Sextus stared wildly up at the open window. He bounced once experimentally. It was a fine trampoline, and he flipped a foot off the surface. Next bounce he flexed his knees a little and gained another foot. Now he doubled up purposefully.
The one-man-delegate in purple frowned. "Stop that. We are here to welcome you and start the celebration at the Hollywood Bowl and—Stop that, I say!" Now he sensed Sextus' incredible intent. "Officer, help out here, please!"
A bulgy, bronzed fellow clad mainly in an immaculately white brassard left the rope barrier and joined Bradford.
The Elder screamed, "You can't go back, Forsyte! Don't you understand? You disappeared two centuries ago when the vector field collapsed. You can't go back! You can't! This is your destiny!"
Sextus' heels soared five feet above the canvas and gained precious altitude with each spring, but it was a precarious business the higher he went. One slip and he'd glance off at a tangent and be captured by those reaching, grasping obscene hands in the crowd. The thought almost unseated his reason.
The police officer asked Bradford, "What would happen if he did go back?" Then he added, "Ain't he got a right to?"
Bradford shuffled nervously. "I don't quite know. We never considered such a—my God! Stop, man, stop. You'll change the whole course of history! Stop him!"
The barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the trampoline Sextus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and determination. The policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd roared.
One more bounce and a half twist, now. Sextus soared up, up, and his hands touched the sill.
With the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless window.