them on the coast path; the flying machine — telihop—… helit—… helicopter, that was it — that hovered to their left over the sea; the precipitous drop over the edge of the cliffs next to them, without any form of agrav for public safety… why, he just had to wander some twenty feet off course and he would fall horribly to his death on the rocks below.
‘Look at this!’ Mr Daiho had, indeed, stopped at the pillar and was waiting for them to catch up. It was twice his height and four-sided, and it sat on a stone base by the edge of the cliff. ‘I brought you two here for a reason.’
They looked politely at the pillar. The escort and the helicopter had both stopped as well, still keeping their relative distances. There was a plaque on each side of the pillar, engraved metal lettering which Jontan couldn’t read.
‘We were all born in the Home Time,’ Mr Daiho said, ‘and we’re used to being able to symb any item of information from any part of the world. Can you imagine a world where that isn’t possible?’
‘But our world was without anything like that for thousands of years,’ Mr Daiho went on. ‘At the end of the century before this one the bygoners finally got the hang of global networking and they owed it all to a man named Marconi, who arranged for the first radio signal to be sent across the Atlantic ocean to Newfoundland.’ They both looked blank. ‘Designated wilderness area north of Appalachia,’ he said. He pointed out to sea. ‘Keep going west, and you’ll get there eventually. The signal was sent from this point. Remember, no satellites in those days. No cabling. No signal boosters every ten feet. This was literally just an electromagnetic wave, no words, no images, no text. It went up into the atmosphere, and it bounced off the ionosphere, and it came down to earth two thousand miles away. It was sent and received by machinery that weighed a ton and was powered by generators which burnt fossil fuel. And it was a technical triumph, an unprecedented application of technology, every bit as significant as Morbern’s work or the work we’re doing here. I thought you should see this because it’s part of the heritage of every human being who has lived since.’
He looked fondly at the monument for a while, then reached out to touch it. He stood in silent reverie for a moment longer while the journeymen shuffled their feet, then turned back the way they had come. ‘Back we go,’ he said. He threw a glance at the escort and the helicopter. ‘We don’t want to inconvenience our hosts, do we?’ He set off back down the cliff path without a backwards glance. Jontan and Sarai looked at each other, then turned to follow.
The path dipped down into a sandy bay and rose up on the other side. The white bulk of the hotel stood at the end of it, at the top of the cliff. As they started on the downward leg to the beach, Jontan finally grew tired of the fact that his elbow was constantly rubbing Sarai’s as they walked, so he pulled his hand from his pocket and took hold of hers. She seemed surprised but then she smiled at him and they continued walking like that in silence, while suddenly the day seemed less grey than before.
Over the tinkle of glasses, the gentle background violins and the soft hum of chatting, laughing voices there was something else. Phenuel Scott sneaked a glimpse past the guard who stood at the entrance of the alcove and took in his fellow diners.
Yes, there was something else, and that something was power. These bygoners were the patricians of the day. There was a casual authority about them all, shown in the calm way they could deal with the waiters that fussed and served around them. It showed in the sheer lack of ostentation: at this point in the twenty-first century, flummery had gone out of fashion and both sexes wore variations on the theme of dinner jackets. No one here had to impress or flaunt themselves. These people were the rulers, and Scott felt that he had come home.
‘Mr Scott?’ Two men had come into the alcove and the lead one fairly reeked of power. Scott recognized him from his pictures. A square, broad-shouldered man, holding out his hand. ‘Matthew Carradine. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’
He turned briefly to the man at his side — the same height but managing to look smaller, nondescript — and murmured something. The other nodded and withdrew to a nearby table while Carradine turned his attention to his guest.
A waiter materialized to pull Carradine’s chair out for him and one of the richest men on Earth, whose corporation would soon dominate half of what the bygoners called the western world, sat down opposite Scott.
‘And how was the flight from Cornwall?’ Carradine said.
‘Very pleasant,’ said Scott. ‘A bit longer than I’m used to.’ A Home Time taxi could have done the trip from Cornwall to Paris in a couple of minutes, far more quietly and in a lot more comfort.
‘I’m sorry.’ Carradine gestured for the crew of waiters lurking in the background to begin. One of them poured the drinks, others laid out cutlery and plates and served the aperitifs. Carradine raised his glass. ‘To you and your work, Mr Scott, whatever that is.’
Scott returned the toast and, since Carradine was so openly appraising him, trying to assess him, he returned the favour.
‘We must seem very primitive,’ Carradine said, eyebrow raised and a slight smile on his face.
‘BioCarr? The height of sophistication for this time,’ said Scott.
Carradine seemed to sense he was being very gently mocked. ‘We’re very proud of what we’ve accomplished but there’s still a lot of work to be done,’ he said.
Scott looked up at the ceiling, hamming the look of concentration on his face. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Phase One — take the governments of the western world out of the world economy and create your own. An amazing application of economics and information technology. Of course, it will ruin several economies of countries not in the club, but they will only have to apply for entry.’
Carradine’s smile was more fixed. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Ah-hum. Work still to be done,’ Scott said. ‘If I remember correctly, your present strategy is outlined in the document
‘You know you did.’ Carradine dabbed his napkin to his lips. ‘That’s top secret. I suppose you saw it in a museum somewhere?’
‘Something like that.’ Scott kept his gaze steady. Carradine would know the importance of powerplay. He would understand what was going on.
Sure enough, Carradine was half smiling back, and with genuine amusement. ‘This is fascinating,’ he said. ‘You know the full history of BioCarr before it’s even happened. You know if the next phase will work. You know how long BioCarr will last. You probably know when and how I die.’
‘Not how, but otherwise, all of the above,’ Scott said.
‘And you’re not going to tell me.’
‘It would make no difference if I did, but no, I’m not.’
‘Your emissary did lay down a few conditions,’ Carradine said, thoughtful. ‘If we lay one hand on you — for example to torture the information I want out of you, though we’d use something far more sophisticated and reliable — you call down legions of angels to smite us. You probably could. On the other hand, it could be bluff. I do get the feeling your Home Time doesn’t know you’re here.’
‘I’m sure you have the need-to-know principle in this century too,’ Scott said calmly, and Carradine leaned back in his seat and shouted with laughter. Any hint of tension evaporated.
‘Mr Scott, we understand each other perfectly. You’ve paid us, we provide a service, we don’t have to understand or like it. Pure capitalism.’
The first course arrived; bowls containing a brown, translucent liquid with a fragrance that was to die for.
‘Beef consomme,’ Carradine said. ‘I took the liberty of ordering in advance because I wasn’t sure how familiar you would be with our menus.’
‘Thank you,’ Scott said, and cautiously dipped his spoon in. He was an instant convert to bygoner cuisine after just a few drops on his tongue. The flavour was suspended with such delicacy that he felt the liquid in the bowl
