A matter of time

'I see.' The whole thing hung on the impression they had made tonight.

'There're some personal questions I'm supposed to ask. If you think the answers aren't any of my business, just say so.'

Yeah, Cash thought. And Annie can kiss her pet project good-bye. 'Go ahead.'

'You lost a son in Vietnam?'

'Missing in Action,' Annie replied. For her, and thousands like her, the distinction between KIA and MIA was critical.

'I see. Thank you.' Strangefellow smiled thinly. 'I'm trying to determine if there's any resentment of the Vietnamese because of your loss.”

'No sir,' Annie said.

Damned right there is, Cash thought. 'Maybe a little,' he confessed. 'You can't help thinking some strange things sometimes. Especially what if this or that had happened differently. You don't have to worry about us taking it out on Tran, though. We're not that petty.'

'And your daughter-in-law?'

'I can't speak for her. I think she's mostly mad at the government, though. Kissinger especially.'

'Friends of the family?'

'We don't move in a large circle. There'd be more curiosity than anything.'

'Mrs. Cash?'

'I guess they're mostly the sort who'd try to make them feel wanted.'

'Good enough. I think that's all for this time.' He began assembling the few papers he had brought.

'That's all there is to it?' Annie demanded.

'For tonight. There'll be paperwork if the Board gives us the go-ahead. I don't foresee any difficulties there, though.'

'Oh. I see.' Annie always felt more secure when bulwarked by paperwork.

'Thanks for the tea. And I'm sorry I took up your evening.'

Norm glanced at the clock. The man had been there less than a half hour. Amazing. He walked Strangefellow to the door, said good night.

'I should've expected it,' Annie grumbled when he returned.

'What's that?'

'That they'd send a black man. Or someone different.'

'Well, it don't matter now. I think we got through all right. It kept me from worrying about O'Brien and Miss Groloch for awhile, anyway.'

He switched on the TV, but mostly thought the thoughts he wanted to avoid till the ten o'clock news came on.

That was the same old noise. Two more of the people he was supposed to protect had gotten themselves killed. It seemed like the department was always too busy picking up the bodies to indulge in any prevention.

Next day, long before his evening escape rolled round, he began wondering if he should not just spend the rest of his life locked in his bathroom.

VIII. On the X Axis;

Prague, 26 August 2058;

Agency for State Security,

Que Costodi Custodes?

'Thought you should know, sir.' Sergeant Helfrich's voice sounded tinny, crackled. His picture kept twisting away into a dark, slanting line.

'We'll be right up.' Colonel Neulist severed the connection, glared down at the page for his stamp album that he had been hand-lettering. He had smeared the black ink in a little feather that obscured several letters. 'Damned phones. Even the agency can't get ones that work.'

'Yes sir,' his aide, Lieutenant Dunajcik, responded, thinking the quality of service at home was far worse. At least here in the agency building one had reliable sound.

'That was Helfrich. Good man. He's been with me since the Uprising.' Neulist's fingers showed none of his rage as he used a white-out solution to conceal the smear.

'Yes sir.' The lieutenant had been twelve the summer rebellion had swept through Central Europe like the fury of an avenging god. Like the fury of a god betrayed, Dunajcik thought. The People, the Party intoned reverently in every statement. Who were these People being deified? Certainly not those who had thought their last hope was to take up arms against Party and State.

Neulist held up a stamp with a pair of tongs. He peered at it this way and that, with the wonder of a child examining a butterfly. 'Look at it, Anton. A work of art. The engraving… As fine as any banknote.'

The lieutenant could not begin to understand his boss's love affair with the little bits of paper. There were as many stamp albums and medical journals on the disorganized shelves as there were accepted agency materials. Albums and catalogs always lay open on the colonel's desk. 'Yes sir.'

Dunajcik had been with the agency three years, mostly in Neulist's cluttered office. The man often made him wish the rebels had succeeded.

As he often did, the colonel skipped tracks without warning, shifting emotions as he did. 'Let's get moving. The