He set off slowly down the trail and she followed. They tramped along in silence for at least ten minutes before she began to speak.

“When I was a little girl, my religious heroes weren’t the Galactic Age saints. I could never identify with Pere Teilhard or Saint Jack the Bodiless or Illusio Diamond Mask. I liked the really old-time mystics: Simeon Stylites, Anthony the Hermit, Dame Julian of Norwich. But today, that kind of solitary commitment to penitence is contrary to the Church’s new vision of human energetics. We’re supposed to chart our individual journey toward perfection within a unity of human and divine love.”

Claude grimaced at her over his shoulder. “You lost me, child.”

“Stripped of the jargon, it means that charitable activity is in; solitary mysticism is out Our Galactic Age is too busy for anchoresses or hermits. That way of life is supposed to be selfish, escapist, masochistic, and counter to the Church’s social evolution.”

“But you don’t think so, is that it, Amerie? You want to go off and fast and contemplate in some lonesome spot and suffer and attain enlightenment.”

“Don’t you laugh at me, Claude. I tried to get into a monastery… the Cistercians, Poor Clares, Carmelites. And they took one look at my psychosocial profile and told me to get lost. Counseling, they advised! Not even the Zen-Brigittines would give me a chance! But I finally discovered that there is one place where an old-fashioned solitary mystic wouldn’t be out of place Have you ever heard of Exile?”

“What paleobiologist hasn’t?”

“You may know that there’s been a sort of underground railroad to it for a good many years. But you may not know that use of the time portal was given official Milieu sanction four years ago in response to an increasing demand. All kinds of people have gone into Exile after undergoing a survival regimen. People from every imaginable educational background and profession, from Earth and from the human colonies. All of those time-travelers have one thing in common: They want to go on living, but they can’t function any longer in this complex, structured world of galactic civilization.”

“And this is what you’ve chosen?”

“My application was accepted more than a month ago.”

They came to a tricky scree slope, the remnant of an old avalanche, and concentrated on traversing it safely. When they reached the other side they rested for a moment. The sun beat down hotly. The retroevolved condors were gone.

“Amerie,” the old man said, “it would be very interesting to see fossil bones with flesh on them.”

She elevated an eyebrow. “Isn’t this notion a trifle impulsive?”

“Maybe I’ve nothing better to do. Seeing Pliocene animals alive would be an interesting windup to a long career in paleobiology. And the day-to-day survival aspects wouldn’t pose any problems for me. If there’s one thing you learn out in the field, it’s roughing it in comfort. Maybe I could kind of help you get your hermitage set up. That is, if you wouldn’t think I was too great a temptation to your vows.”

She went into gales of laughter, then stopped and said, “Claude! You’re worried about me. You think I’ll get eaten by a sabertooth tiger or trampled by mastodons.”

“Dammit, Amerie! Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? Just because you climb a few tame mountains and catch stocked trout in Oregon you think you can be a female Francis of Assisi in a howling wilderness!” He looked away, scowling. “God knows what kind of human dregs are wandering around there. I don’t want to cramp your style, child. I could just keep an eye on things. Bring you food and such. Even those old mystics let the faithful bring ’em offerings, you know. Amerie, don’t you understand? I wouldn’t want anything to spoil your dream.”

Abruptly, she threw her arms around him, then stepped back smiling, and for an instant he saw her not in jeans, plaid shirt, and bandanna, but robed in white homespun with a rope knotted about her waist. “Doctor Majewski, I would be honoured to have you as a protector. You may very well be a temptation. But I’ll be steadfast and resist your allure, even though I love you very much.”

“That’s settled, then. We’d better get on down and arrange for Genevieve’s requiem without delay. We’ll take her ashes with us to France and bury her in the Pliocene. Gen would have liked that.”

The widow of Professor Theo Guderian had been astounded when the first time-tripper appeared at the gate of the cottage on the slope of the Monts du Lyonnais.

It happened in the year 2041, early in June. She was working in her rose garden, snipping deadheads from the splendid standards of Mme. A. Meilland and wondering how she would be able to pay the death duties, when a stocky male hiker with a dachshund came striding up the dusty road from Saint-Antoine-des-Vignes. The man knew where he was going. He stopped precisely in front of the gate and waited for her to approach. The little dog sat down one step behind her master’s left heel.

“Good evening, Monsieur,” she said in Standard English, folding her secateurs and slipping them into the pocket of her back salopette.

“Citizen Angélique Montmagny?”

“I prefer the older form of address. But yes, I am she.”

He bowed formally. “Madame Guderian! Permit me to present myself. Richter, Karl Josef. I am by profession a poet and my home has been up to now in Frankfurt. I am here, chère Madame, to discuss with you a business proposal concerning the experimental apparatus of your late husband.”

“I regret that I am no longer able to demonstrate the device.” Madame pursed her lips. The fine beak of her aquiline nose lifted proudly. Her small black eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “Indeed, I am shortly going to have it dismantled so that the more valuable components can be sold.”

“You must not! You must not!” cried Richter, taking hold of the top of the gate.

Madame took a step backward and stared at him in astonishment. He was moon-faced, with pale protuberant eyes and thick reddish brows, now hoisted in dismay. Expensively dressed as for a strenuous walking tour, he wore a large rucksack. To it were lashed a violin case, a lethal-looking dural catapult, and a golfer’s umbrella. The stolid dachshund guarded a large parcel of paged books, carefully wrapped in plass and equipped with straps and a carrying handle.

Gaining control of his emotions, Richter said, “Forgive me, Madame. But you must not destroy this so-wonderful achievement of your late husband! It would be a sacrilege.”

“Nevertheless, there are the death duties,” said Madame. “You spoke of business, Monsieur. But you should know that many journalists have already written about my husband’s work…”

“I,” said Richter with a faint moue of distaste, “am not a journalist. I am a poet! And I hope you will consider my proposal most seriously.” He unzipped a side compartment of the pack and removed a leather card-case, from which he extracted a small blue rectangle. He held this out to Madame. “Evidence of my bona fides.”

The blue card was a sight draft on the Bank of Lyon entitling the bearer to collect an extraordinary amount of money.

Madame Guderian unlatched the gate. “Please enter, M. Richter. One trusts the little dog is well mannered.”

Richter picked up his package of books and smiled thinly. “Schatzi is more civilized than most humans.”

They sat on a stone bench below a bee-loud arch of Soleil d’Or and Richter explained to the widow why he had come. He had learned of Guderian’s time-gate at a publisher’s cocktail party in Frankfurt and decided that very evening to sell everything that he owned and hasten to Lyon.

“It is very simple, Madame. I wish to pass through this time-portal and live permanently amid the prehistoric simplicity of the Pliocene Epoch. The peaceable kingdom! Locus amoenusf. The Forest of Ardent. The sanctuary of innocence! The halcyon land unwatered by human tears!” He paused and tapped the blue card still in her hand. “And I am willing to pay handsomely for my passage.”