Theo, now forty-eight, was personally delighted that the reality of 2030 had turned out to be different from what had been portrayed in the visions of 2009. For his own part, he'd grown a fine, full beard, covering his jutting jaw (and saving him from looking like he needed another shave by mid-afternoon). Young Helmut Drescher had said he could see Theo's chin in his vision; the beard was one of Theo's little ways of asserting his free will.

Still, as the replication date approached, Theo found himself growing more and more apprehensive. He tried to convince himself that it was nervousness about letting the whole world down again if something went wrong, but the LHC seemed to be operating perfectly, and so he had to admit that that wasn't really it.

No, what he was nervous about was the fact that the day on which the 2009 visions said he was going to die was rapidly approaching.

Theo found that he couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. If he had ever determined who it was who had originally wanted him dead, that would have perhaps made it easier — all he would have to do is avoid that person. But he had no idea who had/would/might pull the trigger.

Finally, inevitably, it was Monday, October 21, 2030: the date that, in at least one version of reality, was laser-carved into Theo's tombstone. Theo woke that morning in a cold sweat.

There was still oodles of work to be done at CERN — it was only two days until the Sanduleak neutrinos would hit. He tried to put it all out of his mind, but even after he got to the office, he found himself unable to concentrate.

And, by a little after 10h00, he couldn't take it anymore. Theo left the LHC control center, putting on a forward-swept beige cap and mirrored sunglasses as he did so. It wasn't all that bright out; the temperature was cool, and about half the sky was covered by clouds. But no one went outside without head and eye protection anymore. Although the depleting of the ozone layer had finally been halted, nothing effective had been done yet about building it back up.

Sun glinted off the rocky pinnacles of the Jura mountains. There was a Globus Gateway bus in the parking lot; mostly deserted CERN wasn't a starred attraction in the Guide Michelin, of course, and, with the hubbub surrounding the replication attempt, no tourists were allowed on site, anyway. This bus had been chartered to bring a crowd of journalists from the airport; they had flown in to cover the work leading up to the replication.

Theo walked over to his car, a red Ford Octavia — good, serviceable transportation. He'd spent his youth playing with billion-dollar particle accelerators; he hardly needed a fancy car to establish his worth.

The car recognized him as he approached, and he nodded at it to indicate he really did want to enter. The driver-side door slid up into the roof. You could still buy cars with doors that hinged out to the side, but with parking spaces so tight in most urban centers doors that required no special clearance were more convenient.

Theo entered the car and told it where he wanted to go. "At this time of day," said the car in a pleasant male voice, "it'll be fastest to take Rue Meynard."

"Fine," said Theo. "You drive."

The car began to do just that, lifting off the ground and starting on its way. "Music or news?" said the car.

"Music," said Theo.

The car filled with one of Theo's favorite bands, a popular Korean jag group. But the music did little to calm him. Dammit all, he knew he shouldn't even be here in Switzerland, but the Large Hadron Collider was still the biggest instrument of its type in the world; periodic attempts prior to the invention of the TTC to revive the Superconducting Supercollider project, killed by the U.S. Congress in 1993, had all failed. And running and repairing particle accelerators was a dying art. Most of those who had built the original LEP accelerator — the first one mounted in CERN's giant subterranean tunnel — were either dead or retired, and only a few of those involved with the LHC, which first went into service a quarter of a century ago, were still in that line of work. So: Theo's expertise was needed in Switzerland. But he was damned if he was going to be a sitting duck.

The car stopped outside the destination Theo had requested: Police Headquarters in Geneva. It was an old building — more than a century old, in fact, and although internal-combustion motors were illegal on any car manufactured after 2021, the building still showed the grime of decades of automobile exhausts; it would have to be sandblasted at some point.

"Open," said Theo. The door disappeared into the ceiling.

"There are no vacant parking spots within a five-hundred-meter radius," said the car.

"Keep driving around the block, then," said Theo. "I'll call you when I'm ready to be picked up."

The car chirped acknowledgment. Theo put on his cap and shades and stepped outside. He crossed the sidewalk, made his way up the steps, and entered the building.

"Bonjour," said a large blond man sitting behind a desk. "Je peux vous aider?"

"Oui," said Theo. "Detective Helmut Drescher, s'il vous plait." Young Helmut Drescher was indeed a detective now; Theo, with then-idle curiosity, had checked on that several months before.

"Moot's not in," said the man, still speaking in French. "Can somebody else help you?"

Theo felt his heart sink. Drescher, at least, might understand, but to try to explain it to a complete stranger… "I was really hoping to see Detective Drescher," said Theo. "Do you expect him back soon?"

"I really don't — oh, say, this must be your lucky day. There's Moot now."

Theo turned around. Two men both about the right age were entering the building; Theo had no idea which one might be Drescher. "Detective Drescher?" he said tentatively.

"That's me," said the one on the right. Helmut had grown up to be a fine-looking man, with light brown hair, a strong, square jaw, and bright blue eyes.

"Like I said," said the desk officer from behind Theo. "Your lucky day."

Only if I live through it, thought Theo. "Detective Drescher," said Theo, "I need to talk to you."

Drescher turned to the other man he'd come in with. "I'll catch up with you later, Fritz," he said. Fritz nodded and headed deeper into the building.

Drescher showed no sign of recognizing Theo. Of course, it had been twenty-one years since they'd last seen each other, and, although there had been a lot of media coverage of the upcoming attempt to replicate the time displacement, Theo had been way too busy to be interviewed much on TV lately; he'd been leaving that mostly to Jake Horowitz.

Drescher led Theo toward the inner doors; he was dressed in plain clothes, but Theo couldn't help noticing that he had very nice shoes. Drescher laid his hand on a palmprint reader and the paired doors swung inward, letting them into the squad room. Flatsies — paper-thin computers — were piled high on some desks and spread out in overlapping patterns on others. One entire wall was a map showing Geneva's computer-controlled traffic, with every vehicle tracked by an individual transponder. Theo looked to see if he could spot his own car orbiting the building; it seemed his wasn't the only one doing that just now.

"Have a seat," said Drescher, indicating the chair that faced his desk. He took a flatsie from a pile and placed it between him and Theo. "You don't mind if I record this?" he said. The words — French — instantly appeared as text on the flatsie, with an attribution tag saying, "H. Drescher."

Theo shook his head. Drescher gestured at the flatsie. Theo realized he wanted a spoken reply. "Non," he said. The flatsie duly recorded it, but simply put a glowing question mark where the speaker's name should be.