I'm on a mission for S and B., old friends with whom I've recently re-established contact.

It seems they face some undetermined yet grave threat from a cabal of early twentieth-century eugenicists, which can be defeated by a tortuous counterplot that requires I write an account of human prehistory. To this end, I head to a multi-level Museum of Man. The curator, or some employee, immediately apologizes for the dated name. "It's carved in stone," I'm told, with a shrug. I also learn the museum is about to close for the night. Fortunately, a handful of people can remain overnight, and I'm one of the select.

Downstairs, past the skeleton of a mastodon, I find a display which resembles an oversize glossy pamphlet, the kind that accordions out. I am able to remove sections so that I can research/crib my account. I gesture to the security camera, mouth that I will replace the bits, and head to an old-growth table to write.

In addition to a factual history, I find "creative reconstructions" of the lives of our ancestors in various eras, written by two E2 noders. I cannot recall which ones, specifically, but one a mostly-fled old-timer, the other, Silverai_me or Nemosyn or a fusion of the two.

Somehow, my writing about our ancestors merges with reflections on a road trip I took back in August of '92.

The clock it ticks above my head.


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