"The non-temps say this is a dangerous trend. They further maintain it is our own fault. We provide no real culture of our own, no sense of belonging. We gear everything to the past ages, converting our own world to a sort of administration center and nothing more. We work in the past, receive our raw materials in the past; our art forms more and more are concerned with other times, other places. We do nothing to encourage living in our own century." * * * * * Tedor frowned. "In a way, it's hard to argue with that." "Precisely. They're leaving out one important fact, however: ours is a civilization which exists not along the usual spatial lines but a civilization which exists in time. That is a whole new concept, Tedor--something unique in the history of the world. If, for example, our ancestors had found life and conditions capable of supporting life on the planets of this solar system, we doubtless would have spread out to the planets and so geared our culture in that direction. No one would have complained. But the planets are sterile, and while we could mine them for minerals, the transportation cost is prohibitive. Instead, we have turned in an entirely new--and unexpected--direction. "If you searched every inch of the Earth today from Baffin Island to the Antarctic continent, you would find no natural deposits of coal and oil. Silver is almost gone. Gold has vanished. The list is much larger, but you get the idea. With space travel fruitless, time alone can keep mankind going. If that is an evil, then so is the act of the first caveman who crawled from his cave to discover fire. "Naturally, one doesn't steer civilization in a completely new direction and achieve perfection overnight. Perhaps we are attacking the problem incorrectly. The non-temps think so." "Do you?" Tedor demanded. The Director's eyes studied his. "That doesn't enter into it. We are interested in the non-temps because they would do away with the Eradrome and everything it stands for. This so-called monopolist of despotism is your problem. Ah, here we are." The young man had returned with a small card in his hand. The Director read it and frowned. "I don't know how much good this information will be, Mr. Barwan. It seems Laniq Hadrien went into prehistoric times, exact destination uncertain." "Alone?" Tedor asked. "As far as we can tell, alone." Tedor stood up. "Thanks a lot. At least I've got a lead." "Good luck." They shook hands and Tedor retraced his steps through the pavilion. He was already thinking in terms of the preparations for departure his trip would necessitate, but he couldn't get his mind off Fornswitthe's murder. Somewhere, some_when_, an unseen puppeteer held all the strings, playing them craftily but keeping the curtain of his little stage tightly closed. Little stage? Tedor shrugged, remembering Domique Hadrien's wild contention. Perhaps all of time waited beyond its dark footlights.