Tedor took long strides toward the slidefloor. The Eradrome was so crowded that he couldn't break into a run. He was bone-weary from too much work and had come to the Eradrome for a few hours of relaxation, leaving Fornswitthe alone to start their report on the 20th century. The report was dynamite.
Tedor jostled his way along on the slidefloor, not content with its slow pace. The great green-tinted bubble of the Eradrome soared five hundred feet into the air and burrowed twice that depth into the ground. Tedor was on one of the lower levels and knew it would take some time before he could reach the surface level.
"Busman's holiday, Barwan?"
Tedor whirled sharply before boarding the next ramp. He recognized the plump, thick-jowled face but could not tag it with a name.
"Something like that," Tedor admitted and kept walking.
"Never get enough of time-traveling, eh?"
"Umm."
"In your blood, I suppose. Listen, Barwan. I'm doing a solidiofilm on Time Agents. Would you mind if I hung around and—"
The name came to him then. Dorlup, a film writer. "I'm in a hurry," Tedor said, thinking of Fornswitthe's desperate call.
Dorlup puffed after him. "A little exercise will do me good. Ha-ha. Not as slim as I used to be. What would you say to five thousand century notes for the exclusive rights to your next assignment?"