Noel jumped aboard, and the doors glided closed behind him. Huffing in relief, he wiped the gloss of perspiration and blood from his forehead and shifted position so the scanner beam could read his security badge. A chime marked registration of his identity. The lift started up. It would stop automatically at his floor. He dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow with a wince. It would not stop bleeding, and it had begun to hurt.
“You should start earlier, man,” said the youth who had held the doors for him. The youth’s voice was soft and helpful. “Try a time monitor. Cheap at twenty-five creds, you know? Then you always get up on time. Guaranteed not to let you run late.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Noel shortly and glanced away to stop the conversation. He would rather be deaf, blind, and senile than have any Life-design implants. There were chips to put you to sleep, chips to get you up, chips to boost your memory, chips to keep you from getting drunk, chips to make you feel drunk without suffering physical side effects, chips to arouse your passions, chips to depress your passions, chips to manipulate and control you just about any damned way you wanted. Life by design was not for him, not in a million years.
The lift stopped at the fifth floor, and he stepped off alone, veering right toward the security lock. A beam scanned him, registered clearance, and opened the first set of doors. He passed through the entire lock system quickly, but it wasn’t quickly enough to offset his gnawing sense of urgency.
He’d wanted to be the first one in this morning. He’d wanted to get at the new assignment list before anyone else. For seven months there had been a hiatus in all time travel while the bugs were worked out of the new LOCs. Noel had hated every boring, idle minute of it. He hated the increasing softness of the twenty-sixth century, with its technology that babied mankind into becoming a race of increasingly helpless morons. The gulf between the technocrats and the laborers-who droned their way through their jobs, then went home and fantasized in the sensory-rich worlds provided for them-grew wider all the time.
Back in the twentieth century, men had worried that their future meant being controlled by a vast, impersonal government. Instead, men had become controlled by their own dream states.
“The ultimate vegetable,” muttered Noel aloud.
“What’s that?” said a voice from behind him. “Talking to yourself? That’s a sure sign of-”
Noel flung up his hand without bothering to look over his shoulder. “Don’t say it!”
“-a worn head chip,” said the voice cheerfully.
Noel sighed in mock exasperation and swung around to confront his best friend. “Only you could get away with old jokes this early in the morning.”
Trojan Heitz, a burly giant with a head of frizzy red hair and a full beard, grinned broadly. Like Noel, he was dressed in conservative street clothes: trousers and a high-throated jacket in soft blue knit. His security badge provided the only ornamentation.
As always, Trojan looked sloppy and unkempt in modern clothing. The tailoring line was wrong for him. But put him in a Tartan kilt, wide leather belt with an axe or short sword hanging from it, and sandals laced to his hairy knees, and his rugged, muscular build looked absolutely right.
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “Or is that something I’m not supposed to notice?”
“It’s nothing,” said Noel quickly. Dabbing again at the cut, he looked at his bloodstained fingers. “The bleeding’s slowed down. I’ll swing by the infirmary later.”
“In the meantime you’re dripping on the floor.”
Noel glanced down, but there weren’t any splatters of crimson on the white, polished floor.
Trojan chuckled.
“Very funny,” said Noel.
They started down the hall together.
“You’re seriously late,” Trojan said. “Want coffee?”
Noel swore to himself. “I missed the whole meeting?”
“Every last word.” Trojan sipped from his cup. “Rugle was at her boring best. Practically recited the whole time traveler’s creed to us. Gave us a list of admonitions and a pep talk that put Bruthe to sleep. Treated us like raw recruits.” Trojan snorted. “As though we’d forget anything in seven months. The only exciting part of the meeting was the fact that old Tchielskov didn’t show. He hasn’t missed a meeting in ten years.”
Noel stood frozen, not listening to Trojan, aware instead of his heart thumping loud and hard against his rib cage. “How many assignments?”
Trojan sniffed the bottom of his cup as though it had something growing in it. “Promised us eight at the last meeting.”
“I know that.” Noel could have throttled him. He knew Trojan was enjoying this. But if he didn’t go along with the baiting, Trojan wouldn’t tell him anything. “We already figured out that the whole advanced team wouldn’t travel this time.”
“Yep.” Trojan’s gaze came up slowly to meet Noel’s. His blue eyes twinkled. “Four assignments.”
“Half! Only half? They are being cautious.”
“Can’t overload the time stream-”
“Bunk!” said Noel forcefully. He saw an official coming toward them and shifted to one side of the corridor to keep his bloody face averted. “The new LOCs are supposed to handle that little-”
“Gossiping in corridors?” said the official snidely. “What’s your rank and grade?”
Officials were always poking their noses about, trying to pretend that they understood a fraction of the research being conducted within the Time Institute, and feeling justified in checking on how they spent taxpayers’ money.
Noel had little use for officials. Trying to mask his attitude, however, he faced the woman and replied, “Security grade two. Rank, historian.”
“Same,” said Trojan.
“Oh,” said the official with a blink. “You’re travelers.”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” she said, impressed but trying not to show it. “Uh, why are you bleeding? Were you in this morning’s riots?”
“Momentarily,” said Noel. He caught Trojan’s eye on him and scowled. “I missed the last shuttle flight over Lake Michigan and had to take-”
“Never mind,” said Trojan. “I can imagine the sordid details. You saw a defenseless woman and child struggling against anarchists and you just had to step in.”
“Well-”
Trojan held up his hand. “Such modesty. No doubt when you pulled her to safety, the child clinging to your shoulder, she sobbed out her gratitude on her knees while the child lifted your credit card. Am I right?”
Noel couldn’t meet his eyes. “You’re right.”
“Disgraceful,” said the official. “But how typical of the lower orders. Well, carry on.”
She walked on toward the security lock. Noel glared after her, making faces until Trojan’s massive hand closed on his shoulder and pushed him in the opposite direction.
“Don’t say it,” he warned Noel. “Don’t say anything.”
As soon as the official stepped into the lock, out of hearing, Noel hooted loudly. “Did you hear her? Carry on. As though she has any idea of what we’re trying to do here. She even believed I met a kid pickpocket this morning. You could tell her anything about the so-called oppressed rabble, and she’d believe it. I’ll bet she’s never seen anyone below a grade three rank. These official parasites are-”
“Be serious,” said Trojan in rebuke. “Did you play the knight errant?”
Noel snorted. “Not my period of history. You’re the chivalrous one, remember? It was just a basic traffic riot, started by some anarchist punks for general reasons. I caught a piece of brick in the face.”
“Oh, very heroic,” said Trojan.
Noel put his hand over his heart and bowed sardonically. That started his cut bleeding again. He swore.
“Blame yourself for it,” said Trojan. “If you must live on the wrong side of town-”
“Drop it,” said Noel. “We’re not all independently wealthy like you and the parasite.”
Trojan frowned. “Don’t call her that. She’s a new representative. Came in for the meeting. And she’s pro- Institute, which is more than can be said for the last one who came by.”
“Who, the anarchist?”
“Don’t say that,” said Trojan, glancing overhead. “Your mouth is going to get you chopped one day.”
