"Forget it," Tedor said. They had finally reached the last ramp, where pedestrian traffic was thinner. With Dorlup still shouting below him, Tedor began to sprint. He bowled over a middle-aged man but did not stop to apologize. Then he reached the surface of the green-tinted bubble and the starlight outside. He hailed a copter cab, gave the pilot Fornswitthe's current suburban address and was whisked aloft into the crowded local lanes.
He found Fornswitthe dying on the floor of his study, a hole draining the life from his chest.
The lights were on, the windows opened, a brisk night breeze blowing the curtains into the room. Fornswitthe opened glassy eyes and tried to say something.
He was so young. So ridiculously young to be an Agent—even an Apprentice. A dying Agent, now, twenty-two years old.
Tedor propped a pillow under Fornswitthe's head, tried to staunch the flow of blood although he knew it was useless. Mechanically, he activated the transmitter buried in his palate, called Agent headquarters for help.
On the desk, a spool sat oddly askew in Fornswitthe's thinkwriter. Tedor switched it on, listened.
"In 1955. Tedor believes the year a crucial one because...."
A fresh spool, barely started, and as useless to Tedor as it had been to Fornswitthe's assailants. There were no other spools.
Tedor heard a rustling behind him, close at hand. He started to turn when something plummeted down heavily and exploded against the side of his head. He staggered, began to fall. He knew he was fainting, struggling against the waves of vertigo long enough to turn completely around.