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that would entail a visit from the Cellar, which would entail the end of her timeline. And the psychiatrist’s.
    Not that doing such a thing would ever occur to Edith Frobish. It would be like cheating on her taxes or jaywalking. Some things just aren’t done.
    The Time Patrol actually had a psychiatrist, but he scared Edith and she doubted very much that his job was to help untangle the psyches of the members.
    Edith was a tall woman, with a long beautiful neck and figure, elegant enough to be a fashion model, something else she couldn’t imagine.
    Besides being a psychological anchor, the Needle served a practical purpose for Edith. She was an art historian The Patrol had realized early on that art is one of the best recorders of human history. If the art changed, whether it be a sculpture, a painting, a novel, a play, etchings on a cave wall, a clay pot, etc. it meant the timeline had changed.
    As Edith perused the very faded hieroglyphics, moving from one side to the next, it looked the same as it always did, to Edith’s relief. Secretly her fear, what a shrink would never quite understand unless they knew her job, was that some day she’d walk by and it would simply be gone.
    The shrink would probably want to put her in the loony bin, not understanding such a possibility was real.
    It did bother her that it was called ‘Cleopatra’s’ when that particular hussy had had little to do with it. It had been carved long before Cleopatra’s time. Only after her demise had Augustus, who’d caused her death and her lover’s, Marc Antony, well, lover after Caesar’s death, and Edith was sure there’d been one or two more in between, she was quite disapproving of such dalliances. Edith forgot for a moment her train of disapproval, as the image of Cleopatra shagging Caesar and then Marc Antony caused some quaint disturbance in her body. Ah, yes, she got on board the train: After Cleopatra had her date with a snake, Augustus had the Needle moved it to Alexandria to a temple he built and dedicated to himself.
    Men.
    Edith made it to the fourth side, ready to move on the job, when she gasped.
    It was smooth.
    This was not good. Not good at all.
    The art had changed.
    Thus, the history had changed.
    She barely heard the helicopter landing in Central Park behind her and certainly didn’t register it consciously.
    With both hands, she clutched her old leather satchel tight to her chest, trying to get her rapid breathing under control.
    “Are you all right, miss?”
    Edith almost dropped the satchel. It was a New York City policeman.
    She was so discombobulated, she pointed. “Do you see?”
    The cop looked at the Needle. “Yeah?”
    “It’s blank! There should be hieroglyphics on it.”
    “There are markings on it.”
    “This side,” Edith said, taking a step closer to the Needle and shaking her finger. “It’s blank.”
    “No,” the cop said. “It’s not.” The cop stared at her, then at the Needle, then back at her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s in the case?”
    Was she losing her mind? Edith re-grouped. She saw it. He didn’t. “I work in the Museum,” she said, nodding toward the massive building. “I’m carrying very important material.”
    “’Material’?” the cop asked, taking a step toward her. “Mind if I take a look?”
    “I do mind,” Edith said, vaguely remembering something in the news about ‘stop and frisk’ being done away with. Which meant this might be something different? And one side of the Needle was blank, but he said it wasn’t. The cop might be someone different, which meant--
    “She’s with us,” a woman’s voice came from behind Edith.
    Neeley was standing there. Next to her, Roland had an arm around an inebriated Mac.
    “What’s wrong with your friend?” The cop asked, taking a step back, his hand edging toward his gun.
    Neeley pulled out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a badge and an I.D.. “CIA. We’re escorting our friend, and Ms.