Tedor clenched his fists, then calmed himself with an effort. "Because you had to visit Fornswitthe, he may be dead now." "Really! It wasn't too hard to find his apartment, though why you Agents change your location every week is beyond me." "Forget it," Tedor said. They had finally reached the last ramp, where pedestrian traffic was thinner. With Dorlup still shouting below him, Tedor began to sprint. He bowled over a middle-aged man but did not stop to apologize. Then he reached the surface of the green-tinted bubble and the starlight outside. He hailed a copter cab, gave the pilot Fornswitthe's current suburban address and was whisked aloft into the crowded local lanes. * * * * * He found Fornswitthe dying on the floor of his study, a hole draining the life from his chest. The lights were on, the windows opened, a brisk night breeze blowing the curtains into the room. Fornswitthe opened glassy eyes and tried to say something. He was so young. So ridiculously young to be an Agent--even an Apprentice. A dying Agent, now, twenty-two years old. Tedor propped a pillow under Fornswitthe's head, tried to staunch the flow of blood although he knew it was useless. Mechanically, he activated the transmitter buried in his palate, called Agent headquarters for help. On the desk, a spool sat oddly askew in Fornswitthe's thinkwriter. Tedor switched it on, listened. "In 1955. Tedor believes the year a crucial one because...." A fresh spool, barely started, and as useless to Tedor as it had been to Fornswitthe's assailants. There were no other spools. Tedor heard a rustling behind him, close at hand. He started to turn when something plummeted down heavily and exploded against the side of his head. He staggered, began to fall. He knew he was fainting, struggling against the waves of vertigo long enough to turn completely around. A woman stood there. She held what was left of a shattered vase in her hand, preparing to strike again. Tedor tried to reach her and managed a futile wave of his hand which told her clearly a second blow was hardly necessary. As Tedor fell, the woman's face etched itself into his memory. It spun into giddy unconsciousness with him and his last thought was that he would never forget it. * * * * * Mulid Ruscar wore a modern robe over his quaint 18th century sleeping gown. His sandals could have been ancient Greek. The cigarette he smoked probably originated in the 20th century, clearly the smokingest of all centuries. His sleepy scowl had a way of ignoring the centuries. "Tedor, so it's you. I thought you'd started your report." Ruscar, a tall, dignified man who fifteen years before might have been a solidio idol, snapped on the overhead lights. "You look tired, Tedor. I know when my men need a rest." "Fornswitthe's dead," Tedor said, then told Ruscar what had happened. "So," he finished, "I came to, called the police and rushed straight here."