And I wished that damned swaying would stop.

Our time machine had been lifted up by a Sikorsky Sky Crane, and was now hanging a thousand meters above the stark beauty of the Badlands of Alberta. The pounding of the helicopter’s engines thundered in my ears.

I wished that noise would stop, too.

But most of all, I wished Klicks would stop.

Stop being an asshole, that is.

He wasn’t really doing anything. Just lying there in his crash couch, on the other side of the semicircular chamber. But he’s so smug, so goddamned smug. The couch is like a high-tech La-Z-Boy upholstered in black vinyl and mounted on a swivel base. Your feet are lifted up, your spine tips at an angle, and a tubular headrest supports your noggin. Well, Klicks had his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms interlaced behind his head. He looked so bloody calm. I knew he was doing it just to bug me.

I, on the other hand, was gripping the armrests of my crash couch like one of those poor souls who are afraid to fly.

It was about two minutes until the Throwback.

It should work.

But it might not.

In two minutes we could be dead.

And he had his legs crossed.

"Klicks," I said.

He looked over at me. We were almost exactly the same age, but opposites in a lot of ways. Not that it matters, but I’m white and he’s black — he was born in Jamaica and came to Canada as a boy with his parents. (I always marveled that anyone would leave that climate for this one.) He’s clean-shaven and hasn’t started to gray yet. I’ve got a full beard, have lost about half my hair, and what’s left is about evenly split between gray and brown. He’s taller and broader-shouldered than me, plus, despite having a job that involves as much time at a desk as mine does, he’s somehow avoided middle-age spread.

But most of all, we’re opposites in temperament. He’s so cool, so laid-back, that even when he’s standing he gives the impression of being stretched out somewhere, tropical drink in hand.