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    "Late in the twentieth century air became a commodity::::by way of buying and selling rights for emitting air pollution. In the year 2059, the economist Charovsky, turned this on its head, outlined a plan whereby air became the standard of a global currency::::much as gold was used as a standard previously. He was awarded the Nobel prize. The conversion took several decades, but currency worldwide was converted to units equaling cubic meters of breathable air. Fluctuations in regional air quality meant fluctuations in the local currency. This ensured a policy of clean air. Taxes were increased as air quality was increased, until, worldwide, air quality was so high that all earnings were deposited as tax. From there it was a simple matter of getting rid of the capital all together, nd our current system of mutuality was born. Space Sation Five is currently at work repairing the last fissure in the ozone layer. And so is sew together the last chapter in the age of industrialization."
     "Air?"
     "Yes."
     "Why is it you seemed surprized by my arrival?"
     "Well, indeed I am the researcher who requested for you to be brought here in the first place. But I never meant for my hologram to disturb your visit."
     "You brought me here?"
     "I am a library scientist::::a profesor of library science. In the later part of the 21st century all written materials were converted to digital format. Unfortunately, several decades later when abandoning the digital format for optical, decisions were made which left-out billions of pages of information from the general infrastructure. I am known for sifting through these digital stacks. That's where I followed references to 7z's through to your writings::::converted your works to optical, and alerted Three's Detta to your existence::::the existence of your book, which describes your journey here::::your elimination of this 7z's."
     "My book."
     "Yes. And we agreed the perhaps we should bring your here to fullfill the book."
     "So, this is all written down?"
     "Not this. And that's why I was surprized by your visit. Your book ends when you return to Detta after eliminating 7z's. This, this now, is not in the book."
     "Well I still have some time here. Thought I'd take a look around."
     "Yes."
     Pause.
     "Well I don't know quite what to do with you. My students arrive in fifteen minutes."
     "Oh, I'm sorry."
     "No, no. It's not that. I imagine Ric-M will be very pleased to meet you. He did the cataloguing of your works."
     "Works?"
     "You wrote a dozen books. Most dealing with the detective work you were known for, but also three novels. And, of course, your book which just ended. You, my friend, have been credited with discovering a new genre. It was science fiction. That's how it was received::::with moderate success for that genre. But, you see, now that it has become a work of historical fact, well, it doesn't fit in to prophesy exactly, and doesn't fit in with history. I have dubbed it with its own genre, Calmeric."
     "There's a genre named after me?"
     "Well, this is quite recent. But yes. A completely new literary genre."
     "Cool."
     "Ric-M is familiar with all your works::::the bulk is actually webpages."
     "Yes. I write little reports about my cases."
     "Well, he's planning a 'Dick Calm Reader' which will include all of your works, collected into one area."
     "Sorry I'm not around to profit from it."
     "Profit?::::Oh. Yes."
     "So, got any suggestions? I'm completely free. This next twenty-three hours are completely free::::don't exist::::see what I mean?::::But I'm here. Where is here?"
     "Pacifica? Pacifica is a man-made island about two hundred kilometers to the East of what was Japan. This is a place of research. The world's leading institutes in many varied disciplines exist here. I'm not sure what would interest you. There is an exciting event going on over in fremaeology."
     "Fremaeology?"
     "You would liken it to archaeology::::and perhaps space travel, mixed. A person, like yourself, is amatronically sent into the future. Digs into the future. It's a very risky business::::he must land in an exact location in the time-space. He's on his way to 2420. They've dug-out that space for several months now. I don't know::::that might interest you."
     "How long will it take?"
     "He leaves in twenty minutes."
     "Yeah?"
     "Well, he returns at the exact same moment he departs. Then will give a briefing on his findings. The briefings usually last fifteen to twenty minutes::::according to what he finds."
     "Sounds fun."
     "We are very close to opening a safe portal. This will open up time travel completely::::forwards and backwards. A rather heady event."
     "I'm sold."
     "Yes. Perhaps it is better if you leave before my students arrive. One should not know too many certainties about one's future. This will be a very strange place for you, Mr. Calm. The students and teachers here are the most advanced in our society. For example, shielding is quite common here."
     "Shielding?"
     "For example."
     IP-21 stands up.
     "Revelle, engage. Full shield two."
     Suddenly IP-21 vanishes.
     "Where'd you go?"
     "Oh, I'm still here. My computer is programmed to create a series of screens around me::::so that it appears I've left. Disengage shield."
     He suddenly appears.
     "Cool."
     "A mere magician's trick. We are full of them here. Beware."
     "Well, thanks for the lemonade."
     "You're welcomes, Mr. Calm. Thanks you for saving the twenty-third century."
     He bows, then gestures with his hand, and a path suddenly opens through the thick garden.
     "Oh, where's this 'frem' thing happening?"
     "Ask your computer to guide you, Mr. Calm."
     "Oh. Yeah."
     Once through the garden a fence springs into being behind him.
     "Shitforbrains, engage."
     "Yes."
     "Where's fremaeology?"
     "Follow the path to your left. If you engage 'open direct,' I will alert you when you must turn left."
     "Open direct."
     "Engaged."
     Dick turns to his left and heads down the walkway, which is surrounded by grass::::perfectly trimmed::::too perfect, he thinks. Can't help himself::::he squats down and bends over and brushes the grass with his fingertips. Feels real. Cloudless sky. The whitish stone-like walkway flawless::::the buildings in the distance so perfect. He senses that maybe he's inside some 3-D projection and not life. Twenty-three hours::::he thinks::::of absolute freedom. He doesn't exist, but is existing. He now sees off in the distance people walking toward him on the walkway. Something::::someone::::seems to come flying around them::::zig-zags::::then is suddenly just a few feet away::::at foot or two off the ground. Catching the person's eyes, Dick gestures::::as if for a taxi in downtown Metropolis.
     "Hey!"
     He turns, and watches as the being circles back around to him. It's a man, about forty in appearance, happy, hovering before him on a small white disk.
     "What is that?"
     "What?"
     And the man goes sideways::::banking his disk off some unknown wind::::the swinging motion Dick had witnessed coming at him from the distance.
     "That's a rack-turbo-shift."
     "No. That"::::And Dick points to the disk.
     "Oh. Funny man. It's an air-board."
     "Oh."
     "Gotta fly."
     And with that he's off::::banking this way and that::::making a wide, sweeping turn::::then gone.
     When Dick turns back to the direction he was heaing, the three which were in the distance walking toward him are now almost upon him. Strange mix::::a very old sprightly man in a flowing blue robe::::crinkling as if made from plastic; a middle-aged man carrying what looks for all the world to be a bull-horn; and a kid::::not more than fifteen::::pimples::::dressed in post-modern McDonald's uniform::::with short electric dreadlocks.
     This younger one stares at Dick while they meet and pass. Gray eyes. They pass, but Dick feels them stop behind him.
     "Excuse me"::::the kid's voice.
     Dick turns::::and all three are staring at him::::the two older ones obviously curious as to why their friend has stopped them.
     "Um, sorry. But. I mean it couldn't be, but. Are you Dick Calm?"
     "Well, you know"::::Dick delivers, turns, and continues.
     "That's Dick Calm! That's. It's! He's the one I've been surveying!"
     Dick just continues walking::::kind of forcefully::::as if hiding something. Only about twenty steps further on does he turn briefly::::and see that the three have continued on in their direction::::the young one in the middle gesturing wildly::::lost words.
     "You turn left at this next junction."
     Dick is a bit startled by the voice from out of nowhere but simply turns.
     "The building on the right 102 meters down."
     "Got it. Uh, can't you shut off?"
     "Yes."
     It takes a full three minutes before Dick has shaken the presence of his computer. He's now walking to the entrance of a building. There are others doing the same. The door evaporates as he approaches. He can see a trail of people and follows along down a wide, well-lit corridor. Then notices that it is so well-lit because the entire ceiling over the corridor is light::::not bright, like neon, but subdued, in a sense perfect, but that perfection puts him on edge a little. He enters a hall::::a classroom-arena. Must be 1000 people there::::and, being a late-comer, he ends up in a recessed area off to one side of the stage::::which is bare except for an Ernst-like podium.

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