Free Time Snatchers by Richard Ungar

That seems fine for a desert mission but a strange choice for twenty-first century London. For a moment I think of asking Nassim about it but then I decide not to—he’s a careful type, so I’m sure he must have a good reason for wanting me to dress this way.
    I duck back into the dorm and slip the kaftan on over my sandals.
    Next, a pit stop in the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and some toast. While I munch, I check the cooking schedule stuck to the fridge door. It’s my turn to cook tonight. Cooking is not my first love … or even my second, third or fourth. In fact, on the likeability scale, I’d put it right near the bottom, just above saying the dinner prayers. Unfortunately, hating to cook is no excuse in Uncle’s world.
    I swing the fridge door open, expecting the worst. But it’s not so bad. There are three or four kinds of vegetables and lots of pasta sauce: it won’t be a gourmet meal like last night, but at least it’ll be something.
    “You’ve got something on your face,” says a voice.
    “Good morning, Phoebe,” I say, reaching for a napkin.
    Wiping my mouth, I glance at the wall screen. Phoebe’s persona is wearing a black evening gown encrusted with tiny crystals and is carrying a matching purse.
    “Have you seen Abbie?” I ask.
    “First, what do you think of my outfit?” she says.
    I don’t usually have an opinion about clothes for computer personas, but the only way I’ll ever get an answer to my question is to have this conversation first.
    “Very nice,” I say.
    “Go on,” she says. “What else?”
    “Very nice and … very sparkly.”
    Phoebe’s persona frowns. “And …”
    “And very … slimming,” I add.
    There’s a long silence as she no doubt analyzes the compliment quotient in my words.
    “All right, I suppose that will do,” she says. “Now I will answer your question: Abbie just left for London.”
    “Okay, thanks,” I say, heading out of the kitchen.
    “But if I were you, I wouldn’t go just yet,” Phoebe continues.
    “Why not?” I say.
    “Well, just look at the way you’re dressed.”
    I think for a moment before continuing the conversation. The thing with Phoebe is she loves to argue. Give her an opening, and she’ll go for your throat. I’m already regretting having said good morning to her.
    “Thanks. I’ll consider your advice,” I say finally.
    “You’ll ‘consider my advice’?” she says. “If I were you, I’d be doing more than considering my advice. I’d at least be changing out of those pajamas.”
    I just smile and head for the fire escape. It’s much easier to timeleap from outside than inside. Uncle says it has to do with the fact that this building, like a lot of others in Tribeca and SoHo, has a cast-iron frame behind its brick walls. Apparently, the cast iron interferes with the frequencies needed for time travel. I’m no scientist, but it seems to me that if you’re going to run a time-travel thieverybusiness, wouldn’t it make more sense to find a place that’s time-travel friendly?
    I’m about to tap my wrist when I realize that I forgot to do something. I hurry back inside.
    “Back so soon?” Phoebe snickers.
    “Phoebe, can you please upload the briefing notes for the London mission to my patch?”
    There’s a moment of silence, before she says, “I can. But it’ll cost you.”
    I snort involuntarily. “Cost me? But isn’t it your job?” I regret the words almost as soon as I say them.
    “I’ll consider your advice,” mimics Phoebe.
    Must stay calm. Counting quietly to ten usually works. I’m at nine and seven-eighths when a short beep from my wrist tells me that the mission information has been uploaded.
    “Thanks, Phoebe.” As I step out onto the fire escape, I think I hear Phoebe say something, but I can’t make out the words. It could be “you’re welcome” or maybe just an insult that sounds like that.

August 28, 2006, 10:44 A.M.
Kensington District
London, England
Operation