Read Online The Escape by Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Free Book Online
Authors: Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
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keep them from bleeding. His job consisted of answering calls and guarding the abandoned shuttle stations in fifty different Periods. The choice Periods, of course, rarely required his 69 services. He always traveled to the difficult Periods," the one no one wanted to visit, not even on a scholarly quest. Eighteighty-nine Real Time was tolerable, but three hundred thousand years farther along wasn't.
As he stepped off the ramp the air instantly dried out his nose and eyes. It was a warm afternoon, closer to fiot on the payed surface, and it made him long for his jungle. There the air was moist. It hugged him like steam and felt like a friendly presence.
Here the air was an enemy, taking his life forces and giving him nothing in return. He stopped to allow himself to adjust to people again. They flowed around him like water around a stone. Most wore the blues and purples of government workers, but a few tottered by on their pointed platform shoes, expressing their distaste comat public transportation. Most of these folks were middle-income bureaucrats who earned just enough money to look as if they earned more. The really important people were invisible to most of the citizens. They never felt as if they had to wear clothing to impress, never spent ostentatiously in public. Drickel liked to think of himself as one of them-his home was the place all of his earnings went-but in actuality, he was just one step above the tottering middle management. The difference between him and them was simply one of information.
They knew what the future would bring. He had been there.
Repeatedly.
The crowds always made him a bit dizzy. He made 70 himself breathe the dry air and watched people pass., He was lucky that he had been called to 889. The really popular periods had stations three times this busy. Many of these shuttles took off less than a quarter full. It didn't surprise him. He couldn't imagine tilde why anyone would visit this time period, let alone live here. But obviously millions did. He walked slowly through the heat and dry air to the nearest transport building, letting the small crowds move around him. He had learned years ago that being in a hurry just never did much good, especially in this job. He entered the building, wincing when he realized the air was warmer here, but smelled worse. People stepped in and out of the transporters, the faces changing, but the movements staying the same. Conversations flowed like good music, punctuated by loud and silent moments. He walked around a line and went to a booth that appeared to be out of order. It was actually reserved for service personnel. On the destination pad he keyed in his special code and then stepped inside.
The noise of the talking crowds in the terminal disappeared in midthrum. He had a moment of silence before he heard the hum of machines and the clicking of keys. The transporter had moved him almost a kilometer below the surface of"...the shuttle field.
He blinked in surprise. All of the bureaucrats were away from their computers. Most were sipping blackbean sugar water from pointed glass cups that matched their shoes. They were all speaking in soft, 71 animated voices. The bureaucrats' high comcollars and tight sleeves reminded him of the rules they all enforced: restrictive and necessary only because others might take advantage.
He stepped off the pad into the high-ceilinged room that smelled of pine. He had always thought of that as cool air scent, but someone had decided to fill this hot stuffy office with baby trees. Farther down one hall stood Aleisen trees, and even farther, fems grew out of the stone. Computers winked at various locations near the trees, and the few chairs in the room were occupied.
This was Shuttle Control for Period 889 and the connection to Mean Time Control in Period One. The two hundred employees down here were in charge of making sure a ship went only to the exact point and time it was programmed to go. This control room, and
As he stepped off the ramp the air instantly dried out his nose and eyes. It was a warm afternoon, closer to fiot on the payed surface, and it made him long for his jungle. There the air was moist. It hugged him like steam and felt like a friendly presence.
Here the air was an enemy, taking his life forces and giving him nothing in return. He stopped to allow himself to adjust to people again. They flowed around him like water around a stone. Most wore the blues and purples of government workers, but a few tottered by on their pointed platform shoes, expressing their distaste comat public transportation. Most of these folks were middle-income bureaucrats who earned just enough money to look as if they earned more. The really important people were invisible to most of the citizens. They never felt as if they had to wear clothing to impress, never spent ostentatiously in public. Drickel liked to think of himself as one of them-his home was the place all of his earnings went-but in actuality, he was just one step above the tottering middle management. The difference between him and them was simply one of information.
They knew what the future would bring. He had been there.
Repeatedly.
The crowds always made him a bit dizzy. He made 70 himself breathe the dry air and watched people pass., He was lucky that he had been called to 889. The really popular periods had stations three times this busy. Many of these shuttles took off less than a quarter full. It didn't surprise him. He couldn't imagine tilde why anyone would visit this time period, let alone live here. But obviously millions did. He walked slowly through the heat and dry air to the nearest transport building, letting the small crowds move around him. He had learned years ago that being in a hurry just never did much good, especially in this job. He entered the building, wincing when he realized the air was warmer here, but smelled worse. People stepped in and out of the transporters, the faces changing, but the movements staying the same. Conversations flowed like good music, punctuated by loud and silent moments. He walked around a line and went to a booth that appeared to be out of order. It was actually reserved for service personnel. On the destination pad he keyed in his special code and then stepped inside.
The noise of the talking crowds in the terminal disappeared in midthrum. He had a moment of silence before he heard the hum of machines and the clicking of keys. The transporter had moved him almost a kilometer below the surface of"...the shuttle field.
He blinked in surprise. All of the bureaucrats were away from their computers. Most were sipping blackbean sugar water from pointed glass cups that matched their shoes. They were all speaking in soft, 71 animated voices. The bureaucrats' high comcollars and tight sleeves reminded him of the rules they all enforced: restrictive and necessary only because others might take advantage.
He stepped off the pad into the high-ceilinged room that smelled of pine. He had always thought of that as cool air scent, but someone had decided to fill this hot stuffy office with baby trees. Farther down one hall stood Aleisen trees, and even farther, fems grew out of the stone. Computers winked at various locations near the trees, and the few chairs in the room were occupied.
This was Shuttle Control for Period 889 and the connection to Mean Time Control in Period One. The two hundred employees down here were in charge of making sure a ship went only to the exact point and time it was programmed to go. This control room, and
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