"Precisely."

"But, Dr. Simcoe, with all due respect, that doesn't seem to make sense. I mean, what about free will?"

Lloyd folded his arms in front of his chest. "There's no such thing as free will."

"Of course there is," said Shaw.

Lloyd smiled. "I knew you were going to say that. Or, more precisely, anyone looking at our Minkowski cubes from outside knew you were going to say that — because it was already written in stone."

"But how can that be? We make a million decisions a day; each of them shapes our future."

"You made a million decisions yesterday, but they are immutable — there's no way to change them, no matter how much we might regret some of them. And you'll make a million decisions tomorrow. There's no difference. You think you have free will, but you don't."

"So, let me see if I understand you, Dr. Simcoe. You're contending that the visions aren't of just one possible future. Rather, they are of the future — the only one that exists."

"Absolutely. We really do live in a Minkowski block universe, and the concept of 'now' really is an illusion. The future, the present, and the past are each just as real and just as immutable."

"Dr. Simcoe?"

It was early evening; Lloyd had finally finished his last interview for the day, and although he had a stack of reports to read before going to bed, he was now walking down one of the drab streets of St. Genis. He headed over to a bakery and a cheese store to get some bread and a hunk of Appenzeller for tomorrow's breakfast.

A compact man of about thirty-five approached him. He was wearing glasses — reasonably unusual in the developed world now that laser keratotomy had been perfected — and a dark-blue sweatshirt. His hair, like Lloyd's own, was cropped fashionably short.

Lloyd felt a twinge of panic. He was probably crazy to be out alone in public after half the world had seen his face on TV. He looked left and right, sizing up his escape routes. There were none. "Yes?" he said, tentatively.

"Dr. Lloyd Simcoe?" He was speaking English, but with a French accent.

Lloyd swallowed "That's me." Tomorrow, he'd talk to Beranger about arranging a security escort.

Suddenly the man's hand found Simcoe's own and began pumping it furiously. "Dr. Simcoe, I want to thank you!" The man held up his left hand, as if to forestall an objection. "Yes, yes, I know you didn't intend what happened, and I guess some people were hurt by it. But I've got to tell you, that vision was the best thing that ever happened to me. It turned my life around."

"Ah," said Lloyd, retrieving his hand. "That's nice."

"Yes, sir, before that vision I was a different man. I never believed in God — not ever, not even as a little kid. But my vision — my vision showed me in a church, praying with a whole congregation of people."

"Praying on a Wednesday evening?"

"That's just what I said, Dr. Simcoe! I mean, not at the time I was having the vision, but later, after they announced on the news what time the visions were of. Praying on a Wednesday evening! Me! Me, of all people. Well, I couldn't deny that it was happening, that sometime between now and then I will find my way. And so I picked up a Bible — went to a bookstore and bought one. I never knew there were so many different kinds! So many different translations! Anyway, I got myself one of the ones that's got Jesus' actual words printed in red, and I began reading it. I figured, okay, sooner or later I was going to come to this, I might as well find out what it's all about. And I just kept reading — I even read all those begats, those wonderful names, like music: Obadiah, Jebediah — what great names! Oh, sure, Dr. Simcoe, if I hadn't had the vision, twenty-one years down the road I would have found all this anyway, but you got me going on it now, in 2009. I've never felt more at peace, more loved. You really did me a great favor."

Lloyd didn't know what to say. "Thank you."

"No, sir — thank you!" And he pumped Lloyd's hand again, then dashed upon his way.

Lloyd got home around 21h00. He missed Michiko a lot, and thought about calling her, but it was just 05h00 in Tokyo — too early to phone. He put his cheese and bread away, and sat down to watch some television — unwind for a few moments before he tackled the latest stack of reports.

He flipped channels until something on a Swiss news program caught his eye: a discussion of the Flashforward. A female journalist was doing a satellite hookup with the United States. Lloyd recognized the man being interviewed by his great mane of reddish-brown hair: the Astounding Alexander, master illusionist and debunker of supposed psychic powers. Lloyd had seen the guy on TV often over the years, including on The Tonight Show. His full name was Raymond Alexander, and he was a professor at Duke.

The interview had obviously had some post-production done on it: the journalist was speaking in French, but Alexander was answering in English, and an interpreter's voice was speaking over his own, giving a French version of what the American was saying. Alexander's actual words were barely audible in the background.

"You've no doubt heard," said the interviewer, "that man from CERN claiming that the visions showed the one and only real future."

Lloyd sat up.

"Oui," said the translator's voice. "But that's patently absurd. You can easily demonstrate that the future is malleable." Alexander shifted in his chair. "In my own vision, I was at my apartment. And on my desk, then as now, was this." There was a table in front of him in the studio. He reached forward and picked up a paperweight. The camera zoomed in: it was a malachite block with a small gold Triceratops on it.

"Now, it may be chintzy," said Alexander, "but I'm actually rather fond of this little item; it's a souvenir of a trip I quite enjoyed to Dinosaur National Monument. But I'm not as fond of it as I am of rationality."

He reached below the table, and pulled out a piece of burlap. He set it down, then placed the paperweight on top of it. Next, he pulled a hammer from under the table, and, as the camera watched, he proceeded to smash the souvenir to bits, the malachite fracturing and crumbling, and the small dinosaur — which couldn't have been solid metal — crushing into an unrecognizable lump.

Alexander smiled triumphantly at the camera: reason once more held sway. "That paperweight was in my vision; that paperweight no longer exists. Therefore, whatever it was that the visions showed was in no way a view of an immutable future."

"We have, of course," said the interviewer, "only your word that the paperweight was in your vision."

Alexander looked annoyed, irritated that his integrity was being questioned. But then he nodded. "You're right to be skeptical — the world would be a better place if we were all a little less credulous. The fact is that anyone can do this experiment themselves. If in your vision you saw a piece of furniture you currently own, destroy — or sell — that piece. If you could see your own hand in your vision, get a tattoo on your hand. If others saw you, and you had a beard, get facial electrolysis so that you'll never be able to grow one.

"Facial electrolysis!" said the interviewer. "That seems an extreme length to go to."

"If your vision disturbed you, and you want to be reassured that it never will come true, that would be one way to do it. Of course the most effective way to disprove the visions on a large scale would be to find some landmark that thousands of people had seen — the Statue of Liberty, say — and tear it down. But I don't suppose the National Park Service is going to let us do that."

Lloyd leaned back into his couch. Such bullshit. None of the things Alexander had suggested were real proof — and all of them were subjective; they depended on people's own recountings of their visions. And, well, what a great way to get on TV — not just for Alexander, but for anyone who wanted to be interviewed. Just claim that you've disproved the immutability of the future.