A woman stood there. She held what was left of a shattered vase in her hand, preparing to strike again. Tedor tried to reach her and managed a futile wave of his hand which told her clearly a second blow was hardly necessary.
As Tedor fell, the woman's face etched itself into his memory. It spun into giddy unconsciousness with him and his last thought was that he would never forget it.
Mulid Ruscar wore a modern robe over his quaint 18th century sleeping gown. His sandals could have been ancient Greek. The cigarette he smoked probably originated in the 20th century, clearly the smokingest of all centuries. His sleepy scowl had a way of ignoring the centuries.
"Tedor, so it's you. I thought you'd started your report."
Ruscar, a tall, dignified man who fifteen years before might have been a solidio idol, snapped on the overhead lights. "You look tired, Tedor. I know when my men need a rest."
"Fornswitthe's dead," Tedor said, then told Ruscar what had happened. "So," he finished, "I came to, called the police and rushed straight here."
"Let me see your head."
"It's all right," said Tedor, revealing the blood-matted hair. "What do you know of a solidio writer name of Dorlup?"
"Friend of a friend. One of those things where you have to be nice. Don't tell me he had something to do with this?"