Timeline

'I am about to show you,' he said, 'our plans for cultural tourism sites around the world. I will concentrate on one in France, but we have many others, as well. In every case, we turn over the site to the government of that country. But we own the surrounding territory, which means we will own the hotels and restaurants and shops, the entire apparatus of tourism. To say nothing of the books and films and guides and costumes and toys and all the rest. Tourists will spend ten dollars to get into the site. But they'll spend five hundred dollars in living expenses outside it. All that will be controlled by us.' He smiled. 'To make sure that it is executed tastefully, of course.'

A graph came up behind him.

'We estimate that each site will generate in excess of two billion dollars a year, including merchandising. We estimate that total company revenues will exceed one hundred billion dollars annually by the second decade of the coming century. That is one reason for making your commitment to us.

'The other reason is more important. Under the guise of tourism, we are in effect building an intellectual brand name. Such brand names now exist for software, for example. But none exist for history. And yet history is the most powerful intellectual tool society possesses. Let us be clear. History is not a dispassionate record of dead events. Nor is it a playground for scholars to indulge their trivial disputes.

'The purpose of history is to explain the present - to say why the world around us is the way it is. History tells us what is important in our world, and how it came to be. It tells us why the things we value are the things we should value. And it tells us what is to be ignored, or discarded. That is true power - profound power. The power to define a whole society.

'The future lies in the past - in whoever controls the past. Such control has never before been possible. Now, it is. We at ITC want to assist our clients in the shaping of the world in which we all live and work and consume. And in doing so, I believe we will have your full and wholehearted support.'

There was no applause, just stunned silence. That was the way it always was. It took them a while to realize what he was saying. 'Thanks for your attention,' Doniger said, and strode off the stage.

'This better be good,' Doniger said. 'I don't like to cut a session like that short.'

'It's important,' Gordon said. They were walking down the corridor, toward the machine room.

'They're back?'

'Yes. We got the shields working, and three of them are back.'

'When?'

'About fifteen minutes ago.'

'And?'

'They've been through a lot. One of them is pretty badly injured and will need hospitalization. The other two are okay.'

'So? What's the problem?'

They went through a door.

'They want to know,' Gordon said, 'why they weren't told ITC's plans.'

'Because it's none of their business,' Doniger said.

'They risked their lives-'

'They volunteered.'

'But they-'

'Oh, fuck them,' Doniger said. 'What is all this sudden concern? Who cares? They're a bunch of historians - they're all going to be out of a job, anyway, unless they work for me.'

Gordon didn't answer. He was looking over Doniger's shoulder. Doniger slowly turned.

Johnston was standing there, and the girl, who now had her hair hacked short, and one of the men. They were dirty, ragged and covered in blood. They were standing by a video monitor, which showed the auditorium. The executives were now leaving the auditorium, the stage empty. But they must have heard the speech, or at least part of it.

'Well,' Doniger said, suddenly smiling, 'I'm very glad you are back.'

'So are we,' Johnston said. But he didn't smile.

No one spoke.

They just stared at him.

'Oh, fuck you people,' he said. He turned to Gordon. 'Why did you bring me here? Because the historians are upset? This is the future, whether they like it or not. I don't have time for this shit. I have a company to run.'

But Gordon was holding a small gas cylinder in his hand. 'There have been some discussions, Bob,' he said. 'We think someone more moderate should run the company now.'

There was a hiss. Doniger smelled a sharp odor, like ether.

He awoke, hearing a loud humming, and what sounded like the scream of rending metal. He was inside the machine. He saw all of them staring at him from behind the shields. He knew not to step out, not once it had started. He said loudly, 'This isn't going to work,' and then the violet flash of laser light blinded him. The flashes came quickly now. He saw the transit room rise up around him as he shrank - then the hissing foam as he descended toward it - then the final shriek in his ears, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.

Blackness.

He heard the chirp of birds, and he opened his eyes. The first thing he did was look up at the sky. It was clear. So it wasn't Vesuvius. He was in a primeval forest with huge trees. So it wasn't Tokyo. The twittering of the birds was pleasant, the air warm. It wasn't Tunguska.

Where the hell was he?

The machine rested at a slight angle; the forest ground sloped downward to the left. He saw light between the tree trunks, some distance away. He got out of the machine and walked down the slope. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the slow beat of a solitary drum.

He came to a break in the trees and looked down over a fortified town. It was partially obscured by the smoke of many fires, but he recognized it at once. Oh hell, he thought, it's just Castelgard. What was the big deal, forcing him to come here?

It was Gordon, of course, who was behind it. That bullshit line about how the academics were disappointed. It was Gordon. The son of a bitch had been running the technology, and now he thought he could run the company, as well. Gordon had sent him back, thinking he couldn't return.

But Doniger could return, and he would. He wasn't worried, because he carried a ceramic with him at all times. He kept it in a slot in the heel of his shoe. He pulled the shoe off, and looked at the slot. Yes, the white ceramic was there. But it was pushed deep in the slot, and it seemed to be stuck there. When he shook the shoe, it didn't drop out. He tried a twig, poking in the slot, but the twig bent.

Next he tried to pull the heel off the shoe, but he couldn't get enough leverage; the heel stayed on. What he needed was a metal tool of some kind, a wedge or a chisel. He could find one in the town, he felt sure.

He put the shoe back on, stripped off his jacket and tie, and walked down the slope. Looking at the town, he noticed some odd details. He was just above the east gate in the town wall, but the gate was wide open. And there were no soldiers along the walls. That was odd. Whatever year this was, it was obviously a time of peace - there were those times, between English invasions. But still, he'd have thought the gate would always be guarded. He looked at the fields and saw no one tending them. They seemed neglected, with large clumps of weeds.

What the hell? he thought.

He passed through the gate and walked into the town. He saw that the gate was unguarded because the soldier on guard lay dead on his back. Doniger leaned over to look at him. There were bright streaks of blood coming from around his eyes. He must have been struck on the head, he thought.

He turned to the town itself. The smoke, he now saw, was issuing from little pots that had been placed everywhere - on the ground, on walls, or on fence posts. And the town seemed to be deserted, empty in the bright, sunny day. He walked to the market, but nobody was there. He heard the sound of monks chanting; they were coming toward him. And he heard the drum.

He felt a chill.

A dozen monks, all dressed in black, rounded the corner in a kind of procession, chanting. Half of them were stripped to the waist, lashing themselves with leather whips studded with bits of metal. Their shoulders and backs were bleeding freely.

Flagellants.

That was what they were, flagellants. Doniger gave a low moan and backed away from the monks, who