"He's going to try it next week."
"Then for the Lord's sake, stop him! Look, does it work like this?" His fingers slipped over the pencil smoothly, as they had always done when he worked, drafting robot bodies in the old days. A rude schematic seemed to grow almost instantly on the paper.
Lem took it, then stiffened suddenly. "Who told you?"
"A youngster named Pete LeFranc—and it was forty years ... no, over fifty years ago. Lem, if you like your grandson, keep him out of the machine. Four days, four weeks—they don't mean anything. Time machines don't work, however well they seem to."
A bustle from behind them pulled their eyes around. One of the robots was quietly restraining a nervous young man who was trying to break free and join the group. His face was tense, excited, with an odd bitter fear behind it. His words were seemingly cut out of steel. "... told me I'd find him here. Damn it...."
"Sorry, sir. You'll have to wait." The robot's voice was adamant under its smoothness.
Ned grunted, and then impulse led him to look again. He'd seen the man somewhere. He hunted for it, then dismissed it, knowing that his memory was tricky these days. But he motioned the robot aside. "We don't allow interruptions for junior members," he told the man, letting his voice soften the words. "Still, if you want to sit down and listen—quietly—nobody'll stop you."
"But...."
"Quietly!" The robot stressed the word. The man looked at it, then swiveled to Ned Brussels. For a moment, the bitterness halted, as if frozen, then gave place to a sudden sharp amusement. His eyes searched Ned's, and he nodded, dropping into a chair.
Lem took up the conversation again. "It worked. And if it works for four days, it should work for four centuries. You're just scared of paradoxes, Ned—going back and killing your grandfather, or such rot. You've been reading too many stories on it."