“There is no need to be sarcastic, Mr. Chaney. You have a well-balanced computer profile. Mr. Seabrooke has described you as an ideal futurist.”

“I’m ever so grateful. Who is Seabrooke?”

“Gilbert Seabrooke is our Director of Operations. He personally selected you from a narrow field of candidates.”

“I’m not a candidate; I volunteered for nothing.”

“This is a top secret project of some importance, sir. The candidates were not consulted in advance.”

“That’s why we’re all so happy about it.” Chaney indicated the book in her hand. “You’re not interested in my hobby? In that? The Bureau doesn’t expect me to deny my translation of the Revelations scroll?”

The faint expression of disapproval again crossed her face but was thrust aside. “No, sir. The Bureau is unhappy with your work, with the resultant notoriety, and Mr. Seabrooke wishes you hadn’t published it — but he believes the public will have forgotten by the time you have surfaced again.”

Emphatically: “I’m not going underground.”

“Sir?”

“Tell Mr. Seabrooke I’m not interested. I do very well without him and his Bureau. I have a job.”

“Yes, sir. With the new project.”

“No, sir, with the Indiana Corporation. It’s called Indic, for short, and it’s a think-tank. I’m a genius — does your computer know that, Miss van Hise? Indic has a hundred or so captive geniuses like me sitting around solving problems for know-nothings. It’s a living.”

“I am familiar with the Indiana Corporation.”

“You should be. We did that job for your people three years ago and scared the hell out of them — and then we submitted a bill which unbalanced their budget. We’ve done work for State, for Agriculture, for the Pentagon. I hate Pentagon work. Those people are in a hell of a rut. I wish they’d climb off the Chinese back and find some other enemy to study and outwit.” He dropped back into the beach chair and returned his attention to the surf. “I have a job waiting; I rather like it. I’m going back to jt when I get tired of sitting here doing nothing — tired of loafing. Find yourself another demographer.”

“No, sir. Indic has assigned you to the Bureau.”

Chaney came out of the chair like a rocket. He towered over the diminutive woman.

“They have not!”

“They have, Mr. Chaney.”

“They wouldn’t do that without my consent.”

“I’m sorry, but they have.

Insistently: “They can’t. I have a contract.”

“The Bureau has purchased your contract, sir.”

Chaney was dumbfounded. He gaped at the woman.

She removed a folded letter from the pages of the book and handed it to him to read. The letter was couched in stiff corporate language, it was signed, and it bore the great seal of the Indiana Corporation. It transferred the balance of term of employment of Brian Chaney from the private corporation to the public agency, then generously arranged to share with him on an equal basis the financial consideration paid for the transfer. It wished him well. It politely mentioned his book. It was very final.

The waiting woman did not understand the single Aramaic word hurled down the Florida beach.

The waves were crashing around his knees, spraying his chest and face. Brian Chaney turned in the surf and looked back at the woman standing on the beach.

He said: “There are only two buses a day. You’ll miss the last one if you don’t hurry.”

“I have not completed my instructions, Mr. Chaney.”

“I’d be pleased to give you certain instructions.”

Kathryn van Hise stood her ground without answer. The gulls came swooping back, only to take flight again.

Chaney shouted his frustration. “Why?”

“The special project needs your special skills.”

“Why?”

“To survey and map the future; you are a futurist.”

“I’m not a surveyor — I’m not a cartographer.”

“Those were figures of speech, sir.”

“I don’t have to honor that contract. I can break it, I can turn black-leg and go to work for the Chinese. What will the Pentagon do then, Miss van Hise?”

“Your computer profile indicated that you would honor it, sir. It also indicated your present annoyance. The Pentagon knows nothing of this project.”

“Annoyance! I can also give that computer explicit instructions, but they would be as hard to obey as yours. Why don’t you go home? Tell them I refused. Rebelled.”

“When I have finished, sir.”

“Then finish up, damn it, and get along!”

“Yes, sir.” She moved closer to him to avoid raising her voice and permitting the gulls to overhear top secret information. “The first phase of the operation began shortly after Indic submitted its report three years ago, and continued all the while you were studying in Israel. As the author of that report, you were considered one of the most likely persons to participate in the next phase, the field implementations. Expertise. The Bureau is now ready to move into the field, and has recruited a select team to conduct field operations. You will be a member of that team, and then participate in the final report. Mr. Seabrooke expects to submit it to the White House; he is counting on your enthusiastic support.”

“Bully for Seabrooke; he shanghais me and then expects my enthusiastic support. What implementations?”

“A survey of the future.”

“We’ve already done that. Read the Indic report.”

“A physical survey of the future.”

Brian Chaney looked at her for a long moment with unconcealed amusement and then turned back to the sea. A red and white sail was beating across the gulf in the middle distance and the tacking fascinated him.

He said: “I suppose some nutty genius somewhere has really invented a tachyon generator, eh? A generator and deflector and optical train that works? The genius can peer through a little telescope and observe the future?”

The woman spoke quietly. “The engineers at Westinghouse have built a TDV, sir. It is undergoing tests at the present time.”

“Never heard of it.” Chaney shaded his eyes against the sun the better to watch the bright sail. “V is for vehicle, I suppose? Well — that’s better than a little telescope. What is the TD?”

“Time Displacement. An engineering term.” There was a peculiar note of satisfaction in her voice.

Brian Chaney dropped his hand and turned all the way around in the water to stare down at the woman. He felt as if he’d been hit.

“Time Displacement Vehicle?”

“Yes, sir.” The satisfaction became triumph.

“It can’t work!”

“The vehicle is in test operation.”

“I don’t, believe it.”

“You may see it for yourself, sir.”

“It’s there? It’s sitting there in your lab?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Operating?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be damned. What are you going to do with it?”

“Implement our new program, Mr. Chaney. The Indic report has become an integral part of the program in that it offered several hard guidelines for a survey of the future. We are now ready to initiate the second phase, the field explorations. Do you see the possibilities, sir?”

“You’re going to get in that thing, that vehicle, and go somewhere? Go into the future?”

“No, sir. You are; the team will.”

Chaney was shocked. “Don’t be an idiot! The team can do what they damned please, but I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t volunteer for your program; I wasn’t a willing candidate; I oppose peonage on humanitarian grounds.”

He quit the surf and stalked back to the beach chair, not caring if the woman followed him. Gulls shrieked their annoyance at his passage. Chaney dropped into the chair with another muttered imprecation of stiffnecked bureaucrats, a scurrilous declaration couched in Hebraic terms the woman wouldn’t understand. It commented on her employer’s relations with jackasses and Philistines.