I'm trapped in another universe. It's true what they say: The past is another polity, but I don't think most people mean it quite like this.

THE next morning, I'm in the kitchen trying to puzzle out the instructions for using the coffeemaker when the phone rings. There's a terminal in the hall, so I go there to pick it up, wondering if something's wrong. "Call for Sam," buzzes a flat voice. "Call for Sam."

I stare at the handset for a moment, then look up the stairs. "It's for you!" I yell.

"I'm coming." Sam takes the staircase two steps at a time. I pass him the handset. "Yes?" He listens for a moment. "What is—I don't understand. Can you repeat that? Oh. Yes, yes, I will." Listening to a conversation on one of these old telephones has an eerie feel. They exist in a strange space, a half-duplex information realm devoid of privacy.

Sam continues to listen, looking puzzled then annoyed as the instructions continue. Finally, he puts the phone down. "Well!" He says emphatically.

"I'm trying to cook the coffee," I tell him. "Come and tell me about it."

"They're sending a taxi. I've got half an ‘hour'—that's nearly two kilosecs, isn't it?—to get ready."

"Who are ‘they'?" I ask. My stomach clenches with anxiety.

"I've been assigned a temporary job," says Sam. "They're picking me up for induction training. It's to show me how the labor system here works. I may be given a different job later."

"Huh." I turn back to the coffee machine so he won't see me frown. If that's the hydroxide tank, then this must be the venturi nozzle . . . the disassembled metal bits don't make any more sense to me than they did before I took it to pieces. "What am I supposed to do? Are they going to assign me a labor duty, too?"

"I don't think so." He pauses. "You can ask for a job, but they don't expect you to. This one, the manual says it's a starting point." He doesn't look too happy. "We get paid collectively," he adds after a few seconds.

"What? You mean they make you work, and I get half of it?"

"Yes."

I shake my head, then screw the machine back together. After a bit I get to the point where it's making gurgling whining noises and dribbling brown liquid. I stare at it, then wonder, Isn't it supposed to make a cup first? Silly me, no assemblers! I hastily rummage through the cupboards until I find a couple of cups and jam one under the nozzle. "Stupid, stupid," I mutter, unsure whether I'm describing myself or the long-dead designers of the machine.

A taxi shows up in due course, and Sam goes off to his work induction training. I wander around the house for a bit, trying to figure out where everything is and what it does. The washing machine apparently has physical switches you have to set to make it work. It runs on water, and you have to add something called detergent to the clothes, a substitute for properly designed fabrics. After I read about fabrics in the manual Designed for Living , I feel a bit queasy and resolve to only wear artificial ones. There's something deeply disturbing about wearing clothes made from dead animals. There's stuff called "silk" that's basically bug vomit, and the idea of it makes my skin crawl.

After a couple of hours I get bored. The house is deeply uncommunicative (if this was a real polity, I'd say it was autistic), and the entertainment resources are primitive, to say the least. I try the telephone, thinking I'll call Cass and see how she's doing—at a guess, Mick will be undergoing work induction, too, just like Sam—but the phone just makes that idiotic bleeping for a minute or so (I'm trying to adjust to the strange time units the ancients used). Maybe she's asleep, or shopping. Or could she be dead? For a moment I daydream randomly: After Sam's call, Mick hit her over the head with the handlebars from an exercise machine and chopped her up in the basement. Or he strangled her while she was asleep . . .

Why am I harboring these gruesome fantasies? Something is very wrong with me. I feel trapped, that's a large part of it. I'm isolated here, stuck alone in a suburban house while my husband goes to his assigned job. Which is all wrong because what's really going on is that there's an assassin or assassins looking for me because of—because of what? Something that happened before my memory surgery —and I'm isolated, stuck here floundering around in my ignorance.

I need to get out of here.

Ten minutes later I'm standing outside the conservatory, wearing my dress-code-violating boots and trousers and with a bag over my shoulder containing my wallet and an extremely sharp knife I found in the kitchen. It's absolutely pathetic, especially given the shape of my arm muscles (which feel as if I've been whacking on them with a hammer), but it's the best I can do right now. With any luck, the assassinswill be in the same situation, and I'll have time to prepare myself before they're ready to make their move.

Item number one on the checklist for the well-prepared fugitive: Know your escape routes.

I don't call a taxi. Instead, I walk to the side of the road and look up and down it. The neighborhood is peaceful, if a bit peculiar. Huge deciduous plants grow to either side, and the vegetation gets wild and out of control near the boundaries of the garden associated with our house. Hidden invertebrates make creaking, grating noises like malfunctioning machinery. I try to remember the direction the taxi took us in. That way. I turn left and walk along the side of the road, ready to jump out of the way if a taxi appears suddenly.

There are other houses along the road. They're about the same size as mine, clumps of rectangular boxes with glass-fronted openings in frames, sporting oddly tilted upper surfaces. They're painted a variety of colors but look drab and faded, like dead husks shed by enormous land-going arthropods. There's no sign of life in any of them, and I guess they're probably just part of the scenery. I've got no idea where Cass lives, and I wish I did. I could go and visit her: For all I know she's in the next house along from me. But I don't know, and directory services are only one of the netlink-mediated facilities that are missing here, and Sam is right about one thing—the ancients were incredibly territorial. If they can call the public security forces and detain people simply for wearing the wrong clothes in public, what might they do if I went into someone else's house?

A couple of hundred meters along the road, I come to a rise in the ground. The road continues on the level, descending into a deep trench, finally diving into a dark tunnel in the hillside. Looking up the sides I notice that something isn't quite right about the trees. Gotcha, I think. This must be the edge of a hab module. I can just barely imagine what's right beneath my feet—complex machinery locked within a skin of structural diamond, a cylinder kilometers long spinning in the void, orbiting in the icy darkness. Emptiness for a few tens of millions of kilometers, then a brown dwarf star little bigger than a gas giant planet, then tens of trillions of kilometers more to the nearest other star system. Scale is the first enemy.

I walk into the tunnel and see a bend ahead, beyond which it gets very dark. This is disturbing—I didn't notice it when I was in the back of the taxi, even though my attention was being grabbed by every weird thing I saw. But if there's a T-gate in here . . . Well, there's only one way to find out. I keep my right hand in contact with the tunnel wall as it curves round into darkness. I keep walking slowly ahead, and after maybe fifty meters it begins to bend the other way. I pass another curve, then there's light from the end of the tunnel, and I'm walking along a road where the buildings to either side are distinctly different in shape and size. There's a sign ahead that reads: WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE. (A village is a small community; a downtown is the commercial area of a village. At least, I think that's how it works.)