Lost in another century, Sheila is trying to find out why she has been brought to this sterile future. . .

I checked vids after lunch, on a whim, and could find no mention of anything resembling the Middle East on the logs. Nothing. From Turkey down as far as Ethiopia (now called Sahara like the rest of the continent) and as far east as Pakistan -- nothing. No maps, blogs, vids, mentions, nothing. That was an interesting discovery, as I'd been meaning to ask Buck and Jack about the Middle East since they had started explaining recent events to me, but it had continually been pushed aside by more pressing concerns.

No Middle East, no military in North America, or South America, either -- a quick search on the log brought up all kinds of info, though, on "the Brasilian continent," as the whole region seemed to be called, now. I couldn't get anything on "Asia," but I already knew that; chasing another idea I looked for population statistics, and could find nothing there, either. I went to find Jack, who had excused himself after lunch, and found him in an office with no books. Why have books, if all the information you need is in your head, on the logs?

I sometimes don't know what I'm going to say next. It's my brain's way of making me say stuff I wouldn't ordinarily voice out loud, I think. Anyway, this was one of those times. Jack was sitting at the window, staring -- into space? At his vids?

"I can't go back, can I?"

He looked up, startled. "No. It's a one-way trip."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"I wasn't. I was going to make Buck do it."

I laughed, in spite of myself. "If it's a one-way trip, how do you have those photos?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice that. Look, let me see if I can explain it." He stood up and came towards me, as if proximity could help him with his explanation. "You can go back in time -- but only for a limited, temporary visit, because the past has already happened, and you don't belong in it; whatever energy that has gone into making up the past is complete without you; you are extra, redundant, there's no room for you.

"You come back whether you're ready or not, and it isn't a comfortable ride. But you can go forward -- because you aren't there yet, and the energy making up the present moment is in the process of happening when you get to it -- however, once you get there, you have to stay. You are part of the present."

"Bullshit."

He looked surprised.

"Bullshit," I repeated, walking past him and toward the window, and wanting to shove my fist through it, "time, like energy, is in flux -- it's fluid. I can be in the past or the future, just as water can be in one part of the ocean or another."

"Time is fluid, yes. But you aren't."

"That doesn't even make sense. What does that even mean?"

"Well, what does that stuff about the ocean mean?"

"I don't know!"

"Then what are you asking me, for?!"

Another thought struck me. "It was you who took those photos! Wasn't it?"

"No. No, it wasn't me. But you're right, I have been back and believe me, it's temporary."

"Who are you?"

"I'm just a guy trying to understand why the hell anyone would want what's in your head so much they brought you three hundred years into the future!"

"In my head? Like, what I know, or what has been put there?"

"I'm not supposed to be telling you this!"

"Oh, way to follow orders, big guy!" We were both shouting, now. He squared off in front of me, and yelled like a drill instructor--

"I just know that you were right about the Tibetan monk, only it wasn't a Tibetan monk and it wasn't the encyclo-brit-whatever-things, it was he who went back and put whatever it is in your head -- and I'm sorry you can't go back! -- but there's nothing I can do about it -- and I wished I'd known about those Moggy stones or whatever you called them so I could have looked at them before they were destroyed! OK!?"

We were in each other's faces, and I could see the pulse in his temple beating in time with mine.

I turned on my heel, and left the room.

It's not every day a girl gets to hear there's something important in her head besides her ideas about great shoes, and I was letting it percolate for a while. Peg and Buck must have heard the shouting, because Peg came looking for me, but left when she saw the expression on my face.

The was a noise at the door of the ranch -- someone entering or leaving. I heard voices, but couldn't make out what was being said. After a while, though, Jack came out to the patio where I was cooling my heels, accompanied by two guys of the type who get out of long black SUV's in my century -- big galoots, dark glasses, anonymous types.

"Let me guess. I'm not going to Far-7, am I?" I said, before anyone could speak.

"No. We're taking a trip."

"Where to? Washington? Beijing? or maybe Tokyo?"

"Tokyo. I was just supposed to deliver you to these guys, but I think I'll come along for the ride," said Jack, and one of the anonymous goons frowned, as if he didn't think that was going to happen on his watch. But Jack was as tall as he was, and just as imposing, and the goon must have thought better of it -- or received another order on his vid -- as he backed down.

"Well, let's go, then," I said, as brightly as I could, "I'm in the mood for sushi."

What happened next is interesting, as it involved a quick jolt and tilt in the orientation of the courtyard, as if we were on a rolling tanker out on heavy seas. And then we were somewhere else. Just like that. No hoopla, sound effects, lights or action. The goons had disappeared, though, so it was just Jack and I who stood outside what was unmistakably a traditional Japanese house, one of those timeless buildings of wood and paper shogi screens.

"Tokyo seems a little less congested since the last time I was here," I observed, looking at the hillside surrounding the building, and the bay in the distance. I turned around and, sure enough, Fuji-san was floating in the distance, on a sea of afternoon haze. We were southwest of Tokyo -- or where it used to be, I supposed -- probably on the Izu peninsula?

Jack silently led me up the wooden steps to a sliding door, which he opened soundlessly. It could have been any century, I marveled; it could have been mine. We kicked off our shoes in the little lobby, the genkan, and climbed another two steps into a long passage way, with an open veranda at the end and a view of the hillside and Mt. Fuji beyond.

We made our way silently to the veranda, and kneeled on the wooden deck, sitting back on our heels simultaneously.

"You have been here before?" I asked Jack, who seemed at ease in his surroundings.

"Many times. Relax: we are among friends."

The door behind us slid open, and we were joined by a small, slight man, probably in his late sixties. Jack wasn't kidding when he said we were among friends, as I instantly recognized the smiling face of a doctor who had treated me a few years before at a hospital in the States, for chronic depression that had been resistant to drugs and therapy. He had given me electro-convulsive therapy. Shock treatment. To my brain. . .

I must have looked a little gobsmacked, as he laughed, and nodded in merriment like a little bobble-headed doll.

"Yes, yes; indeed it is I; your eyes are not tricking you. And Jack-san, so pleased you came with our visitor. But we must celebrate this meeting; it is an important day. Please, drink some sake with me." Behind him appeared a girl carrying a tray of tiny cups and a flask of sake. Both Jack and I waved "ie," no, with our hands, again simultaneously. The doctor laughed again.

"I'm sorry, sensei, I seem to have forgotten your name since the last time we met."

"It was indeed some years ago, but I am Shimata."

"Shimata-sensei, it is a surprise to see you here. And. . .now. Jack did not mention it."

"That would have been against my express wishes."

"I have many questions, Shimata-sensei."

"Please. We have time to answer all of them, dear Sheila-san." (He pronounced it "Shira-san".)

"Can we be traced through the log implants?"

"No."

"What did you put in my head?"

"Everything I could. I did not have much time. There is much from your internet, your encyclopedias, your history. All I could find in twenty-four hours."

"But I saw you more than once -- you treated me several times."

"Yes." Boy, the Japanese don't believe in superfluous detail.

"How were you able to stay so long?"

"I did not. I made separate visits, telling the hospital I was arriving from Washington."

"How is the information stored in my head? In implants, like the logs?"

"No, it is a little more complex than that, and contains no circuitry that can be wiped by an electromagnetic pulse. I have been working on it for decades."

"Why me?"

"The barbaric practice of ECT, electro-convulsive treatment, was not carried out in my country, and I needed to use ECT as a cover for what I was also doing. Americar was a lucky choice. You were selected because you had been suicidal for a long time, yet you had chosen not to end your life. And you had no family."

"Did you also perfect time travel?"

He laughed. "No; someone far wiser than I showed me how that can be attained. In turn, I showed Jack and one of his associates."

"Did you bring me through?"

"No, Shira-san: you did that yourself."

"How?"

"The suggestion had been implanted in your mind. You merely followed through with its completion. It needs no apparatus or machinery -- simply the correct perspective. But we did not know when you would arrive, or where. Jack was good enough to take care of bringing you to me."

"The correct perspective?"

"Yes: it is not a difficult process; it is a matter of folding time." Here, he folded his fingers into the palm of his hand, as if that was all the explanation that was necessary.

"If it's that easy, why don't people do it all the time?"

"Ah, Shira-san, the process is simple, but the consequences are not. If you go into the future, you stay. But if you go into the past, it is dangerous. Once folded, time will spring back again" -- here, he straightened his fingers -- "and many have been lost."

"How?"

"We can only speculate." But he didn't -- at least, not out loud.

"But you came back ok."

"Yes. I am fortunate in that regard."

"Ok, so why put the stuff in my head? Why not bring it back with you?"

"We have no storage device large enough for such capacity. The human brain was deemed sufficient. But the trigger had to be membrane without circuitry in the sense you understand it, in case you did not come through until after the first strike by North Korea, in 2011."