the one Joe had already met, was tall and drawn of face and with a chainsmoker’s nervousness. The other was heavier and more at ease. They were both, Joe estimated, somewhere in their middle fifties. They both looked like docs. He wondered, all over again, if this was some kind of pressure cooker.
But that didn’t explain the view from the window.
Reston-Farrell said, “May I present my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James? Warren, this is our guest from…from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.”
Brett-James nodded to him, friendly, so far as Joe could see. He said gently, “I think it would be Mr. Joseph Prantera, wouldn’t it? The maternal linage was almost universally ignored.” His voice too gave the impression he was speaking a language not usually on his tongue.
Joe took an empty chair, hardly bothering to note its alien qualities. His body seemed to fit into the piece of furniture, as though it had been molded to his order.
Joe said, “I think maybe I’ll take that there drink, Doc.”
Reston-Farrell said, “Of course,” and then something else Joe didn’t get. Whatever the something else was, a slot opened in the middle of the table and a glass, so clear of texture as to be all but invisible, was elevated. It contained possibly three ounces of golden fluid.
Joe didn’t allow himself to think of its means of delivery. He took up the drink and bolted it. He put the glass down and said carefully, “What’s it all about, huh?”
Warren Brett-James said soothingly, “Prepare yourself for somewhat of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no longer in Los Angeles—”
“Ya think I’m stupid? I can see that.”
“I was about to say, Los Angeles of 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you to Nuevo Los Angeles.”
“Ta where?”
“To Nuevo Los Angeles and to the year—” Brett-James looked at his companion. “What is the date, Old Calendar?”
“2133,” Reston-Farrell said. “2133 A.D. they would say.”
Joe Prantera looked from one of them to the other, scowling. “What are you guys talking about?”
Warren Brett-James said softly, “Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in the year 1960, you are now in the year 2133.”
He said, uncomprehendingly, “You mean I been, like, unconscious for—” He let the sentence fall away as he realized the impossibility.
Brett-James said gently, “Hardly for one hundred and seventy years, Mr. Prantera.”
Reston-Farrell said, “I am afraid we are confusing you. Briefly, we have transported you, I suppose one might say, from your own era to ours.”
Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. He had simply never associated with anyone who had ever even remotely considered such an idea. Now he said, “You mean, like, I been asleep all that time?”
“Not exactly,” Brett-James said, frowning.
Reston-Farrell said, “Suffice to say, you are now one hundred and seventy-three years after the last memory you have.”
Joe Prantera’s mind suddenly reverted to those last memories and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt suddenly at bay. He said, “Maybe you guys better let me in on what’s this all about.”
Reston-Farrell said, “Mr. Prantera, we have brought you from your era to perform a task for us.”
Joe stared at him, and then at the other. He couldn’t believe he was getting through to them. Or, at least, that they were to him.
Finally he said, “If I get this, you want me to do a job for you.”
“That is correct.”
Joe said, “You guys know the kind of jobs I do?”
“That is correct.”
“Like hell you do. You think I’m stupid? I never even seen you before.” Joe Prantera came abruptly to his feet. “I’m gettin’ outta here.”
For the second time, Reston-Farrell said, “Where would you go, Mr. Prantera?”
Joe glared at him. Then sat down again, as abruptly as he’d arisen.
* * * *
“Let’s start all over again. I got this straight, you brought me, some screwy way, all the way…here. Okay, I’ll buy that. I seen what it looks like out that window—” The real comprehension was seeping through to him even as he talked. “Everybody I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big Louis, everybody, they’re dead. Even Big Louis.”
“Yes,” Brett-James said, his voice soft. “They are all dead, Mr. Prantera. Their children are all dead, and their grandchildren.”
The two men of the future said nothing more for long minutes while Joe Prantera’s mind whirled its confusion.
Finally he said, “What’s this bit about you wanting me to give it to some guy.”
“That is why we brought you here, Mr. Prantera. You were…you are, a professional assassin.”
“Hey, wait a minute, now.”
Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring the interruption. “There is small point in denying your calling. Pray remember that at the point when we…transported you, you were about to dispose of a contemporary named Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen, I might say, whose demise would probably have caused small dismay to society.”
They had him pegged all right. Joe said, “But why me? Why don’t you get some heavy from now? Somebody knows the ropes these days.”
Brett-James said, “Mr. Prantera, there are no professional assassins in this age, nor have there been for over a century and a half.”
“Well, then do it yourself.” Joe Prantera’s irritation over this whole complicated mess was growing. And already he was beginning to long for the things he knew—for Jessie and Tony and the others, for his favorite bar, for the lasagne down at Papa Giovanni’s. Right now he could have welcomed a calling down at the hands of Big Louis.
Reston-Farrell had come to his feet and walked to one of the large room’s windows. He looked out, as though unseeing. Then, his back turned, he said, “We have tried, but it is simply not in us, Mr. Prantera.”
“You mean you’re yella?”
“No, if by that you mean afraid. It is simply not within us to take the life of a fellow creature—not to speak of a fellow man.”
Joe snapped: “Everything you guys say sounds crazy. Let’s start all over again.”
Brett-James said, “Let me do it, Lawrence.” He turned his eyes to Joe. “Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did you ever consider the future?”
Joe looked at him blankly.
