Dr. Sarrow moved urgently through the hallway. It was busier now that the staff had become acclimated to Mr. Montaigne, though a constant guard outside of his room. He gave a quick greeting and knocked on the door. He could hear the voice of Dr. Paige inside, but got no response. He knocked again, and this time Montaigne called for him to enter.

  He was slowly moving a light-blue weight from waist to shoulder height, Dr. Paige kept her hands under it. Dr. Sarrow waited for the therapy session to be over.

  “Well, doc? You needed somethin’?” Sarrow took a letter out of his coat pocket and handed it to the old man. It was archaic for their time, archaic even for Montaigne’s time. He broke the ornate blue wax seal and lifted the letter out of the envelope. “Not the best penmanship, but a remarkable attempt,” He said, examining the handwritten cursive, the signature at the bottom standing out the most. “Well, what does it say, Raf?”

  The old man smiled at her use of his shortened name. He coughed and put on his glasses:

  “Dear Sir Rafael Montaigne,

  I regret my inability to have made your acquaintance when you first came to consciousness in our world. I hope that this letter finds you in good health. In the spirit of friendship, I humbly invite you to be the guest of honor at a soiree I am throwing at the Presidential Palace in London. I would like to introduce you to the world personally, and allow you to share your insight on what you think of the future so far—though I realize it may not have been much from within a hospital setting.

  Sincerely,

  President Auguste Clemente.”

  Montaigne pouted as he read it over again. Dr. Sarrow and Paige looked at him pensively. “So, would you like to go?” Montaigne glanced up at Paige, and laughed. “I never cared for politics, nor do I particularly find the man interesting. I’ve seen some reels of him on the babble-box. Not much to entice me.” Sarrow cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” Sarrow leaned in closer to him. “Yes. I do not associate with liars and crooks. He seems to be both.” Sarrow pulled back and took another approach. “Up until now, you’ve only had me and the rest of the staff at the institute to bug. Don’t you want to get out amongst the upper crust again?” Montaigne paused, considering. “I suppose it might be fun. Get out of this stuffy place, and meet what y’all consider to be ‘high society’ in this day and age.” He clapped and stood. “Let’s suit up Leonard, you too Evelyn.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Sarrow smiled. “Lucky for you, I am well-practiced from all the Doctors’ Association functions.” Paige snorted. “Are you going to shove him into one of those slipsuits? He’ll look like an old sausage casing in that!”

  “They’re sleek and elegant. I suppose you’ll try and make him into a caked up slit? I’ve seen the men you go out with Evelyn, and I do not approve. It won’t do for someone like Raf here.” They agreed on that. After some bickering, they decided to let the old man choose his own look, and then threw out that idea. “You want to wear a tuxedo? Those haven’t been in fashion in well over a century!” Paige was hysterical over it, Sarrow nodded pensively. “Perhaps he could bring it back? It would certainly be a bold choice.” She put her foot down. “I’d rather him go naked than make an ass of himself in front of the whole Solar System.” It was Sarrow’s turn for hysterics. “Then what would you suggest? A ball gown? A dervisher’s cloak?”

  Their argument was interrupted by Rafael. “How about this? This looks hip and classy.” He turned the monitor to show them. It was a solid white jumpsuit, with asymmetrical flaps across the chest and tall black boots. “Looks a bit too naval.” Rafael nodded. “Naval is good. Prestige.” Both doctors shook their heads. “But you aren’t in the navy, did you ever serve at all?” He laughed at Paige’s words. “No, but I like to think I would if there was a war worth fighting. How about we make it blue then? If the color is what bothers you. Besides, it’s for me, I’m paying, and I like the cut.”

  They put up no further argument.

  The suit they bought matched him well. He did not have to spend much time on the tailor’s stand. He did not imagine the material to be a spandex-nylon mix; it felt odd on skin used to cotton and wool. “Fantastic job, George. How much do I owe you?” It ran him up a bill of four hundred ninety-seven Terran Standard. “Leonard, how many Terran Standard is one gram of gold worth?” His doctor took a moment to search it on his wrist-mount. “Roughly five-hundred.” Montaigne nodded. “Pay the man a full gram, keep the change. You did a fantastic job.” Sarrow made the payment and they left.

  “You cannot simply insult them,” Paige said. “I have not yet decided whether I shall insult them,” Montaigne replied. “But I refuse to rehearse sincerity.” She rubbed her face and sighed. “You do not have to be sincere, Leonard and I prepared that speech so you wouldn’t have to be!” He pulled out the piece of paper. “Not only do I refuse to rehearse it, I refuse not be it!” Paige draped herself over the back of the chair. “You’re a mule, and sometimes I wish we kept you on ice.” Montaigne laughed. “Now that’s sincerity.”

  The door hissed open and Sarrow came in, trailed by two guards. “Well, it’s show time, Raf. Are you ready?” He turned and bowed. “I’m ready for my debut.”

  The elevator had not improved much since his day, except for being quieter. At the top, the doors opened and sunlight hit Montaigne like a truck. The dull lights he’d grown used to inside the building seemed laughably dim in comparison.

  In front of them was a stretch aircar—even a basic air car was hard to come by, and this one came with the Presidential seal and Terran flag. “The perks of having friends in high places, eh?” Montaigne limped slowly with his cane towards the car, his doctors following closely behind him. It felt strange to move in the modern equivalent of a monkey suit. As they approached the aircar, one of the guards opened the door for them, and they slid in.

  They joined the President and the other four senators for Earth—the politicians had already begun the celebration for the night. “Go on, drink up. It is bad form to arrive at a party completely sober, my new friend.” President Clemente passed a half-empty bottle of wine to the new arrivals. Filling a glass for each. “A respectable cuvée, President—”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Please, Call me Auguste.”

  “—August, this Madeira seems to be almost as old as I am. Was this on purpose?” The President shrugged. “Perhaps. I go to great lengths to make those close to me comfortable.” Montaigne sipped his drink. Hints of burnt sugar and dried fig coated his mouth. “The drink of Presidents, Rafael—if I may call you that. Said to have been a favorite of Washington and Jefferson.” Both men finished their glasses. “They were really onto something then.” Diplomatic chuckles filled the cabin at Rafael’s joke.

  The long ride to the palace from New Washington to London was uneventful. The men—and Dr. Paige—finished the bottle and spent the rest of the time sobering up for the party.

  They landed shortly after nine in the evening. Well-dressed servants opening their doors and helping them out of the aircar. President Clemente insisted on walking Montaigne in—as was custom for visiting dignitaries. Palatial guards carried odd, curvaceous weapons and the camera teams had entire studies on their backs. The building itself struck him as decidedly antiquated even for his time. A hodgepodge of Art Nouveau and International. Montaigne made a mental note to buy and destroy the eyesore.

  “Excuse me, Presi—Auguste. But I would like to confer with my medical staff quickly. It won’t take but a moment, and then I will rejoin you. I am terribly sorry.” The President waved him off and assured him that they could rejoin each other inside.

  “Sarrow, Paige. I believe he might have more in store for me than general flattery.” They looked at him, confused. “Why, of course he does. Why else would someone go through such effort?” Montaigne turned on him. “You mean, you understood his machinations all along? And you withheld it from me?” It was Sarrow’s turn to become indignant. “I thought you had understood! Was shrewdness not a vice in your time as it is in ours?” Montaigne shook his head and gazed at the palace entrance. “Never mind that now. I’ll attempt to enjoy myself despite the game being played at my expense. Secure a ride for me, something inconspicuous. Use my card and have it parked by the servant entrance.” He nearly tripped over his boots; the paparazzi were there to catch every moment. It took every ounce of strength within Montaigne to not smash their cameras.

  Within the palace, he found that everyone had something to say to him, something to sell him or convince him on. Offers of investment from suited legions for PlatCo. Mining Incorporated; a grubby Spaniard in a tan suit pressed him about a helium-3 mine for Spaceways Unlimited; political action committees soliciting donations for ‘good causes’ that seemed to Montaigne to be no such thing; and then the general annoyers who wanted his opinion on everything from economic or social crises to how many times one should pray each day.

  He tried to unshackle himself from them as kindly as he could—no definite answers either way, only promises of “I’ll be in touch” or “my people will contact your people.” In all honesty, he had no people. But his assurances still seemed helpful to whoever he was talking to.

  “Ah, Raf—” It rubbed Montaigne the wrong way to hear his name being mangled like that by the President. “—Come meet my good friend, Aiko Nishitaka. He’s a senator from the Luna—Tycho Under.” Montaigne eagerly shook the man’s hand. “It’s good to meet a real-deal Loonie. What is it like up there?” Before he received an answer, President Clemente guided Montaigne to a new group: a handful of gaudy socialites from around the Solar System, arriving in force to barrage him with ridiculously banal questions about his time. “Excuse me, Mr. Clemente—”

  “Ah, I told you that you can call me Auguste; you know very few get the privilege.” A few of the socialistas agreed. “—Auguste. I was hoping to learn more of this time than to dredge up my own.” He p’shawed and gave Montaigne another drink. “All of these people came from all around to see you!” He leaned in closer to Montaigne. “So just give them a little of what they want. Just enough to satisfy. I don’t like it any more than you do.” He pulled back and was all smiles again. Montaigne spent his time speaking of outlandish tales of backroom meetings, handshakes on million dollar deals—he had only added minor embellishments to fit his audience.

  After some time, the President took him aside. “Please do excuse us, but I would like to have Raf here give his speech now.” Montaigne turned slowly to the President. “Speech? I thought this was a party, not a rally.” He kept his voice quiet, but clipped. “I’m not expecting your appraisal of my policies. Just, be polite to me. Your friend.” He clinked his glass to Montaigne’s. “I could, possibly, do that.” He received a pat on the back from the President. “There you go, and after, I’ll introduce you as the eligible bachelor that you are. Possibly find your own Princess Thoris, eh?” Montaigne reluctantly agreed.

  The two men climbed onto the small stage at the far end of the room. The president raised his glass, and the room went silent. “I propose a toast. To The Man out of Time, and a good friend of mine—Sir Rafael Montaigne.” All present silently raised their glasses and drank as the President did. Montaigne did not. The silence unsettled him, and he felt like he was on trial.

  No clapping followed as he approached the microphone—such displays had long since fallen out of fashion.

  “Good evening senators, businessmen, and other assorted somebodies. I have had a wonderful evening here, and getting acclimated to your—excuse me—my new time. However, I do believe I understand why I was invited. As my self-appointed ‘good friend’ President Clemente seems to want me to support him, at least as a matter of public reception.” He turned back to see Clemente’s face about to melt off. “I mean no disrespect to the President or his administration. Nor am I disparaging the state of the Earth at this time. But I cannot in good conscience get involved in the politics of this world. I never have, and I never will. I apologize, and hope that the evening has not been ruined by my words here.”

  He stepped away from the microphone and passed the President. Putting his hand on his shoulder, Montaigne bent down to him. “Thank you for the resplendent evening Auguste. But I feel as though I must be going. Can I count on your aircar to return me to the institute, or shall I find my own way?”

  The President snarled. “Get walking.”

  Montaigne gripped his cane. The President flinched, and Montaigne smiled. “It was a lovely party. Another time, Auguste?” He released the President’s shoulder and sauntered past him into the back rooms.