"That's just what I'm afraid of," she had said. "It's not so much that I might not make it myself that worries me, but the idea that I might screw up due to my inexperience and it could mutt in temporal interference, a disruption or maybe even a timestream split. The idea of all that responsibility is simply staggering. The pressure's unbelievable. It gives me migraines:"
"And it makes you nauseous and upsets your stomach and you can't sleep and when you do sleep, you have recurring nightmares." Neilson said.
"I know, I've been there. They've all been there, except maybe Steiger. Nothing seems to bother him much, but then you've got to be pretty cold to be a TIA agent to begin with."
"So how do you handle it?” she said.
"You don't,” he said, "Believe it or not, after a while, it sort of handles itself. There's only so much pressure you can take before you either break or you just get used to it. You even become casual about it. You have to, otherwise you simply can't function. If you were the type who was liable to break, chances are it would have come out in your psych profile and you never would have made it this far. But almost everybody goes through what you're experiencing the first few times out to the Minus Side. Nobody expects a rookie to take it like a veteran. They're not going to cut you any slack, but they won't hold your inexperience against you, either. Anybody can mess up, even someone like Delaney, who's got more years in the service than both our ages combined."
“How long did it take before you learned to handle the pressure?" she said.
Neilson had laughed. "Are you kidding? I still have nightmares. Almost every night, except when I'm so exhausted that Idon't even dream. And I'll tell you a secret-I don't really believe that anyone ever learns to handle it. They just learn to live with it. It's no accident that the First Division has a reputation for being such a bunch of hellraisers in Plus Time. You get drunk; you fight: you fuck: you get into high risk sports: whatever it takes to give you an outlet for the pressure."
"What do you do?" she said.
"Well. I don't drink and I'm afraid I'm not much of a. fighter." Neilson had said. "I barely made it through combat training."
She had smiled. "So what does that leave?"
Neilson grinned self-consciously. "Well, actually, not what you might think. Iget into a lot of hand-eye coordination things.”
"Like what?"
"Quick-draw target practice with antique revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Knife throwing, Darts. Sleight-of
"What's that?"
"Itused to be called close-up magic. Tricks with cards and coins and such." He had demonstrated by "walking" a coin across his lingers. "It requires lots of practice and concentration." he had said. "It takes your mind off other things and it sharpens your reflexes. Helps you think fast. Maybe you should give it a try."
"Well, antique firearms are noisy. I don't have any knives or darts. I'm not really in the mood for any magic tricks and Idon't much feel like getting drunk and waking up with a hangover." She smiled. "What does that leave? You want to run down that list again'?"
They had spent the night together and their lovemaking had been frenzied and intense. Afterwards, they went to sleep holding each other and, for a change, there had been no nightmares. But then Moreau had abducted H. G. Wells and now the pressure was hack on, savage and relentless. It felt as if her every nerve synapse were charged with adrenaline-induced, hair-trigger sensitivity. She was scared, yet at the same time, there was an intoxicating rush associated with it, almost an orgasmic high, the intense, heightened perceptions of a sword dancer. She didn't realize just how intense it was until someone came up behind her and addressed her in a deep voice. "Excuse me; Miss, how much for a buttonhole?"
It wasn't until almost a full minute later that she fully realized what had happened. None of it had taken place with any conscious thought. She had turned and, in a galvanizing, white hot blast of instinctual response, the sight of the gun had registered and she reacted, throwing herself to one side as the dart missed her by scant millimeters. She clawed for her revolver, fired-but he was already gone and the bullet passed through empty air where he had been standing just a second earlier and struck a lamppost, ricocheting off it and whining away into the distance.
“Damn!" she shouted. "God damn it! Jesus. And then she noticed several people on the street staring at her with astonishment and she felt the delayed stress reaction kicking in. She quickly hit her warp disc and clocked out, materializing in the Hotel Metropole command post just as the dry heaves began. At some point, she became aware of Delaney standing over her and holding her while she retched, gasping for breath.
"We're blown," she said. "Dammit, we're blown! Drakov almost got me!"
Delaney didn't even pause to wait for an explanation. He bolted into the other room to wake up Steiger and then Christine Brant was steadying her, helping her to the couch as the shakes began.
It did not occur to her until much later that she had survived an encounter with the Temporal Corps' worst nemesis. Nikolai Drakov had the drop on her and she had lived to tell the tale. She wasn't a rookie anymore.
Pvt. Dick Larson stood over the body numbly staring down at what was left of Cpl. Tom Davis. The corpse was lying in a crumpled heap next to a pile of refuse in the alley. Blood was everywhere, covering the chest and spattered on the alley wall. The head was barely attached by a few ragged threads of flesh. Someone… or something
… had twisted his head around completely, severing the spinal column, and then the body had been thrown across the alley. A large splatter of blood marked the spot where Davis had been killed and then another one marked the wall at about shoulder level where the thrown body had struck it and then dropped down to the ground.
"Thought you should sec this." Inspector Grayson said. "That's your friend Davis, from the Telegraph, isn't it'?" Larson nodded mutely.
"I'm sorry." said Grayson. "He seemed a decent sort. It looks as if he may have found our killer. Or the killer found him. I know the two of you were working together on this story. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me what he was on to.'
Larson shook his head and turned away from the grisly sight. "I honestly don't know, Inspector."
"What was he doing down here?" Grayson said.
"Same thing I've been doing. I imagine,” Larson said. "Canvassing the pubs, questioning the locals. He must have stumbled onto something."
"Yes, apparently." said Grayson with a sour grimace. "Look, don't misunderstand me. I appreciate the restraint you've shown in writing about these killings and you've lived up to our bargain in keeping certain details confidential, but if you've discovered anything that you're not telling me, I want to know about it now."