The fat man wearing the brown tweed suit did not look like a time traveler. I retracted my thumb as he pulled over and popped open the passenger door of his ugly green Mercedes. I climbed in, yanking on the tail of my German Army surplus overcoat so I wouldn't get caught when I slammed the door. My high-standing shock of blond hair swept the roof of the car.

I had just made a scene quitting my crummy job at Compu-World. My boss, Mr. Meckle, had caught me playing video games in the back long after my break was over. That was no big deal as he usually caught me once or twice a week. What had really gotten us pissed at each other was the big finger that had greeted him on his computer terminal when he booted up. It was big and blue and anatomically correct, with a very rude message EAT THIS, SUCKER in red text across the bottom of the screen. What was even funnier was that he couldn't get rid of it without trashing his hard disk since the program had embedded itself in the boot sector like a virus.

What wasn't funny was that he was convinced I had done it to him, right down to having eyewitnesses who swore that they had seen me install the thing.

Now, I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next guy, and being the most knowledgeable computer-hacker in the office at the time, I could have done it, but I hadn't. I didn't know what kind of game Beverly and Emil were playing at, those two backstabbing, cash-register-punching types that worked out on the showroom. They swore that they had caught me red-handed copying that disk into the machine, and I could do nothing but deny it. Soon the argument got ugly as Meckle insisted that I reload all his software on my own time, which would take several hours, and that I generally act like a whipped puppy. I had ended it by quitting, then thumbing a ride at the front of the store, just to annoy the management.

"I'm Gerard. Where to, friend?" asked the fat guy. He pulled the Mercedes into the traffic and gunned it to make a light. My head rocked back and I was surprised at the power of the car.

"I'm Ben Svenson. Head for the College, please," I told him in a sullen voice. I buried my hands into the pockets of my overcoat and tried to ignore my battleaxe earring that kept slipping loose and giving me hell. Meckle had called me the last punker on Earth. That had hurt a bit. I'm sure there were a few punks left in London, somewhere...

"You're a big kid, aren't you," commented Gerard. "You play football?"

"I used to," I grunted. "Look, I'm not in the mood for chatting."

"What's your trouble?"

"I've been having a hard time keeping a job, pops. Keep your eyes on the road, will you?"

He just smiled vaguely, like he knew something I didn't, and kept driving. He was a weirdo, I was already certain of that. I looked around the interior of the car and spotted a roll of breath mints on the dash. I grabbed them when Gerard's head was turned and was about to pop one in my mouth when he turned. I slid the roll into my overcoat pocket and sat back, figuring I would eat one and return the roll later. What happened next made me forget about them for a long time.

"Here she comes," he muttered, glancing at his rearview mirror. Without warning the fat guy stood on the accelerator and was weaving through traffic like a detective in a cop show. The engine roared like a 12-cylinder Ferrari.

"Hey man! You're really getting out of hand here!" I shouted in alarm. My fists came out of my pockets, and in reflex my hands planted themselves on the dash. We swerved to the right around a Honda, then pulled a squealing left, cutting across traffic to duck into a side street. I looked back and saw an ice-blue Porsche with a black-haired Asian-looking woman at the wheel right behind us. The custom plates read SYLS944.

"Let's pay the alimony, old man. She doesn't look that tough."

The man in the brown tweed stomped on the brakes, locked them and brought the car to a screeching halt. The front bumper was just kissing a row of garbage cans. He glanced into the rearview mirror and grinned.

"Looks like we have just enough time to do a fade on her." With practiced movements, he pulled out the cigarette lighter, touched the fleshy part of his left thumb to the cold coil and shoved it back into the dash. "She can't touch us now," he told me confidently.

My jaw sagged as I witnessed this bizarre little ritual. My right hand fumbled for the door latch. I was obviously riding with a complete loon.

Gerard paid no attention to me or the woman. She had stopped and was jogging toward us, her green blouse swaying nicely. Her long black hair almost reached the belt on her leather miniskirt. Something silvery flashed in her hand. A pistol?

Gerard turned to me, his face a hard mask. "If you ever see that chick again, run."

"A real nut-cutter, eh?" I said to humor the guy. My hand kept working the door handle. It seemed to be locked.

"The worst. If she catches me, she'll take me downtime and put me on a volcano ten seconds before it erupts." He chuckled at the thought.

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but I figured he was remarkably calm, considering that the woman had almost reached our car.

Then the cigarette lighter popped out and the scenery outside the car melted, shifting to an opaque gray. Silence fell; the only audible sound was the quiet purr of the car's engine. I grabbed two handfuls of brown tweed.

"What's going on?" I demanded, twisting my face into my best street-kid snarl.

Gerard pulled out the cigarette lighter and touched it to a filterless cigarette. The tip instantly glowed orange. He clamped it between his teeth and squinted as he drew in a lungful. "We're goin' for a ride," he said with a smile. "Want a smoke?"

I tried the door handle again, no luck.

"We're Time-trippin' boy. Next stop, Station Alt-17."

"What the hell does that mean?"