Daniela glared at the machinery.
“Shut it down Ted.”
“That’s science, sometimes right, sometimes wrong. Shame it took thirty-nine years.”
“Scrap the lot.”
Empty freeway, Chicago’s lights fading behind. Four billion people will never know I’ve tried. She turned the radio up, headlights swaying with Benny Goodman. I need a holiday, a week or two in the air; deck promenades, champagne at five thousand feet.
Daniela leant back against the ’19 BelAir’s fins. Twin moons shone down, scudding silver-blue discs shepherding iridescent rings across the heavens. Perfect. She smiled. Why’d I ever try to change it?