e elevator was still stationary. Had something gone wrong -- or were they waiting for late arrivals? And then he noticed something so extraordinary that at first he refused to believe the evidence of his eyes. The panorama had expanded, as if he had already risen hundreds of kilometres! Even as he watched, he noticed new features of the planet below creeping into the frame of the window. Then Poole laughed, as the obvious explanation occurred to him. 'You could have fooled me, Indra! I thought this was real -- not a video projection!' Indra looked back at him with a quizzical smile. 'Think again, Frank. We started to move about ten minutes ago. By now we must be climbing at, oh -- at least a thousand kilometres an hour. Though I'm told these elevators can reach a hundred gee at maximum acceleration, we won't touch more than ten, on this short run.' 'That's impossible! Six is the maximum they ever gave me in the centrifuge, and I didn't enjoy weighing half a ton. I know we haven't moved since we stepped inside.' Poole had raised his voice slightly, and suddenly became aware that the other passengers were pretending not to notice. 'I don't understand how it's done, Frank, but it's called an inertial field. Or sometimes a Sharp one -- the "S" stands for a famous Russian scientist, Sakharov -- I don't know who the others were.' Slowly, understanding dawned in Poole's mind -- and also a sense of awe-struck wonder. Here indeed was a 'technology indistinguishable from magic'. 'Some of my friends used to dream of "space drives" -- energy fields that could replace rockets, and allow movement without any feeling of acceleration, Most of us thought they were crazy -- but it seems they were right! I can still hardly believe it... and unless I'm mistaken, we're starting to lose weight.' 'Yes -- it's adjusting to the lunar value. When we step out, you'll feel we're on the Moon. But for goodness' sake, Frank -- forget you're an engineer, and simply enjoy the view.' It was good advice, but even as he watched the whole of Africa, Europe and much of Asia flow into his field of vision, Poole could not tear his mind away from this astonishing revelation. Yet he should not have been wholly surprised: he knew that there had been major breakthroughs in space propulsion systems since his time, but had not realized that they would have such dramatic applications to everyday life -- if that term could be applied to existence in a thirty-six-thousand-kilometre-high skyscraper. And the age of the rocket must have been over, centuries ago. All his knowledge of propellant systems and combustion chambers, ion thrusters and fusion reactors, was totally obsolete. Of course, that no longer mattered -- but he understood the sadness that the skipper of a windjammer must have felt, when sail gave way to steam. His mood changed abruptly, and he could not help smiling, when the robovoice announced, 'Arriving in two minutes. Please make sure that you do not leave any of your personal belongings behind.' How often he had heard that announcement, on some commercial flight? He looked at his watch, and was surprised to see that they had been ascending for less than half an hour So that meant an average speed of at least twenty thousand kilometres an hour, yet they might never have moved. What was even stranger -- for the last ten minutes or more they must actually have been decelerating so rapidly that by rights they should all have been standing on the roof, heads pointing towards Earth! The doors opened silently, and as Poole stepped out he again felt the slight disorientation he had noticed on entering the elevator lounge. This time, however, he knew what it meant: he was moving through the transition zone where the inertial field overlapped with gravity -- at this level, equal to the Moon's. Indra and Danil followed him, walking carefully now at a third of their customary weight, as they went forward to meet the next of the day's wonders. Though the view of the receding Earth had been awesome, even for an astronaut, there was nothing unexpected or surprising about it. But who would have imagined a gigantic chamber, apparently occupying the entire width of the Tower, so that the far wall was more than five kilometres away? Perhaps by this time there were larger enclosed volumes on the Moon and Mars, but this must surely be one of the largest in space itself. They were standing on a viewing platform, fifty metres up on the outer wall, looking across an astonishingly varied panorama. Obviously, an attempt had been made to reproduce a whole range of terrestrial biomes. Immediately beneath them was a group of slender trees which Poole could not at first identify: then he realized that they were oaks, adapted to one-sixth of their normal gravity. What, he wondered, would palm frees look like here? Giant reeds, probably... In the middle-distance there was a small lake, fed by a river that meandered across a grassy plain, then disappeared into something that looked like a single gigantic banyan tree. What was the source of the water? Poole had become aware of a faint drumming sound, and as he swept his gaze along the gently curving wall, he discovered a miniature Niagara, with a perfect rainbow hovering in the spray above it. He could have stood here for hours, admiring the view and still not exhausting all the wonders of this complex and brilliantly contrived simulation of the planet below. As it spread out into new and hostile environments, perhaps the human race felt an ever-increasing need to remember its origins. Of course, even in his own time every city had its parks as -- usually feeble -- reminders of Nature. The same impulse must be acting here, on a much grander scale. Central Park, Africa Tower! 'Let's go down,' said Indra. 'There's so much to see, and I don't come here as often as I'd like.' Followed by the silent but ever-present Danil, who always seemed to know when he was needed but otherwise kept out of the way, they began a leisurely exploration of this oasis in space. Though walking was almost effortless in this low gravity, from time to time they took advantage of a small monorail, and stopped once for refreshments at a cafe´, cunningly concealed in the trunk of a redwood that must have been at least a quarter of a kilometre tall. There were very few other people about -- their fellow passengers had long since disappeared into the landscape -- so it was as if they had all this wonderland to themselves. Everything was so beautifully maintained, presumably by armies of robots, that from time to time Poole was reminded of a visit he had made to Disney World as a small boy. But this was even better: there were no crowds, and indeed very little reminder of the human race and its artefacts. They were admiring a superb collection of orchids, some of enormous size, when Poole had one of the biggest shocks of his life. As they walked past a typical small gardener's shed, the door opened -- and the gardener emerged. Frank Poole had always prided himself on his self-control, and never imagined that as a full-grown adult he would give a cry of pure fright. But like every boy of his generation, he had seen all the 'Jurassic' movies -- and he knew a raptor when he met one eye to eye. 'I'm terribly sorry,' said Indra, with obvious concern. 'I never thought of warning you.' Poole's jangling nerves returned to normal. Of course, there could be no danger, in this perhaps too-well-ordered world: but still...! The dinosaur returned his stare with apparent total disinterest, then doubled back into the shed and emerged again with a rake and a pair of garden shears, which it dropped into a bag hanging over one shoulder. It walked away from them with a bird-like gait, never looking back as it disappeared behind some ten-metre-high sunflowers. 'I should explain,' said Indra contritely. 'We like to use bio-organisms when we can, rather than robots -- I suppose it's carbon chauvinism! Now, there are only a few animals that have any manual dexterity, and we've used them all at one time or another.' 'And here's a mystery that no one's been able to solve. You'd think that enhanced herbivores like orangutans and gorillas would be good at this sort of work. Well, they're not; they don't have the patience for it.' 'Yet carnivores like our friend here are excellent, and easily trained. What's more -- here's another paradox! --after they've been modified they're docile and good-natured. Of course, there's almost a thousand years of genetic engineering behind them, and look what primitive man did to the wolf, merely by trial and error!' Indra laughed and continued: 'You may not believe this, Frank, but they also make good baby-sitters -- children love them! There's a five-hundred-year-old joke: "Would you trust your kids to a dinosaur?" "What -- and risk injuring it?"' Poole joined in the laughter, partly in shame-faced reaction to his own fright. To change the subject, he asked Indra the question that was still worrying him. 'All this,' he said, 'it's wonderful -- but why go to so much trouble, when anyone in the Tower can reach the real thing, just as quickly?' Indra looked at him thoughtfully, weighing her words. 'That's not quite true. It's uncomfortable -- even dangerous -- for anyone who lives above the half-gee level to go down to Earth, even in a hoverchair. So it has to be this --or, as you used to say, Virtual Reality.' (Now I begin to understand, Poole told himself bleakly. That explains Anderson's evasiveness, and all the tests he's been doing to see if I've regained my strength. I've come all the way back from Jupiter, to within two thousand kilometres of Earth -- but I may never again walk on the surface of my home planet. I'm not sure how I will be able to handle this...) 10 Homage to Icarus His depression quickly passed: there was so much to do and see. A thousand lifetimes would not have been enough, and the problem was to choose which of the myriad distractions this age could offer. He tried, not always successfully, to avoid the trivia, and to concentrate on the things that mattered -- notably his education. The Braincap -- and the book-sized player that went with it, inevitably called the Brainbox -- was of enormous value here. He soon had a small library of 'instant knowledge' tablets, each containing all the material needed for a college degree. When he slipped one of these into the Brainbox, and gave it the speed and intensity adjustments that most suited him, there would be a flash of light, followed by a period of unconsciousness that might last as long as an hour. When he awoke, it seemed that new areas of his mind had been opened up, though he only knew they were there when he searched for them. It was almost as if he was the owner of a library who had suddenly discovered shelves of books he did not know he possessed. To a large extent, he was the master of his own time. Out of a sense of duty -- and gratitude -- he acceded to as many requests as he could from scientists, historians, writers and artists working in media that were often incomprehensible to him. He also had countless invitations from other citizens of the four Towers, virtually all of which he was compelled to turn down. Most tempting -- and most hard to resist -- were those that came from the beautiful planet spread out below. 'Of course,' Professor Anderson had told him, 'you'd survive if you went down for short time with the right life-support system, but you wouldn't enjoy it. And it might weaken your neuromuscular system even further. It's never really recovered from that thousand-year sleep.' His other guardian, Indra Wallace, protected him from unnecessary intrusions, and advised him which requests he should accept -- and which he should politely refuse. By himself, he would never understand the socio-political structure of this incredibly complex culture, but he soon gathered that, although in theory all class distinctions had vanished, there were a few thousand super-citizens. George Orwell had been right; some would always be more equal than others. There had been times when, conditioned by his twentyfirst-century experience, Poole had wondered who was paying for all this hospitality -- would he one day be presented with the equivalent of an enormous hotel bill? But Indra had quickly reassured him: he was a unique and priceless museum exhibit, so would never have to worry about such mundane considerations. Anything he wanted -- within reason -- would be made available to him: Poole wondered what the limits were, never imagining that one day he would attempt to discover them. All the most important things in life happen by accident, and he had set his wall display browser on random scan, silent, when a striking image caught his attention. 'Stop scan! Sound up!' he shouted, with quite unnecessary loudness. He recognized the music, but it was a few minutes before he identified it; the fact that his wall was filled with winged humans circling gracefully round each other undoubtedly helped. But Tchaikovsky would have been utterly astonished to see this performance of Swan Lake -- with the dancers actually flying... Poole watched, entranced, for several minutes, until he was fairly confident that this was reality, and not a simulation: even in his own day, one could never be quite certain. Presumably the ballet was being performed in one of the many low-gravity environments -- a very large one, judging by some of the images. It might even be here in Africa Tower. I want to try that, Poole decided. He had never quite forgiven the Space Agency for banning one of his greatest pleasures -- delayed parachute formation jumping -- even though he could see the Agency's point in not wanting to risk a valuable investment. The doctors had been quite unhappy about his earlier hang-gliding accident; fortunately his teenage bones had healed completely. 'Well,' he thought, 'there's no one to stop me now unless it's Prof. Anderson...' To Poole's relief, the physician thought it an excellent idea, and he was also pleased to find that every one of the Towers had its own Aviary, up at the one-tenth-gee level. Within a few days he was being measured for his wings, not in the least like the elegant versions worn by the performers of Swan Lake. Instead of feathers there was a flexible membrane, and when he grasped the hand-holds attached to the supporting ribs, Poole realized that he must look much more like a bat than a bird. However his 'Move over, Dracula!' was completely wasted on his instructor, who was apparently unacquainted with vampires. For his first lessons he was restrained by a light harness, so that he did not move anywhere while he was taught the basic strokes -- and, most important of all, learned control and stability. Like many acquired skills, it was not quite as easy as it looked. He felt ridiculous in this safety-harness -- how could anyone injure themselves at a tenth of a gravity! -- and was glad that he needed only a few lessons; doubtless his astronaut training helped. He was, the Wingmaster told him, the best pupil he had ever taught: but perhaps he said that to all of them. After a dozen free-flights in a chamber forty metres on a side, criss-crossed with various obstacles which he easily avoided, Poole was given the all-clear for his first solo -- and felt nineteen years old again, about to take off in the Flagstaff Aero Club's antique Cessna. The unexciting name 'The Aviary' had not prepared him for the venue of this maiden flight. Though it seemed even more enormous than the space holding the forests and gardens down at the lunar-gee level, it was almost the same size, since it too occupied an entire floor of the gently tapering Tower. A circular void, half a kilometre high and over four kilometres wide, it appeared truly enormous, as there were no features on which the eye could rest. Because the walls were a uniform pale blue, they contributed to the impression of infinite space. Poole had not really believed the Wingmaster's boast, 'You can have any scenery you like', and intended to throw him what he was sure was an impossible challenge. But on this first flight, at the dizzy altitude of fifty metres, there were no visual distractions, Of course, a fall from the equivalent altitude of five metres in the ten-fold greater Earth gravity could break one's neck; however, even minor bruises were unlikely here, as the entire floor was covered with a network of flexible cables The whole chamber was a giant trampoline; one could, thought Poole, have a lot of fun here -- even without wings. With firm, downward strokes, Poole lifted himself into the air. In almost no time, it seemed that he was a hundred metres in the air, and still rising. 'Slow down' said the Wingmaster, 'I can't keep up with you,' Poole straightened out, then attempted a slow roll. He felt light-headed as well as light-bodied (less than ten kilograms!) and wondered if the concentration of oxygen had been increased. This was wonderful -- quite different from zero gravity, as it posed more of a physical challenge. The nearest thing to it was scuba diving: he wished there were birds here, to emulate the equally colourful coral fish who had so often accompanied him over tropical reefs. One by one, the Wingmaster put him through a series of manoeuvres -- rolls, loops, upside-down flying, hovering. Finally he said: 'Nothing more I can teach you. Now let's enjoy the view.' Just for a moment, Poole almost lost control -- as he was probably expected to do. For, without the slightest warning, he was surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and was flying down a narrow pass, only metres from some unpleasantly jagged rocks. Of course, this could not be real: those mountains were as insubstantial as clouds, and he could fly right through them if he wished. Nevertheless, he veered away from the cliff-face (there was an eagle's nest on one of its ledges, holding two eggs which he felt he could touch if he came closer) and headed for more open space. The mountains vanished; suddenly, it was night. And then the stars came out -- not the miserable few thousand in the impoverished skies of Earth, but legions beyond counting. And not only stars, but the spiral whirlpools of distant galaxies, the teeming, close-packed sun-swarms of globular clusters. There was no possible way this could be real, even if he had been magically transported to some world where such skies existed. For those galaxies were receding even as he watched; stars were fading, exploding, being born in stellar nurseries of glowing fire-mist. Every second, a million years must be passing... The overwhelming spectacle disappeared as quickly as it had come: he was back in the empty sky, alone except for his instructor, in the featureless blue cylinder of the Aviary. 'I think that's enough for one day,' said the Wingmaster, hovering a few metres above Poole. 'What scenery would you like, the next time you come here?' Poole did not hesitate. With a smile, he answered the question. 11 Here be Dragons He would never have believed it possible, even with the technology of this day and age. How many terabytes -- petabytes -- was there a large enough word? -- of information must have been accumulated over the centuries, and in what sort of storage medium? Better not think about it, and follow Indra's advice: 'Forget you're an engineer -- and enjoy yourself.' He was certainly enjoying himself now, though his pleasure was mixed with an almost overwhelming sense of nostalgia. For he was flying, or so it seemed, at an altitude of about two kilometres, above the spectacular and unforgotten landscape of his youth. Of course, the perspective was false, since the Aviary was only half a kilometre high, but the illusion was perfect. He circled Meteor Crater, remembering how he had scrambled up its sides during his earlier astronaut training. How incredible that anyone could ever have doubted its origin, and the accuracy of its name! Yet well into the twentieth century, distinguished geologists had argued that it was volcanic: not until the coming of the Space Age was it -- reluctantly -- accepted that all planets were still under continual bombardment. Poole was quite sure that his comfortable cruising speed was nearer twenty than two hundred kilometres an hour, yet he had been allowed to reach Flagstaff in less than fifteen minutes. And there were the whitely-gleaming domes of the Lowell Observatory, which he had visited so often as a boy, and whose friendly staff had undoubtedly been responsible for his choice of career. He had sometimes wondered what his profession might have been, had he not been born in Arizona, near the very spot where the most long-enduring and influential of Martian fantasies had been created. Perhaps it was imagination, but Poole thought he could just see Lowell's unique tomb, close to the great telescope, which had fuelled his dreams. From what year, and what season, had this image been captured? He guessed it had come from the spy satellites which had watched over the world of the early twenty-first century. It could not be much later than his own time, for the layout of the city was just as he remembered. Perhaps if he went low enough he would even see himself... But he knew that was absurd; he had already discovered that this was the nearest he could get. If he flew any closer, the image would start to breakup, revealing its basic pixels. It was better to keep his distance, and not destroy the beautiful illusion. And there -- it was incredible! -- was the little park where he had played with his junior and high-school friends. The City Fathers were always arguing about its maintenance, as the water supply became more and more critical. Well, at least it had survived to this time -- whenever that might be. And then another memory brought tears to his eyes. Along those narrow paths, whenever he could get home from Houston or the Moon, he had walked with his beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback, throwing sticks for him to retrieve, as man and dog had done from time immemorial. Poole had hoped, with all his heart, that Rikki would still be there to greet him when he returned from Jupiter, and had left him in the care of his younger brother Martin. He almost lost control, and sank several metres before regaining stability, as he once more faced the bitter truth that both Rikki and Martin had been dust for centuries. When he could see properly again, he noticed that the dark band of the Grand Canyon was just visible on the far horizon. He was debating whether to head for it -- he was growing a little tired -- when he became aware that he was not alone in the sky. Something else was approaching, and it was certainly not a human flyer. Although it was difficult to judge distances here, it seemed much too large for that. Well, he thought, I'm not particularly surprised to meet a pterodactyl here -- indeed, it's just the sort of thing I'd expect. I hope it's friendly -- or that I can outfly it if it isn't. Oh, no! A pterodactyl was not a bad guess: maybe eight points out of ten. What was approaching him now, with slow flaps of its great leathery wings, was a dragon straight out of Fairyland. And, to complete the picture, there was a beautiful lady riding on its back. At least, Poole assumed she was beautiful. The traditional image was rather spoiled by one trifling detail: much of her face was concealed by a large pair of aviator's goggles that might have come straight from the open cockpit of a World War I biplane. Poole hovered in mid-air, like a swimmer treading water, until the oncoming monster came close enough for him to hear the flapping of its great wings. Even when it was less than twenty metres away, he could not decide whether it was a machine or a bio-construct: probably both. And then he forgot about the dragon, for the rider removed her goggles. The trouble with cliche´s, some philosopher remarked, probably with a yawn, is that they are so boringly true. But 'love at first sight' is never boring. Danil could provide no information, but then Poole had not expected any from him. His ubiquitous escort -- he certainly would not pass muster as a classic valet -- seemed so limited in his functions that Poole sometimes wondered if he was mentally handicapped, unlikely though that seemed. He understood the functioning of all the household appliances, carried out simple orders with speed and efficiency, and knew his way about the Tower. But that was all; it was impossible to have an intelligent conversation with him, and any polite queries about his family were met with a look of blank incomprehension. Poole had even wondered if he too was a bio-robot. Indra, however, gave him the answer he needed right away. 'Oh, you've met the Dragon Lady!' 'Is that what you call her? What's her real name -- and can you get me her Ident? We were hardly in a position to touch palms.' 'Of course -- no problemo.' 'Where did you pick up that?' Indra looked uncharacteristically confused. 'I've no idea -- some old book or movie. Is it a good figure of speech?' 'Not if you're over fifteen.' 'I'll try to remember. Now tell me what happened -- unless you want to make me jealous.' They were now such good friends that they could discuss any subject with perfect frankness. Indeed, they had laughingly lamented their total lack of romantic interest in each other -- though Indra had once commented, 'I guess that if we were both marooned on a desert asteroid, with no hope of rescue, we could come to some arrangement.' 'First, you tell me who she is.' 'Her name's Aurora McAuley; among many other things, she's President of the Society for Creative Anachronisms. And if you thought Draco was impressive, wait until you see some of their other -- ah -- creations. Like Moby Dick -- and a whole zooful of dinosaurs Mother Nature never thought of.' This is too good to be true, thought Poole. I am the biggest anachronism on Planet Earth. 12 Frustration Until now, he had almost forgotten that conversation with the Space Agency psychologist. 'You may be gone from Earth for at least three years. If you like, I can give you a harmless anaphrodisiac implant that will last out the mission. I promise we'll more than make it up, when you get home.' 'No thanks,' Poole had answered, trying to keep his face straight when he continued, 'I think I can handle it.' Nevertheless, he had become suspicious after the third or fourth week -- and so had Dave Bowman. 'I've noticed it too,' Dave said 'I bet those damn doctors put something in our diet...' Whatever that something was -- if indeed it had ever existed -- it was certainly long past its shelf-life. Until now, Poole had been too busy to get involved in any emotional entanglements, and had politely turned down generous offers from several young (and not so young) ladies. He was not sure whether it was his physique or his fame that appealed to them: perhaps it was nothing more than simple curiosity about a man who, for all they knew, might be an ancestor from twenty or thirty generations in the past. To Poole's delight, Mistress McAuley's Ident conveyed the information that she was currently between lovers, and he wasted no further time in contacting her. Within twenty-four hours he was pillion-riding, with his arms enjoyably around her waist. He had also learned why aviator's goggles were a good idea, for Draco was entirely robotic, and could easily cruise at a hundred klicks. Poole doubted if any real dragons had ever attained such speeds. He was not surprised that the ever-changing landscapes below them were straight out of legend. Ali Baba had waved angrily at them, as they overtook his flying carpet, shouting 'Can't you see where you're going!' Yet he must be a long way from Baghdad, because the dreaming spires over which they now circled could only be Oxford. Aurora confirmed his guess as she pointed down: 'That's the pub -- the inn -- where Lewis and Tolkien used to meet their friends, the Inklings. And look at the river -- that boat just coming out from the bridge -- do you see the two little girls and the clergyman in it?' 'Yes,' he shouted back against the gentle sussuration of Draco's slipstream. 'And I suppose one of them is Alice.' Aurora turned and smiled at him over her shoulder: she seemed genuinely delighted. 'Quite correct: she's an accurate replica, based on the Reverend's photos. I was afraid you wouldn't know. So many people stopped reading soon after your time.' Poole felt a glow of satisfaction. I believe I've passed another test, he told himself smugly. Riding on Draco must have been the first. How many more, I wonder? Fighting with broadswords? But there were no more, and the answer to the immemorial 'Your place or mine?' was -- Poole's. The next morning, shaken and mortified, he contacted Professor Anderson. 'Everything was going splendidly,' he lamented, 'when she suddenly became hysterical and pushed me away. I was afraid I'd hurt her somehow --'Then she called the roomlight -- we'd been in darkness -- and jumped out of bed. I guess I was just staring like a fool...' He laughed ruefully. 'She was certainly worth staring at.' 'I'm sure of it. Go on.' 'After a few minutes she relaxed and said something I'll never be able to forget.' Anderson waited patiently for Poole to compose himself. 'She said: "I'm really sorry, Frank. We could have had a good time. But I didn't know that you'd been -- mutilated." The professor looked baffled, but only for a moment. 'Oh -- I understand. I'm sorry too, Frank -- perhaps I should have warned you. In my thirty years of practice, I've only seen half a dozen cases -- all for valid medical reasons, which certainly didn't apply to you...' 'Circumcision made a lot of sense in primitive times -- and even in your century -- as a defence against some unpleasant -- even fatal -- diseases in backward countries with poor hygiene. But otherwise there was absolutely no excuse for it -- and several arguments against, as you've just discovered!' 'I checked the records after I'd examined you the first time, and found that by mid-twenty-first century there had been so many malpractice suits that the American Medical Association had been forced to ban it. The arguments among the contemporary doctors are very entertaining.' 'I'm sure they are,' said Poole morosely. 'In some countries it continued for another century: then some unknown genius coined a slogan -- please excuse the vulgarity -- "God designed us: circumcision is blasphemy". That more or less ended the practice. But if you want, it would be easy to arrange a transplant -- you wouldn't be making medical history, by any means.' 'I don't think it would work. Afraid I'd start laughing every time.' 'That's the spirit -- you're already getting over it.' Somewhat to his surprise, Poole realized that Anderson's prognosis was correct. He even found himself already laughing. 'Now what, Frank?' 'Aurora's "Society for Creative Anachronisms". I'd hoped it would improve my chances. Just my luck to have found one anachronism she doesn't appreciate.' 13 Stranger in a Strange Time Indra was not quite as sympathetic as he had hoped: perhaps, after all, there was some sexual jealousy in their relationship. And -- much more serious -- what they wryly labelled the Dragon Debacle led to their first real argument. It began innocently enough, when Indra complained: 'People are always asking me why I've devoted my life to such a horrible period of history, and it's not much of an answer to say that there were even worse ones.' 'Then why are you interested in my century?' 'Because it marks the transition between barbarism and civilization.' 'Thank you. Just call me Conan.' 'Conan? The only one I know is the man who invented Sherlock Holmes.' 'Never mind -- sorry I interrupted. Of course, we in the so-called developed countries thought we were civilized. At least war wasn't respectable any more, and the United Nations was always doing its best to stop the wars that did break out.' 'Not very successfully: I'd give it about three out of ten. But what we find incredible is the way that people -- right up to the early 2000s! -- calmly accepted behaviour we would consider atrocious. And believed in the most mind-boggled --' 'Boggling.' '- nonsense, which surely any rational person would dismiss out of hand.' 'Examples, please.' 'Well, your really trivial loss started me doing some research, and I was appalled by what I found. Did you know that every year in some countries thousands of little girls were hideously mutilated to preserve their virginity? Many of them died -- but the authorities turned a blind eye.' 'I agree that was terrible -- but what could my government do about it?' 'A great deal -- if it wished. But that would have offended the people who supplied it with oil and bought its weapons, like the landmines that killed and maimed civilians by the thousand.' 'You don't understand, Indra. Often we had no choice: we couldn't reform the whole world. And didn't somebody once say "Politics is the art of the possible"?' 'Quite true -- which is why only second-rate minds go into it. Genius likes to challenge the impossible.' 'Well, I'm glad you have a good supply of genius, so you can put things right.' 'Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? Thanks to our computers, we can run political experiments in cyberspace before trying them out in practice. Lenin was unlucky; he was born a hundred years too soon. Russian communism might have worked -- at least for a while -- if it had had microchips. And had managed to avoid Stalin.' Poole was constantly amazed by Indra's knowledge of his age -- as well as by her ignorance of so much that he took for granted. In a way, he had the reverse problem. Even if he lived the hundred years that had been confidently promised him, he could never learn enough to feel at home. In any conversation, there would always be references he did not understand, and jokes that would go over his head. Worse still, he would always feel on the verge of some "faux pas" -- about to create some social disaster that would embarrass even the best of his new friends... Such as the occasion when he was lunching, fortunately in his own quarters, with Indra and Professor Anderson. The meals that emerged from the autochef were always perfectly acceptable, having been designed to match his physiological requirements. But they were certainly nothing to get excited about, and would have been the despair of a twenty-first-century gourmet. Then, one day, an unusually tasty dish appeared, which brought back vivid memories of the deer-hunts and barbecues of his youth. However, there was something unfamiliar about both flavour and texture, so Poole asked the obvious question. Anderson merely smiled, but for a few seconds Indra looked as if she was about to be sick. Then she recovered and said: 'You tell him -- after we've finished eating.' Now what have I done wrong? Poole asked himself. Half an hour later, with Indra rather pointedly absorbed in a video display at the other end of the room, his knowledge of the Third Millennium made another major advance. 'Corpse-food was on the way out even in your time,' Anderson explained. 'Raising animals to -- ugh -- eat them became economically impossible. I don't know how many acres of land it took to feed one cow, but at least ten humans could survive on the plants it produced. And probably a hundred, with hydroponic techniques. 'But what finished the whole horrible business was not economics -- but disease. It started first with cattle, then spread to other food animals -- a kind of virus, I believe, that affected the brain, and caused a particularly nasty death. Although a cure was eventually found, it was too late to turn back the clock -- and anyway, synthetic foods were now far cheaper, and you could get them in any flavour you liked.' Remembering weeks of satisfying but unexciting meals, Poole had strong reservations about this. For why, he wondered, did he still have wistful dreams of spare-ribs and cordon bleu steaks? Other dreams were far more disturbing, and he was afraid that before long he would have to ask Anderson for medical assistance. Despite everything that was being done to make him feel at home, the strangeness and sheer complexity of this new world were beginning to overwhelm him. During sleep, as if in an unconscious effort to escape, he often reverted to his earlier life: but when he awoke, that only made matters worse. He had travelled across to America Tower and looked down, in reality and not in simulation, on the landscape of his youth -- and it had not been a good idea. With optical aid, when the atmosphere was clear, he'd got so close that he could see individual human beings as they went about their affairs, sometimes along streets that he remembered... And always, at the back of his mind, was the knowledge that down there had once lived everyone he had ever loved, Mother, Father (before he had gone off with that Other Woman), dear Uncle George and Aunt Lil, brother Martin -- and, not least, a succession of dogs, beginning with the warm puppies of his earliest childhood and culminating in Rikki. Above all, there was the memory -- and mystery -- of Helena... It had begun as a casual affair, in the early days of his astrotraining, but had become more and more serious as the years went by. Just before he had left for Jupiter, they had planned to make it permanent when he returned. And if he did not, Helena wished to have his child. He still recalled the blend of solemnity and hilarity with which they had made the necessary arrangements... Now, a thousand years later, despite all his efforts, he had been unable to find if Helena had kept her promise. Just as there were now gaps in his own memory, so there were also in the collective records of Mankind. The worst was that created by the devastating electromagnetic pulse from the 2304 asteroid impact, which had wiped out several per cent of the world's information banks, despite all backups and safety systems. Poole could not help wondering if, among all the exabytes that were irretrievably lost, were the records of his own children: even now, his descendants of the thirtieth generation might be walking the Earth; but he would never know. It helped a little to have discovered that -- unlike Aurora --some ladies of this era did not consider him to be damaged goods. On the contrary: they often found his alteration quite exciting, but this slightly bizarre reaction made it impossible for Poole to establish any close relationship. Nor was he anxious to do so; all that he really needed was the occasional healthy, mindless exercise. Mindless