So I vacillated between feeling sorry for him and wanting to jerk him up by the collar and slap him around until he came to his senses. I guess if I'd been born in the twentieth century, I'd have been a social worker. I couldn't seem to deal with a goat as a person without getting all fouled up inside. I couldn't stay out of his shoes.

Damn, it's so much easier to knock the fuckers out and kick their asses through the Gate.

Then all the crying is done far from my sight.

The man could hold his liquor. He probably thought the same thing about me.

He held it so well that, by the time the food came, he realized he'd been pouring out his life story in an uninterrupted monologue, and he had the grace to feel guilty about it. So he asked me about myself.

Not that I hadn't come prepared. Sherman and I had worked up a life story. I just didn't want to tell it. I was sick of lying. But I told it, and I thought I did a pretty good job. He nodded in the right. places, asked sympathetic but not probing questions.

I was going right along, feeling pleased with myself, when I realized he didn't believe a word I was saying.

There was a funny look in his eyes. Maybe it was just liquor. I told myself it was, but I didn't believe it.

No, he just thought there was something I didn't want to talk about, and he was perfectly right.

I dropped him off at his hotel, drove a few blocks away, parked, and then just sat there and shook.

When I stopped shaking, I looked at my watch. It was a little after midnight. I knew what I had to do. Sherman and I had worked out the approach and I thought it would work. I just couldn't seam to get moving.

It's not that I was afraid to go to bed with him. Sherman and I had talked that out, and I felt a lot better about the sex question. Why be afraid of having a baby when you only have a couple days to live? And it wasn't that I was too uppity to go to bed with a man for the sake of the Gate Project. There was a long list of unsavory things I'd do to save the project, and fucking somebody I didn't like was a long ways from the bottom.

It's not even that I didn't like him. It was a job to do and I don't turn away from my job any more than any good soldier should ... but all that aside, I did like him. And the time capsule had been easy about that part, anyway. I didn't have to unless I wanted to.

She's only a wimp.

There was a liquor store not far from where I was parked. I got out of my car, walked down the sidewalk, went in, and bought a bottle of scotch.

On my way back somebody stepped out of a dark doorway and started to follow me. I turned around. He was a dark man, possibly a negro, though to my eyes races are as hard to distinguish as fashions. He pushed a gun toward me.

"Let's have the purse, cunt," he said.

"Are you a mugger or a rapist?" I asked him. Then I took his gun, threw him on the ground, and stood on his neck He tried to throw me off, so I kicked his face and stood on his neck again. He gurgled. I let up the pressure.

"I think you broke my wrist," he said.

"No, it was either the radius or the ulna. You'd better have a doctor set it." I looked at his bare arm. "You're a junkie, aren't you?"

He didn't say anything.

Well, you don't get a lot of choice in your ancestors, but he was one, so I couldn't kill him. There was the possibility I'd already done a lot of damage to the timestream ... but I didn't care.

It was a feeling of relief. I was going to do what I wanted to do, if I could just discover what that was.

I took the bullets out of his gun and gave it back to him. Then I reached in my purse and handed him a wad of American currency -- twenty thousand dollars, minus the $15.86 I'd spent for the scotch.

"Have a good time," I said.

Free will was an odd feeling. If that's what it was.

I let my hands do the driving. They brought me back to Bill's hotel, and they parked the car.

My feet seemed to have similar ideas, though they didn't do as neat a job. In the hall outside Bill's room I stumbled over a room-service tray that had two empty highball glasses on it. I picked them up, and my feet took me to his door and parked me there. I was about to scratch on the door, remembered that was a different time and place, so I hit it with my fist instead.

Knock, knock.

Who's there? Your good fortune.

What's fortune? Just stick out your palm, Mister Smith. Louise tells all.

Testimony of Bill Smith

I hadn't smoked a cigarette in nine years. But when she got up off the bed and went to the bathroom, I grabbed the pack she'd left on the nightstand and lit one up. They were Virginia Slims. I started coughing on the second puff, and by the fourth I was feeling light-headed, so I stubbed it out.

What a night.

I glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning. She was going to turn into a pumpkin at ten. It was one of many things she'd said, and it made about as much sense as any of the other things.

I listened to the water running behind the closed door. It sounded like she was taking a shower.

All I knew for sure was she'd had a daughter, and the kid had died. The rest of it didn't add up.

"Can I tell you something?" she had said, after she managed to stop crying. We were sitting tin the edge of the bed and I had my arms around her. She was as beautiful an armful as I had ever had, but sex was very far from my mind.

"Sure. Anything."

"It's a long story," she warned me.

"I figured."

She laughed. It was a shaky laugh and it threatened to become something else, but she controlled herself.

"Where I come from, everybody dies," she said.

And I swear, it got crazier from there.

Testimony of Louise Baltimore

"We don't name our babies until their second birthday," I told him.

"Why is that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I wondered again how much of this he was believing. About one percent, I decided. Still, if I was going to tell this story I couldn't put it into safe, 1980s terms.

"We don't name them because the chances are less than one percent they'll live to their second birthday. After that you can take a chance. Maybe they'll make it."

"What was it this child had?"

"Nothing. At least, that's how it looked. I was twelve, you understand, I'd had my first period and it looked like I was fertile. Genalysis hadn't turned up any major problems."

I looked at him. Sometimes the truth just won't do.

"I have a fertility problem," I said. "The doctors told me I wouldn't be able to have children. And then I got pregnant anyway."

"At twelve?" he said.

"Forget twelve. I'm drunk, okay? I had ... what's the word? Amniocentesis. Everybody thought that if f did get pregnant, the kid would be ... mongoloid."

"They call it Down's syndrome these days."

"Right. Right. Forgot the local jargon. So then the baby was born, and she was perfect.

The sweetest, prettiest thing ever. The most perfect baby born in a hundred years."

I was swigging right from the bottle. No pills, no nothing. It turned out ethanol ain't such a bad prescription for despair, after all.

"She was my life. She was everything I ever wanted. Oh, they tried to take her away, they tried to put her in a hospital where they could keep a close eye on her all the time.

"And smart? The kid was a genius. She was walking at six months, talking at nine. She was the earth, moon, and stars."