"Then—"
"Here." Tedor reached into his pocket and withdrew his credentials.
The receptionist's face lit up. "You're an Agent! Did you know I've been working in the Eradrome five years and you're the first agent I've ever seen? I was beginning to think they didn't really exist. I'll tell the Director you're here, Mr. Barwan."
Moments later, Tedor was ushered into a plush office which borrowed its furnishings from half a dozen civilizations. Most of the furniture was what the 20th century called Swedish modern, but the carpeting was authentic 10th century Persian, the drapes came from someplace in the Orient about five hundred years later, the pictures on the wall were replicas of drawings found in caves in southern France. The net result was garish but impressive.
Behind the birch desk sat a man of about forty, well-groomed, graying at the temples.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Barwan. Cigar?"
"Twentieth century, I see."
"It's one of the most popular eras," the Director said.
"I'd like you to check on this woman for me," Tedor said hoping the Director would excuse his abrupt departure from the customary social banter. "It's urgent." Tedor gave the Director a picture of Laniq Hadrien and added, "We have reason to believe she's gone into time."
"Why, this is Laniq Hadrien! Certainly you know her father, Domique Hadrien...."