Hank Gibson peeked.

To one side, through a glass window on the topmost part of a door marked 1789, he saw:

«Looks like Paris.»

«Press the button there under the glass.»

Hank Gibson pressed the button.

«Now look!»

Hank Gibson looked.

«My God, Paris. In flames. And there's the guillotine!»

«Correct. Now. Next door. Next window.»

Hank Gibson moved and peeked.

«Paris again, by God. Do I press the button?»

«Why not?»

He pressed.

«Jesus, it's still burning. But this time it's 1870. The Commune?»

«Paris fighting Hessians outside the city, Parisians killing Parisians inside the city. Nothing like the French, eh? Move!»

They reached a third window. Gibson peered.

«Paris. But not burning. There go the taxicabs. I know. Nineteen sixteen. Paris saved by one thousand Paris taxis carrying troops to fend off the Germans outside the city!»

«A-One! Next?»

At a fourth window.

«Paris intact. But over here. Dresden? Berlin? London? All destroyed.»

«Right. How do you like the three-dimension virtual reality? Superb! Enough of cities and war. Across the hall. Go down the line. All those doors with different kinds of devastation.»

«Mexico City? I was there once, in '46.»

«Press.»

Hank Gibson pressed the button.

The city fell, shook, fell.

«The earthquake of '84?»

«Eight-five, to be exact.»

«Christ, those poor people. Bad enough they're poor. But thousands killed, maimed, made poorer. And the government-«

«Not giving a damn. Move.»

They stopped at a door marked ARMENIA 1988.

Gibson squinted in, pressed the button.

«Major country, Armenia. Major country-gone.»

«Biggest quake in that territory in half a century.»