the rendezvous point. The closer he got to his destination, the more Tom's arguments on the improbability of time travel weighed on his mind. By the time his flight landed, Rick almost expected disappointment. Still, he could not fig-ure out what anyone had to gain by fooling him. Only that slim rationale sustained his hope that the trip was not point-less.
The man who met Rick when he disembarked did not iden-tify himself. He drove Rick in silence to the outskirts of Chicago. 'Here's your stop,' the stranger finally said. As the car drove away, Rick found himself outside a small, one-story brick building in an industrial zone. The building and the surrounding area looked run-down and late- twentieth-century. A small sign taped to the inside of the glass door to the building read p.g. enterprises. It seemed an unlikely site for the greatest scientific breakthrough of the twenty-first century.
The door was locked, and Rick had to pound on it loudly before anyone came to open it. Eventually, a burly, dark- haired man appeared. He looked Rick over thoroughly before entering a code on a keypad next to the door. The bolts snapped open.
'You Clements?' the man asked.
'Yes,' replied Rick.
'I'm Nick,' said the man without offering his hand, 'I work for Mr. Green. Come on.' He turned and walked down a corridor. As Rick followed him, he heard the bolts in the door automatically snap shut. Nick led him to a door and opened it. 'In here.' Rick passed through the doorway; then Nick, who had remained in the corridor, closed the door. Rick stood and glanced at the three other occupants of the room.
A dark, tall black man in his late thirties smiled sympa-thetically at Rick's confusion. 'I see you've met the ever- charming Nick Zhukovsky,' he said. 'I'm Joe Burns, the pilot for this little junket.' Rick shook his hand. 'I'm Rick Clements.'
'Our naturalist,' said Joe. 'So you're the guy I'll fly around when we get downwhen.'
'Downwind?'
Joe laughed. 'That's
'You've done it before?' asked Rick. 'What's it like?'
'Ever fall down? Like from a ladder or something?'
'I walked off a twelve-foot ledge one night.'
'Well, remember the instant you started to fall? Stretch that feeling out over an eternity and you have time travel.'
'It doesn't sound pleasant,' said Rick.
'It isn't,' said Joe with a grin, 'but I guess the trip's worth it.'
'To see living dinosaurs? I'll say!' said Rick.
'An enthusiast,' said Joe wryly. 'Let me introduce the others.' Joe turned to a man in his sixties whose leathery, sun-darkened face contrasted with his blue eyes and white hair. 'James Neville, meet Rick Clements.'
'Pleased to meet you,' said James with an exotic accent that blended British with African. 'As the camp guide, you'll be working for me.'
'James ran a safari camp in the Serengeti Park. He goes back to when the animals were still real,' said Joe.
'No bloody poachers where we're going,' said James with satisfaction. He turned to a short, slightly plump dark- eyed man in his twenties, and said, 'This is Pandit Jahan. Hasn't been downwhen, but he was with me in Uganda. Damned good chef, in or out of the bush.' Pandit smiled modestly at James's praise and shook Rick's hand. James continued, 'We'll run this just like a safari camp. Hear you've done your share of camping.'
'Entire summers,' replied Rick, 'some winter trips, too.'
'Good. Main difference between your camping and a sa-fari is we have guests. They don't rough it. For them, it's a fine hotel, only alfresco. You'll be the camp guide, but you'll pitch in on the other work, too—washing dishes, tending the guests, whatever's required. We're shorthanded. In Uganda, I'd have a staff of twelve for four guests.'
As James detailed Rick's duties, Rick was chagrined to discover how much Ann Smythe had left out. He began to feel he had been conned into becoming a glorified busboy. Yet, already, he sensed it was useless to protest. James did not give the impression of flexibility. Rick considered ap-proaching Peter Green on the matter.
