Apr. 4th, 2011

Pain. A pain was flaring in my head, flaring in time with sound. There were noises around me, sometimes loud, sometimes soft. I wished they would stay soft or go away, because when the noises were loud, my head felt like it would explode.

The noises, I realized, were voices. They had the unmistakable cadence of speech. It must be two voices, I decided – one a low rumble, the other ranging high to low and back again. The syllables swam into clarity, and despite the pain I found I could understand what was being said.

"He had a needle pistol," hissed one voice. "Don't you realize what that means? This is no observer. This is no night watchman! They sent back a protector."

"He could be an assassin," said the deep voice. It had an artificially hollow sound.

"An assassin," repeated the first speaker, disgusted. Griffiths – the name came back to me suddenly. This was Griffiths speaking – a dangerous person. "Why would an assassin come back from the 22nd century to kill somebody who he knows survives?" Griffiths demanded.

"Then I don't know," said the one with the deep, resonant voice. Pierre. That would have to be his name.

"Well I know," said Griffiths. "He's here to kill me and stop what we're doing. What we don't know is how much he knows."

"He's moving around," Pierre said. "We'll have to ask him."
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September 2012

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