The hominid doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to breathe, as I look at him, and for an instant I think, Dr. Livingstone, I presume. Then I laugh a little behind my visor, marveling that I can do so under the circumstances, and take a step forward, eliciting a growl from the creature I would not want to hear twice.
I hold, looking back at the diver—which is suspended nose-down in the middle of the air— before turning again to regard the creature and his art ... only to find them gone, replaced by a very old man in what appears to be a Tudor-style study parlor.
“Livingstone, Einstein, Hezekiah, we’ve been them all, at one time or another.” He begins moving toward me, casually. “You are ... Diver 7. I presume.”
I just look at him, saying nothing. Behind him is a blackboard which runs floor to cei
