“And tonight I saw you two on the balcony, and knew I’d lost. Only I can’t give up! Our breed has fought the Galaxy for a dream, Martin—it’s not in us ever to stop fighting while life is in us. Fighting by any means, for whatever is dear and precious—but fighting!”

Vargor made a gesture of deprecation. “I don’t want power, Martin, believe me. The consort’s job will be hard and unglamorous, galling to a man of spirit—but if that’s the only way to have her, then so be it. And I do honestly believe, right or wrong, that I’m better for her and for the Empire than you. You don’t really belong here, you know. You don’t have the tradition, the feeling, the training—you don’t even have the biological heritage of five thousand years. Taury may care for you now, but think twenty years ahead!”

Vargor smiled wryly. ‘‘I’m taking a chance, of course. If you do find a means of negative time travel and come back here, it will be disgrace and exile for me. It would be safer to kill you. But I’m not quite that much of a scoundrel. I’m giving you your chance. At worst, you should escape into the time when the Second Empire is in its glorious bloom, a happier age than this. And if you do find a means to come back—well, remember what I said about your not belonging, and try to reason with clarity and kindness. Kindness to Taury, Martin.”

He lifted the fluoroglobe, casting its light over the dim interior of the machine. “So it’s goodbye, Martin, and I hope you won’t hate me too much. It should take you several thousand years to work free and stop the machine. I’ve equipped it with weapons, supplies, everything I think you may need for any eventuality. But I’m sure you’ll emerge in a greater and more peaceful culture, and be happier there.”

His voice was strangely tender, all of a sudden. “Good-bye, Martin my comrade. And—good luck!”

He opened the main-drive switch and stepped out as the projector began to warm up. The door clanged shut behind him.

Saunders writhed on the floor, cursing with a brain that was a black cauldron of bitterness. The great drone of the projector rose, he was on his way—Oh no—stop the machine, God, set me free before it’s too late!

The plastic cords cut his wrists. He was lashed to a stanchion, unable to reach the switch with any part of his body. His groping fingers slid across the surface of a knot, the nails clawing for a hold. The machine roared with full power, driving ahead through the vastness of time.

Vargor had bound him skillfully. It took him a long time to get free. Toward the end he went slowly, not caring, knowing with a dull knowledge that he was already more thousands of irretrievable years into the future than his dials would register.

He climbed to his feet, plucked the gag from his mouth, and looked blankly out at the faceless gray. The century needle was hard against its stop. He estimated vaguely that he was some ten thousand years into the future already.