The baby at the front of the bus giggled. Michael spotted the boy in the jumper floating feet-first toward the bus driver above everyone’s heads. His mother yelped, clutched his foot and yanked him back.
The bus stopped. The doors sighed open.
Michael pushed the stranger out by his wet soles. A few more passengers floated after him, clearing the space by the doors.
Two tall, fat men in their 40s floated into Michael’s field of vision.
“I’m telling you, Ralph,” said the man with a round, plump face, and a head of white and brown hair, wagging an index finger at Ralph. “I cannot believe Foreman still has the heavyweight title. Oh! Excuse me.”
Michael and the man traded a curt nod as Michael pulled himself up to the doors, and then traded a “Thank you” and a “You’re welcome.”
“The fight was pathetic!” the man continued. “The challenger was all over him the entire 12 rounds.”
Ralph, even larger than his companion, with a head of red hair, hovered toward a young couple sitting across from Michael. He tapped the metal bars on the top of the bus seats to keep moving.
“Didn’t he have the time problem?” asked Ralph.
The first man nodded. They hovered further toward the back, their baritone voices louder than the murmur of other conversations. “Halfway through the fight, it was the tenth round, then the ninth, then the eleventh. When they got back to round seven, Foreman looked rougher than ever. He’s just too old. They should’ve tested him for time steroid use.”
“I don’t know,” said Ralph, drifting toward the ceiling, much to the dismay of the seated passengers beneath him, who visibly stiffened at the sight of a 250-pound man hovering overhead. “He got the title for a reason.”
The bus turned north up a main street and toward the downtown business district. Michael rang the bell clumsily using the string by the door. The bus stopped, the doors opened, and he floated out above the street, which was like a busy river in a canyon of tall, glassy office buildings. A mob of bus passengers boarded around him, a shadow passing across them.
Michael looked up.
A small sports car, a red Jetta, floated overhead, probably an older model without non-gravity adjusters. People who buy used cars that aren’t safetied don’t understand the gravity of the situation, he thought.
Michael held the edge of the roof of the bus shelter he had floated toward and shoved himself from there, at a height of eight feet from the sidewalk, from light post to light post down the street. Around him, other commuters floated and negotiated the air. A newspaper flapped by, briefly revealing a color photo of an anemic blonde woman in a bikini, followed by a real-life French poodle with a bouffant hairdo and a tuft of tail. An elderly woman with a similar haircut did the front crawl behind the dog, yelling with each stroke. Michael thought it was like watching someone try to fly in a dream.
Michael passed her, reached a phone booth, grabbed a telephone post with both hands, and awkwardly pulled himself to the busy sidewalk. He was two feet from touching down when a cottony pressure returned in his ears.
Michael plummeted to the ground, landing on his right leg and arm and his rear.
Around him, similar accidents occurred in a cacophony of sounds—impact, curses and laughter. The lady with the poodle landed on the two large bus passengers, who were still discussing boxing.
A man screamed in a harsh, wailing note. A thunderous sound of crashing metal, plastic and glass came from down the block, shaking the sidewalk and rattling the glass of the bus shelters. Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Without looking back, Michael knew he had been lucky. Gravitational flux was a major cause of hundreds of accidental deaths every year, according to the All States polls.
His right shin hurt like hell and his forearm was scraped but not bleeding. Michael noted with disdain that he had scraped the elbow of his lucky maroon shirt. He brushed off the front of his pants, rose, assured his side satchel was still strung over his left shoulder, and walked toward the office.
“Good day, Mr. Atkinson,” said the man behind the desk. He had a receding hairline and a watermelon-shaped head. “I’m Jeremiah Steiner. Have a seat.”
Michael entered the office doorway. Steiner stood, one large hand on the back of his brush cut, his other hand out, indicating the chairs in front of him. He wore a baby-blue suit, a mustard-yellow dress shirt, and a thin, orange tie with a narrow metal clip.
Michael thanked him. They shook hands perfunctorily, and Michael sat in the chair on the right.
An impressive window took up the entire wall behind the desk, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Rows of glassy buildings marched in all directions. The streets 15 stories below bustled with traffic and pedestrians the sizes of ants. To the left was a brown, 20-storey, box-shaped building with a logo, “Intel HR”, in large, thick, white letters at the top. To the right stood a row of skyscrapers whose silvery windows reflected the blue sky. In the distance, beyond the buildings, stood Parliament Hill. Behind that, the rolling hills of Hullatineau faded into the cobalt-colored horizon.
A tall, oak bookcase with rows of hardcover books with golden lettering on the spines stood to the left of Steiner’s desk. A mini-fridge stood in the other corner, along with a small magazine-and-newspaper-cluttered table and two chairs.
“So, Michael—is it okay if I call you that?” Steiner asked.
“Uh, yes,” Michael said quickly.
Steiner sat down, rubbed his palms together, and stared intently at him.
“Good. Care for anything to drink? Don’t be shy to speak up; I’m a little hard of hearing.”
“No thank you,” said Michael.
“Suit yourself,” said Steiner, reaching across the oak desk for a coffee mug. An aqua-colored pad lay in front of him, a phone to the left. In and Out files sat side-by-side on the right. A pile of manila folders and papers sat in the middle. Beside the phone stood a large, ornately framed photograph facing outward; Steiner beamed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his thick arm around a beaming woman with unnaturally orange hair, heavy red lipstick, and tight, black leather pants.
Steiner inhaled deeply, put his hands on the desk, scanning the papers quickly and, Michael thought, for the first time. After a moment, Steiner looked up again.
Michael was aware of silence, the smell of cigarettes and a cloying, musky cologne from the 1980s, a vintage brand named Brut.
“Why do you want to work for us?” Steiner asked. “What are some of the skills you can offer Time Company Incorporated?”
“My communications contracts have involved creating products, organizing events, raising the profiles of organizations, updating systems,” Michael said. “Between that and my financial and legal credentials, I have a lot to offer.”
“A lot to offer,” Steiner replied.
Michael was unsure whether his tone was mockery.
The man behind the desk nodded, his bulbous chin trying to escape from his tight collar. His bloated, pink face had a shaving nick just below the right ear. “You know what we do here, Mr. Acheson?”
“Atkinson.”
“Acherson,” replied Steiner. “You are aware of the power we try to harness and adapt?” He raised a bushy eyebrow that had more hair than the top of his head. The rest of Steiner’s hair had long since retreated to the back and sides in thin, brown strands.
Michael cleared his throat, keeping his voice and nerves steady. Steiner made him nervous.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I have an interest, a very great interest, in stabilizing the space-time continuum. I hear you people are the best. I want to be part of your team.”