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LOOSE ENDS


by Paul Levinson

[novella, Analog, May 1997]
Copyright (c) 1997 by Paul Levinson; all rights reserved.


Jeff felt a certain hardness under his backside, like he
had fallen asleep on a plush chair and come awake on a park
bench somewhere.
He opened his eyes and stared at his destiny: a large and
messy lounge of some sort, outlines indistinct in what must have
been the reflected light of evening street lamps. There was no
doubt about it. The broken-down couch in the corner, worn
wooden study tables to the right, books and papers and misshapen
armchairs strewn around like some old rummage sale -- this was a
far cry indeed from the cool flowing continuum of the control
room. The Thorne had worked after all.
Jeff strained to keep his adrenaline in check. Not even a
cleaning person in the unlit room. Good. It was late at night,
maybe even a weekend. No one to bump into. He pulled a low
intensity fireflighter from his pocket. In the weak
approximation of daylight, the lounge looked even more 20th
century. Remarkable! On the floor near his feet, he noticed a
ratty looking issue of _Look_ magazine. The August 23, 1963
date on the cover caused another rush in his veins, but told him
not enough of what he needed to know. The magazine could have
been lying around for years by the looks of this room.
He had to know the exact date of his arrival. It would tell
him which of the eight plans to implement. Clutching his
deliberately nondescript suitcase, he walked quickly to the
door. He noticed a torn _Time_ magazine dated
October-something, 1963, and frowned.
Jeff delicately opened the door and patted the shirt of his
janitor's outfit. He was an academic with strong ties to the
working class -- his great-great-grandparents had slaved in
sweatshops -- and he welcomed the prospect of testing out his
jargon, costume, and identity on the local populace.
Unfortunately -- or fortunately -- no victims were in sight. He
walked out, carefully closed the door behind, and strode in
search of an exit.
"Sher-er-ry, Sherry baby. She-er-ry..."
For some moments now, Jeff thought he had been hearing a
faint falsetto whining. He walked down the last flight of
stairs, out into the street, and recognized the shrieks as
"Sherry" -- an early rock hit by the Four Seasons. More
inconclusive evidence, not particularly heartening. He'd done
a special lecture on the Seasons and the Beachboys just last