“Won’t that offend him?”

“He’ll be intrigued. He’s a scientist—he’ll want to know why. And he’s a natural teacher—by the time you’re done telling him, he’ll be itching to encourage your interest. Once he’s started talking about paleomarine life, you won’t be able to shut him up.”

Skeptically, Esme said, “Will that work?”

“Trust me, I know the man.” Griffin gestured with his glass toward the distant kelp forest. “Now look out there, where the water gets murky. See where the shadows seem to be moving? Those are plesiosaurs, feeding on shrimp. Every now and then, if you watch, you’ll see one lazily loop up to the surface for air, and back down for more food.”

In companionable silence, they stared into the depths together, watching the shadows move. Eventually it was time for him to give the opening address, and Griffin sent the child back to her table. The plesiosaurs were gone by then.

Somebody handed him a microphone, and he tapped it twice for attention. He was standing before the window with a galaxy of ammonites to his back, shells flashing as they jetted swiftly by, too many to count.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let me welcome you to the Turonian Age—the time when clams ruled the seas!” He paused for polite laughter, then continued.

“Believe it or not, despite all the wondrous creatures that surround us—the plesiosaurs, mosasaurs, and giant sharks—the primary purpose of Xanadu Station is to study the rudist clams that make up the reefs surrounding us.

“Why? Because these creatures achieved something remarkable and then mysteriously lost it. Rudist clams began as simple burrowers. But then they learned how to join together in colonies and form reefs. Their shells are corrugated with little bubbles, so it took them less time than other shellfish to lay down calcium. Because they grew fast, they quickly came to dominate the ocean ecosphere. Yet shortly before the end of the Cretaceous, for reasons we do not yet understand, they went extinct. It was only because of this that corals were later able to learn the same trick and filled the reef-building niche, where they remain into the modern age. We cannot explain why this happened. We’re here to find out.”

He paused, and flashed a sincere grin. “But that’s not to say you have to spend the evening watching clams! We have a lot of marine life scheduled for you tonight, beginning with a pair of mosasaurs that should be closing in on us right… about… now!”

The lights dimmed. Now the tables were illumined only by what sunlight found its way down through the water. Griffin lit up his microphone, swept it around to draw everyone’s eyes, and pointed it straight outward. Softly, he said, “Here they come.”

From the depths of the kelp forest, two mosasaurs swam straight toward the station. They were thirty-five feet long, demon lizard-fish with nightmare-toothed jaws and dark, sardonic eyes.

They were terrifying.

Even from the safe confines of the station, they were horrific things to see descend upon you. Diners stirred uneasily. Chairs scraped against the floor.

But the mosasaurs were safely under control. In a little room not far away, two wranglers sat, joysticks in hand, controlling the creatures. Biochip interfaces had been planted deep in the reptiles’ brains, so that the wranglers could see through their eyes and move their bodies as easily as their own. This pair were their primary herding tools, used daily, and through practice grown assured and responsive.

The mosasaurs twisted, parted, and then converged again. With startling speed, they bore down upon Xanadu and the diners within.

Griffin glanced over at the Borst-Campbell table. While her parents and their guests were intent upon the show, Esme had eyes only for Leyster. She leaned raptly into his murmured words. The paleontologist’s hands moved in a circle, describing the flat, lid-like top of a rudist clam, then fluttered underneath that lid to depict the rudist’s mantle, which formed a friendly home for complex colonies of symbiotic algae.

The mosasaurs rushed down upon the station with such reckless force that it seemed they must surely crash into the glass walls. But at the last possible instant, they parted to barrel-roll left and right, simultaneously slashing their heads in a savage (and utterly gratuitous) display of teeth. The diners gasped. Then they were gone.

Esme hadn’t even looked up.

The worst of it was that she was right. This wasn’t science, any more than stunt flying was war. It was merely the whimsical exercise of power.

“There’ll be more surprises throughout the evening,” he said. “In the meantime, enjoy your meal.”

Griffin faded back to applause, and began the round of table hopping. A joke here, a word of praise there. It’s banana oil makes the world go round.

Mostly he wanted to keep an eye on the scientists. Griffin thought of them as his problem children. He knew all their faults. This one drank too much and that one was a terrible bore. The meek-looking one was an aggressive womanizer, and the grandmotherly one swore like a sailor. They were all gaping at the lighting fixtures, clusters of museum-grade coiled clams and flaring trumpet shells polished to translucence and appointed with brass fittings. Griffin was sure they were wondering how big an expedition they could fund if they were ripped down and sold.

Waiters slipped in and out of existence. They’d scurry behind the screen hiding the entrance to the time funnel and then pop out immediately on the other side with heavily-laden trays. Pentaceratopsian steaks smothered in mushrooms for those who liked red meat. Confuciusornis almondine for those who preferred white. Radicchio and truffles for the vegetarians.

All to the accompaniment of music, pleasant chitchat, and a view that could be matched nowhere else.

Gertrude Salley had been assigned a table as far from Leyster’s as Griffin could arrange. The seating plan seemed to be working out well. She certainly was charming her patrons. Right now she was flapping her arms to demonstrate how pteranodons managed to take off from the surface of the ocean. Everyone was laughing, of course, but in a respectful way. Salley knew exactly how far she could go without losing her audience.

Then Griffin’s silent beeper went off, and he had to duck out of the late Cretaceous and back into the kitchen, up home in the year 2082.

Young Jimmy Boyle was waiting for him.

Where the old Jimmy Boyle by his very presence radiated competence and calm strength, his younger version was a real pain in the ass. He had a loud mouth, and a special talent for creating chaos.

This time was no exception. The kitchen was swarming with police. In one corner, a man stood very straight, eyes raised, repeating the Lord’s Prayer while his hands were glue-cuffed behind his back. A woman lay, on the floor, weeping and clutching her leg as a medbot built a stretcher around her. Both the man and the woman were dressed as waiters. Somebody who had to be the chef was saying, “—outrageous! You must get all these people out of my kitchen. I cannot work with them underfoot!”

“Fucking Americans,” Jimmy Boyle said. He meant his two captives. “Think they still own the world.”

“The kids in Bomb Disposal will be wanting these, sir,” an officer said politely. He held several pieces of what had been a coffee samovar. “For analytical purposes.”

“Yeah, right, go ahead.” To Griffin, Jimmy Boyle said, “Almost touchingly old-tech, sir. Gelignite, a wind-up clock, and a friction striker. Still, enough to punch a hole right through every window in Xanadu. If you hadn’t notified me—”

Griffin waved him silent. “Good work, Boyle,” he said, in a voice meant to be heard by everyone in the room. He clapped a hand over the man’s shoulder, turning him away from the others. In a voice so low Jimmy Boyle was forced to bow his head to hear, he added, “You asshole. This isn’t this way it’s done. You were supposed to write up a report afterwards, and forward it to me the day before the Undersea Ball. Then, if I thought it was important to do so, I’d‘ve put in an appearance. It wasn’t your place to make this decision.”