for it and was trying hard to pass the buck to the Temporal Embassy.”
“All the same, I would do what it advised. Unless, of course, you find another, subtler interpretation of the answer.”
“Or unless my individual eccentric impulse gets in the way?”
This time the sarcasm was lost on her. She opened her eyes wide. “That would be best of all! Imagine if you should at last learn to exercise it!”
So Dave Pollock went back to Mrs. Brucks’ room and, thoroughly exasperated, told the others of the ridiculous answer the Oracle Machine had given him on the problem of Winthrop’s stubbornness.
A t a few minutes to six, however, all four of them—Mrs. Brucks, Oliver T. Mead, Mary Ann Carthington, Dave Pollock—were in the time-travel bureau of the Temporal Embassy, having arrived in varying stages of upset by way of jumper. They didn’t have any particular hopes: there just wasn’t anything else to do.
At precisely one minute to six, a large group of twenty-fifth-century citizens came in to the transfer room. Among them were Gygyo Rablin, the temporal supervisor; Stilia, the attendant of the Oracle Machine; Flureet, wearing the drawn look of one awaiting major transformation; Mr. Storku, returned temporarily from the Odor Festival on Venus—and many others. They carried Winthrop to his proper seat and stood back with reverent expressions on their faces.
The transfer began.
Winthrop was an old man—sixty-eight, to be exact. He had, in the past two weeks, undergone much excitement. He had been on micro-hunts, undersea hunts, teleport jaunts to incredibly distant planets, excursions numerous and fantastic.
He had had remarkable things done to his body, spectacular things done to his mind. He had pounded in pursuit at Shriek Field, scuttled fearfully at Panic Stadium. And, above all, he had eaten plentifully and repeatedly of foods grown in distant stellar systems, of dishes prepared by completely alien entities, of meals whose composition had been totally unsuspected by his metabolism. He had not grown up with these activities, with this food, as had the people of the twenty-fifth century.
Winthrop was no longer stubborn. Winthrop was dead.
“All the same, I would do what it advised. Unless, of course, you find another, subtler interpretation of the answer.”
“Or unless my individual eccentric impulse gets in the way?”
This time the sarcasm was lost on her. She opened her eyes wide. “That would be best of all! Imagine if you should at last learn to exercise it!”
So Dave Pollock went back to Mrs. Brucks’ room and, thoroughly exasperated, told the others of the ridiculous answer the Oracle Machine had given him on the problem of Winthrop’s stubbornness.
A t a few minutes to six, however, all four of them—Mrs. Brucks, Oliver T. Mead, Mary Ann Carthington, Dave Pollock—were in the time-travel bureau of the Temporal Embassy, having arrived in varying stages of upset by way of jumper. They didn’t have any particular hopes: there just wasn’t anything else to do.
At precisely one minute to six, a large group of twenty-fifth-century citizens came in to the transfer room. Among them were Gygyo Rablin, the temporal supervisor; Stilia, the attendant of the Oracle Machine; Flureet, wearing the drawn look of one awaiting major transformation; Mr. Storku, returned temporarily from the Odor Festival on Venus—and many others. They carried Winthrop to his proper seat and stood back with reverent expressions on their faces.
The transfer began.
Winthrop was an old man—sixty-eight, to be exact. He had, in the past two weeks, undergone much excitement. He had been on micro-hunts, undersea hunts, teleport jaunts to incredibly distant planets, excursions numerous and fantastic.
He had had remarkable things done to his body, spectacular things done to his mind. He had pounded in pursuit at Shriek Field, scuttled fearfully at Panic Stadium. And, above all, he had eaten plentifully and repeatedly of foods grown in distant stellar systems, of dishes prepared by completely alien entities, of meals whose composition had been totally unsuspected by his metabolism. He had not grown up with these activities, with this food, as had the people of the twenty-fifth century.
Winthrop was no longer stubborn. Winthrop was dead.
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