Robert Maxwell strolled the hallways of the Retrograde building, his hands clasped behind his back and his steps unsteady. The late-night hours provided him with a building blessedly empty of employees, people who would look at him with pity and concern. At the moment, he was uncertain he could endure that type of reception.

The officers who had tried to enjoy the post Hindenburg party were well-meaning, but their badly concealed pity grated on Maxwell’s nerves.

He had screwed up; it was that simple. If the decision had been of greater import, he might have changed the timeline and that knowledge prevented him from accepting the concern of his friends.

That seemed to explain the amount of booze that had flowed at the party.

The institution of post mission parties probably died tonight; he mused sourly as he walked. It had come home to them all tonight how hard it was to celebrate a failure.

The whole of the Retrograde building was a shrine to the missions. Maxwell scarcely glanced at the pictures that adorned the walls: he had seen them all too often and his face was in many of them. To many of the Retrograde people, he was a hero, a modern-day Magellan to watch with awe.

Maybe his screw-up would give him a little peace. He was tiring of the adoration.

At the end of the hall, he opened a door to his office, the lights automatically turning on as he entered the room and closed the door.

He walked to a bar set to one side of the room and poured a brandy, then moved to the window and looked out at New York. The city spread below him in a magnificent panorama of colored lights. A short distance from the Retrograde building, the World Trade Center memorial stood far below, a blaze of lights surrounding two fountains falling into twin reflecting pools.

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It was a memorial, he observed, when he felt at a loss for the future. The bent and scorched metal piece of the once proud façade matched his inner turmoil so often lately that Maxwell was feeling an affinity for the relic.

The door opened, and a man entered the office, his presence reflected in the glass of the windows.

“What do you want?” Maxwell asked in a tired voice without facing the man.

“I wish to explain my report,” Anson replied simply. His accent did nothing to humor Maxwell as it had once done when he considered the Swede a friend.

“Why explain?” Maxwell asked bitterly, his hand tightening on the liquor glass. “You’re Eldritch Control. You don’t have to explain anything. Besides, you were right.”

Sitting in a chair facing the desk, Anson reached out with a trembling hand to a picture set on the corner of the desk. Two men held a flag dropped on the field of Waterloo, their faces reflecting camaraderie and friendship. Anson could remember that day and Maxwell’s excitement as he held the other end of the flag. He lowered his hand to his lap; the trembling decreasing but not stopping.

“I reported what happened, including my hesitancy.”

“So, you sink us both with one report?” Maxwell looked at the reflection of Anson in disgust. “I didn’t say a damn thing about your behavior. I accept the need to report violation, but I stop at the point of deliberately sabotaging a man’s career.”

“I was angry...”

Maxwell spun to face Anson, his eyes sharp. “You deliberately turned your back on me when I needed your help. You endangered all of us with your anger. Get the hell out of my office.”

“It is not what you think.” Anson replied in his neutral tone, though his face blanched at the attack.

“Not what I think,” Maxwell snorted and sat in his chair. He set his drink on the table and pushed the glass away. “I take it Eldritch Control officers can now read minds.”

“No.”

“Whatever is happening to you has gotten out of control. Maybe it’s time you retired from active leaps.”

Anson blinked and looked away.

The silence built as Maxwell waited for a reply and Anson fought with his demons. Finally, Maxwell sighed and slumped in his chair.

“Get out of here. You had your chance, and you blew it.”

The security officer stood and walked to the door. Without a glance back, he walked from the room, the offer of peace lost and reconciliation a faint wisp of hope. Turning left, he plodded down the hallway, his head bowed in thought, a green notebook coiled tight in his hands. Perhaps it was time to talk to Helga Tornso, he would have to discuss it with the others before making an advance.