He shrugged his shoulders. "They probably felt that the few years of extra life were worth it. Well, into what period do you want to go and what would you do there?" "I do not understand the paradoxes," Donovan said, "What if I chose to build gravity-deflectors in Ancient Rome?" "It would be impossible because there were no such manufacturers then. It would mean that you were either promptly killed by a C.D. agent who recognized the anachronistic attempt, or you had changed your mind." "But if I can choose any period, it means that I can alter history at will--which presumes that the present can also be changed." "That is what the Komitet believes, and that is why the C.D. is so ruthless and brutal with unlicensed time travellers. The real answer is that in the final analysis your decision to choose a certain time period is already made, and the things you will do are already determined. Free will is an illusion; it is synonymous with incomplete perception." "Then send me into the 20th century. As an engineer I would be able to make some sort of living there." "Dangerous. Don't practice your profession. Study some field which is completely alien to you so that should you come across a C.D. agent he would not recognize the work of a 25th century man." "You mean like an artist or a writer?" "Why not?" Donovan laughed. "I've never held a paint brush or written more than a one-page letter, but why not? Unloose the cyclic band, Blascomb; set me loose in the 20th century, and give my regards to the C.D.!" * * * * * In the dimly lighted garret above the tavern, Donovan stood before his easel. His face was no longer lined, for the past twenty-five years had made him a much younger man. He had taken Blascomb's advice and had studied a field completely alien to him. In his own time, the 25th century, his paintings would have been considered laughably amateurish, but for 1926 they were infinitely superior to anything produced by 20th century artists. "Why can't they _see_?" he asked his agent angrily, when his third show passed without the sale of a single painting. "I can see them," the agent said, standing in front of a still-life abstraction with flashes of color, "but your way of working is too far advanced for our time. Believe me, a few hundred years from now your paintings will be regarded as the work of a great genius." "In the meantime, I starve." "I can help you." Donovan threw down the paint brushes. "No. No. There's no use being ahead of one's time. I can't make a living as an artist. I may as well go back to digging ditches." "Maybe you can work part-time and paint at night. What did you do before you started painting?" He hesitated, but what was there to be afraid of? "I--I was an engineer." "I can get you a job with a construction company." "No. No! I want nothing whatever to do with engineering! Nothing!"