He returned, shuddering, five minutes later, his arms soaked and red to the elbows. He held out his hands. Each held a number of steel bullets. Then he fell. He lay where he fell, not moving.

“You didn't have to make him do that,” said Lesperance.

“Didn't I? It's too early to tell.” Travis nudged the still body. “He'll live. Next time he won't go hunting game like this. Okay.” He jerked his thumb wearily at Lesperance.

“Switch on. Let's go home.” 1492. 1776. 1812.

They cleaned their hands and faces. They changed their caking shirts and pants. Eckels was up and around again, not speaking. Travis glared at him for a full ten minutes.

“Don't look at me,” cried Eckels. “I haven't done anything.” “Who can tell?” “Just ran off the Path, that's all, a little mud on my shoes what do you want me to get down and pray?” “We might need it. I'm warning you, Eckels, I might kill you yet. I've got my gun ready.” “I'm innocent. I've done nothing]” 1999. 2000. 2055.

The Machine stopped.

“Get out,” said Travis.

The room was there as they had left it. But not the same as they had left it. The same man sat behind the same desk.

But the same man did not quite sit behind the same desk.

Travis looked around swiftly. “Everything okay here?” he snapped.

“Fine. Welcome home!” Travis did not relax. He seemed to be looking at the very atoms of the air itself, at the way the sun poured through the one high window.

“Okay, Eckels, get out. Don't ever come back.” Eckels could not move.

“You heard me,” said Travis. “What're you staring at?” Eckels stood smelling of the air, and there was a thing to the air, a chemical taint so subtle, so slight, that only a faint cry of his subliminal senses warned him it was there. The colours, white, grey, blue, orange, in the wall, in the furniture, in the sky beyond the window, were... were...