog and disappeared. Hartstein was alone again. 
He was beginning to prefer it that way. 

He walked along for a while, humming tunelessly, 
wondering what the universe had prepared next in the way of 
entertainment. He tripped over something large and heavy, 
hidden in the slowly creeping fog. He bent down. He was 
startled to find a body, the corpse of a young woman. She 
was pretty despite even the grotesque deformity of death; 
Hartstein held her, overwhelmed by his emotions. All the 
sadness and grief he felt for himself and for the whole world, 
for his family, for those he loved and people he didn't even 
know, all this anguish he focused on this woman who lived no 
longer. 

There was a note pinned to the front of her shirt. It said: 

Her name is Alohilani. You and she were very 

much in love. You must take her back to the 

house. Keep walking east until you get to the 

river. Follow the river downstream to the 

house. East is the direction of the rising sun. 

They will help you when you get there. 

East? murmured Hartstein, afraid. What house? What 
rising sun? He set the young woman down gently. He had 
never known her; he had never loved her. The note was 

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meant for someone else, but he hated to leave her here, lost 
forever. Yet... 

The decision was made for him. He searched through the 
fog for the body, but he could not find it again. He felt over 
every inch within a radius of ten feet, but the corpse was 
gone. The nature of reality had frayed so badly that only long 
habit held it together any further. 

PREPARE, HARTSTEIN. THIS IS IT, THE BIG 
FINALE. AFTER THIS THERE'S NOTHING LEFT 
TO DO BUT STRIKE THE SET AND RING DOWN 
THE CURTAIN ON ANOTHER SEASON. 

Had he read that on a sign? Had he heard it? Had he 
thought it himself? Hartstein couldn't say. 

God wouldn't permit the existence of evil. God is infinitely 
benevolent. 

Who are we to disagree with the Commander? The 
Commander has all the information. We don't. He's in a better 
position to make decisions than we are. 

People know what's best for them. They'd never allow an 
organization like the Agency to take so much power we'd all 
have to worry. 

Hartstein chewed his lip. He was afraid. What new kind of 
attack was this? He saw no one; he heard no one. There were 
no voices, not really, just words. Truisms. 

Once this war is over, we'll all benefit from the discoveries 
both sides have made in mathematics, science, and 
philosophy. 

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Truisms! What a fiendish scheme! Hartstein looked around 
himself feverishly. 

The surface of the lies glittered like the sun on the Bay of 
Naples, and the words were just as insubstantial. There was 
nothing to grasp, nothing to fight, but Hartstein would not 
surrender. Trapped, he tried everything he could think of to 
escape. He clicked his heels together and repeated, There's 
no place like home, there's no place like home. It did no 
good. You don't scare me, Hartstein lied and, miraculously, 
he was free. Thinking he was one of them, they let him go. 
He ran. 

* * * * 
Now there's something you don't see every day, 
Chauncey, said a middle-aged man sitting on a park bench. 
What's that, Edgar? asked his friend, looking up from his 

newspaper. 

Graphics in a novel like this. 

Chauncey shrugged. Alfred Bester did it in 1956. He went 
back to his newspaper. 

* * * * 

The universe lay before him in all its magnificent dullness. 
Vast silent spirals of light sailed through space, fleeing their 
ancient natal shock. Fire and ice, gases and dust aged 
perceptibly while Hartstein watched. Everything grew cooler. 
Everything spent velocity. Electrons reached a point when 
they just didn't feel like zipping around a nucleus anymore; 
the atom collapsed. Satellites crashed into their planets, and 
the planets into their suns. The outward rush of the galaxies 
came to an end at some high-water mark of the universe, and 

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then, like an amusement park thrill ride balanced straight up 
in the air, everything began the long, cold slide back to the 
beginning. Look at that, marveled Hartstein. The stars 
picked up speed as gravity drew them closer and closer 
together. Billions of years passed in a moment. Hartstein held 
his breath, hypnotized by the splendor. He saw the end and 
the beginning. He saw the cataclysmic collision of all the 
matter in the universe as it re-formed its primal egg. He 
watched unguessable temperatures and pressures weave a 
net of physics and magic until once again, with another Big 
Bang, the cosmos gave birth to itself. Flung outward once 
more, the stars flared and hissed and cooled and formed, and 
the cycle continued. The show was so exciting that Hartstein 
sat through the whole thing three more times before he 
paused to wonder where he was. 

It seemed to be an impossibly big room. It was a hall too 
large to be taken in by a human mind. It was only twenty feet 
across and twelve feet highHartstein could almost jump up 
and touch the hanging lighting fixtures; but the hall ran to his 
left and right in a straight line, until all the parallel lines in the 
room met at vanishing points blurred with distance. The 
opposite walls were lined with machinery, identical banks of 
equipment that cluttered and whispered and clanged and 
clicked to itself, oblivious to Hartstein and evidently entirely 
self-sufficient. Hartstein shivered. For some reason, this place 
was more frightening than the world of between-time. 
Between-time was a phenomenon he could describe and talk 
about, if not fully understand; this place just didn't belong to 
his notion of the universe. After all, the universe seemed to 

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be down there. Hartstein stared through one of the many 
TV-screen-shaped ports, back toward the realm of time and 
space and matterand back toward life and mind as well. The 
pinwheel galaxies were beginning to sort themselves out from 
the background waste material. The full course of the 
universe's existence now took about fifteen minutes, 
Hartstein estimated; each cycle was shorter than the one 
previous. 

Each unit of control board consisted of a CRT terminal 
where he could enter in questions and commands, and banks 
of digital readouts and pushbuttons. The buttons controlled 
the values of constants that governed reality back in the 
universe. The first readout Hartstein looked at said The value 
of p is now equal to 4.29517248319+. Beside that, a button 
was labeled erase. Hartstein pushed it. The value 
disappeared. New letters spelled out enter new value. 
Hartstein pushed 2.78365139200, just to see what happened. 
He looked out the port again; one giant galaxy turned 
spontaneously into colored confetti and drifted apart into 
auroralike veils; two others collided in a marvelous shower of 
flares and bursts, exactly like the New Year's bonfires and 
fireworks he remembered from his childhood. 

Hartstein walked slowly down the long room, between the 
two lines of muttering machines. He felt as if he could walk 
forever, deathless and ageless, and never come to the end of 
it. Each button determined the value of one quantity: The 
value of 1 is now equal to; the value of 2 is now equal to. This 
cosmic Bureau of Standards evidently recognized partial 
numbers. There were places where he could enter in the 

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products or quotients of different combinations of numbers; 
that, in effect, validated the idea of objective operations 
values. Hartstein decided that the universe was probably 
better off without those two notions. He realized he could 
eliminate them by simply assigning values to all the numbers 
and arithmetical results that agreed with what he had been 
taught in elementary school. He smiled. From now on, 
through all eternity, two plus two was going to equal four 
again. What other person had ever made such an aesthetic 
gift to the cosmos? Hartstein wished that his father could see 
him now: Captain Hartstein, Champion of Time. 

Of course, that meant erasing and resetting every single 
readout in this infinite room. If there was one button for each 
number, then there would be an infinite number of buttons. If 
there was another button for each number plus another 
number, that was two infinities. Plus a button for each 
number divided by another numberwell, it was a lot of 
infinities. And then there were the buttons for the speed of 
light and Avogadro's Number and all the others. Hartstein 
decided he would get to work right after lunch. The universe 
would look crazy for a while, when some of the numbers had 
been set back to normal while other functions involving 
them had not, but it couldn't be helped. The reality he was 
creating would be sound and simple and beautiful; in the 
meantime, everything was just going to have to get along the 
best it could. 

He came to a door. Between two identical banks of 
apparatus, there was a tan-colored door. It was the only 
break he had seen in the symmetry of the room. He paused 

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for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, picturing many 
grotesque and frightening things that could be on the other 
side; then he took a deep breath and went through. 

On the other side of the door there was a sign that said NO 
ADMITTANCE/AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He was in a 
small reception area. There was a desk with a small computer 
terminal beside the door. Three comfortable couches stood 
against the walls. A coffee table by each couch was piled high 
with old magazines. The lighting was soft, and muted music 
played from invisible speakers. 

Hartstein passed through the reception area and went 
through another door. He was in a high-vaulted, pillared 
lobby, like that of a large bank. There was nothing much to 
see. A bank building might have had elevators and escalators, 
a small newsstand, a few shops. Here there was nothing but 
pillars and a shiny floor. The lobby seemed smaller than it 
actually was; when Hartstein began crossing it, searching for 
a way out, he realized that while he kept passing pillars he 
didn't seem to be going anywhere. He turned around, and the 
door he had come through wasn't any farther away. He 
shrugged; another weirdness here at the end of the universe, 
he thought. It didn't bother him nearly so much as it would 
have a few months before. It did indicate that there wasn't 
much point in trying to find a way out of the immense lobby. 
He started back to the reception area. 

A voice called his name. Hartstein stopped, frightened. He 
also felt a little angry; he had already accepted his fate here, 
and he really didn't want to share it with any of his old 
antagonists. He turned around. Hello, Sergeant, he said. 

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Brannick hurried toward him. Where the hell are we, 
Captain? he asked. He seemed shaken. Brannick had learned 
about fear very well in such a short time. 

I don't know what to call it, Brannick, said Hartstein, but 
this is where everything starts. 

I don't know what you mean. A minute ago I was 
wandering around in Cleveland, and then I fell over 
something and into this place. Is this the world? 

I don't think so. Come on, I'll show you. You can take a 
look outside. He led the Agency man through the reception 
area and past the tan-colored door. 

I don't believe this, murmured Brannick. I didn't think 
Reality would be so simple-minded. You can't tell me that the 
entire cosmic order of the universe depends on these buttons 
and things. 

It seems that way. Look out the port, there. I'm going to 
change the Binomial Theorem. 

Brannick stared out at the starscape. Hartstein pushed a 
button, erased one expression, and punched in another. My 
God, said Brannick hoarsely, Newton's clockwork universe. 

You know what I just figured out? Hartstein indicated the 
vast array of machines. If you can factor out operations 
signs, which is basically the inverse of the Underground's 
objective operations values, then you can come up with 
square roots of negative numbers that aren't imaginary. Think 
what you could do with that. 

Wow, said Brannick, dazzled. 

Come along, son, said Hartstein. We've got work to do. 

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They went into the reception area. Brannick sat on a couch 
and glanced through an issue of Sailing. Hartstein sat at the 
desk and examined the computer console. There was a 
question addressed to him on the screen: Do you wish time-
flow here to be synchronous with time-flow in the universe? 
Type 0 = no, 1 = yes. Hartstein thought it over. For now, the 
real universe out there didn't matter to him; it was creating 
and destroying itself again and again, every few minutes. He 
typed in 0. When the mathematical substructure had been 
completely repaired, Hartstein would catch the universe just 
after a creation and then synchronize time-flows. But that 
was a long time away. 

Another directive appeared on the screen: The probability 
that you will be able to complete the reorganization of basic 
mathematics now stands at 0.004%. Edit? 

Hartstein typed in 99.9%, then erased the probability. He 
replaced it with 100%. Might as well make it easy for 
myself, he thought. He was happy to learn that this console 
enabled him to do so much of the work so simply. He 
experimented some more. He entered The probability that 
there is a telephone on this desk is 100%. Instantly, as if by 
magic, the laws of chance caused a telephone to appear on 
the desk. Hartstein picked up the receiver and heard a dial 
tone. He laughed softly and hung up the phone. 

There was a knock on the outer door, the one leading to 
the lobby. Company, said Sergeant Brannick. He stood up. 

I wonder who. Must be somebody else finding his way out 
of between-time. 

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Brannick went to the door and opened it. The Commander 
burst past him and came wildly into the reception area. I 
know where this is, he cried. I know this place. He tried to 
go through the inner door, but Hartstein jumped up and 
blocked his way. 

Don't let him get in there, Captain, shouted Brannick. 
He'll just erase all the values and wipe out the universe that 
way. 

You can't stop me, said the Commander. His voice was 
like a ravenous beast. His hair was disheveled and his usually 
calm expression was manic and fierce. Brannick slipped his 
arms around the Commander in a full nelson, and the two 
men wrestled each other to the floor. Neither spoke. Hartstein 
stood and watched, knowing that this was indeed the final 
battle, that this was the ultimate struggle between the 
Agency and the Temporary Underground, between 
totalitarianism and anarchy, between eternal torment and the 
illusory peace of death. If Brannick won the battle, he was at 
liberty to recreate the world with an everlasting tyranny of 
the Agency; if the Commander won, he could just wash the 
universe clean of itself. Hartstein could help neither man, 
neither cause; that was what Jesus had tried to tell him so 
long ago. Months earlier, Hartstein would have been 
paralyzed with indecision. Now he knew just what he had to 
do. 

The probability that Sergeant Brannick and the 
Commander are conducting their fight in this reception area is 
only 0.000001%. The probability that the fight is happening 
in the lobby beyond the outer door is 99.999999%. The two 

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men vanished. Hartstein went to the outer door and looked 
out. Brannick and the Commander stood locked together, 
sweating and grappling and groaning in their exertion, neither 
able to make the other give an inch of ground, neither willing 
to let the other gain even a modest advantage. Hartstein 
watched in fascination for many minutes. It was a mythic 
scene, a struggle worthy of ancient gods and heroes. It was 
Thor against Loki, Ormazd against Ahriman, Osiris against 
Set, although Hartstein couldn't have said which of the two 
men was good and which evil. On and on they would wrestle 
while the universe ticked calmly along, while the blazing ships 
of the galaxies careered upon the face of the Deep. Perhaps 
one or the other would eventually achieve victory. Perhaps 
through strength or guile or good fortune Brannick or the 
Commander would toss his opponent aside; then nothing 
would stand between him and the sanctity of the universe but 
two thin doors and Captain Hartstein. 

All right, called Hartstein in a strong voice, I'll give you 
guys one last chance to learn to live together in peace and 
harmony. He glanced grimly at each of them in turn. They 
ignored him. He turned his back on them then, shut the outer 
door behind him, and sat down at the desk. At the computer 
terminal he typed, The probability that Pamari will come 
through the outer door carrying two large roast beef 
sandwiches and two bottles of beer is 100%. A moment later, 
the most interesting woman in the world came in. All 
Hartstein could see were her beautiful eyes and her shy 
smile. She joined him at the desk, and he forgot all about the 
sandwiches. 

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After a while Hartstein remembered where he was and 
what was happening in the lobby. He typed, The probability 
that there is a fully charged static pistol on this desk is 100%. 
The gun appeared; Hartstein picked it up and examined it, 
then put it down again. If anyone else ever came through 
that door, Hartstein was going to blast him to atoms. 
Meanwhile, Captain Hartstein, the one-man Time Patrol, and 
his lovely Pamari settled down comfortably to wait. 

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