But he only laughed. "True! It can be very ugly. But ugly-" his fiery eyes grew even more agitated "-with sexuality!"

I would soon learn that the entire world, to Tarbell, was divided between people and things that were not "sexual" and those that had "sexuality!" Though a simple formula, it seemed as valid as any, and a good deal more amusing than most, given the way he made his pronouncements with near comic vigor; and so I laughed along with him, relaxing a bit as we arrived at the door to what were to be my quarters.

Inside was a small stateroom that resembled images I'd seen of early 20th century transatlantic ocean liners. The temperature was well above the 45Á of the corridor, creating a welcoming atmosphere that was complemented by more wood paneling, a small, porthole-shaped transparent section in the hull, tinted glass light shades, and marble and ceramic sanitary facilities that appeared to be genuine antiques. It was even more unlike the very high-tech nose area of the ship than were the corridors, a fact that caused my confusion to spike once more.

"Past and future, side by side," Tarbell said with a nod. "You could say that time does not exist aboard this vessel. Such is Malcolm!"

I turned my thoughts to my host. "Is he all right?"

Tarbell nodded confidently. "They pass, these attacks."

"But what's wrong with him?"

"About this, I am not comfortable speaking. Perhaps he will tell you. Or perhaps Larissa." Tarbell gave me his demonic grin. "She has fastened her eye on you-lucky man. A woman of rare brilliance, beauty-and sexuality!" As he barked the last word he clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Yes, you will join our little company, I think!" Turning to go he added, "You will find everything you need here-even fresh clothes. We dine forward, in one half-hour. Malcolm tells me that you enjoy vodka-come soon, and I will share my private stock!"

It was evident that these people already knew almost everything about me, from the size and preferred style of my clothing (there was nothing in the closet of my quarters that I could not or would not have worn) to my taste in liquor. I didn't wonder as to how they had attained such knowledge, any more than I wondered about the cost of building the ship on which we were traveling. Malcolm and Larissa Tressalian's father Stephen, whose satellite system had made the modern Internet possible, had been one of the wealthiest men in the world; he'd also been a leader of the group of information technocrats who, during the '07 crisis, had put up their collective private and corporate assets to guarantee the solvency of the American government, just as the financier J.P. Morgan and his associates had done a century earlier. Tressalian and his allies had then used this timely support as a club with which to beat Washington into dropping any and all attempts to regulate information commerce, thus dealing the deathblow to, among other things, the already wounded concept of personal privacy.

There would have been few things beyond the reach of such a man's heirs; and yet this fact alone did not explain the most urgent questions at hand, which I grappled with yet again as I washed and changed for dinner: What exactly were these people up to, and why they had decided, in Larissa's phrase, that they needed me?

In twenty minutes I was headed back toward the nose of the ship, determined this time to get answers that were more than cryptic.

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Read Chapter One of Killing Time

Will We Travel to the Stars?