Curtis had nearly choked on his pride when he wrote to his mom and dad to tell them. Of course, he couldn’t send the letter yet. The censors weren’t letting anything out about the arrival of the Multinational Force. They were the talk of Hawaii. Every bar, every shop, every warehouse and factory, every home and office was abuzz with excited—and occasionally hysterical—talk, rumor, and argument about the people from the future. But not a single story had been printed in the local press. It was an invisible sensation. And Curtis was right in the middle of it.

Who would have thought?

He spent most of his time here, in the Media Center—except that it wasn’t called that anymore. The journalists had mostly been confined to their quarters. It was the Research Center now, and Ensign Wally Curtis was one of the first researchers. He was currently learning about helicopters.

It was a dream posting, like being sent on a spaceship, only better. Buck Rogers didn’t have a fraction of the stuff these guys used all the time.

Unfortunately Curtis wasn’t allowed to use the computers without supervision, not yet, and Lieutenant Thieu was nowhere to be found, so he occupied his time reading conventional books and journals. Some of it was great, but some . . .

“Would you like to have a go on my computer, Ensign Curtis?” Rosanna Natoli asked.

She’d appeared from nowhere.

Curtis was used to that. The reporter and her friend, Miss Duffy, were frequent visitors to the Research Center. Unlike some of the other journalists, they’d agreed to help out. They told him they were writing a paper to explain the Transition.

Here and there around the room other sailors and one or two civilians sat quietly at workstations, tapping keys, scribbling notes. Curtis would have liked to ask them for some help, but truth be known, he was a little frightened of approaching them. They all seemed sort of fierce to him. Even more so than the old salts.

“I’d love a turn on your computer, Miss Natoli!” he said with real relief.

“C’mon then, Ensign. Let’s take her out for a spin.”

Curtis fairly leapt out of his chair to follow Rosanna over to her workstation. As they went, she handed him her personal flexipad.

“The big computer is more powerful, but of course I can’t carry it around with me,” she said. “When I insert the flexipad into the drive slot, however, this baby reformats itself into my personal workstation. So now I’ve got the nice big screen, the keyboard, and faster access to the Net. Or I would have, if we still had the Net. We’re making do with whatever the Clinton had cached. Still with me?”

“Not really,” Wally said, pulling up a chair.