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returned with plates of sautéed chicken liver garnished with fashionably bitter leaves. McMahon looked at his serving like a child might survey a new toy; then he started to slice into his food.
    Nick was no longer hungry. Plus, the front of the restaurant was getting busy. A handful of people were milling by the door and the
maître d’
was having trouble clearing them. It wouldn’t take long for a protest to form. Or maybe two. One set of people calling for NovusPart to be shut down; another asking for them to intervene in whatever tragedy was personal to them. The security guards flanking their table stepped closer. McMahon and Whelan would probably be whisked out the back; but where did that leave him? Nick forced his attention back to Whelan. “It won’t work,” he said. “You can’t isolate a few people and expect to recreate a historical environment.”
    “What if we recreated an entire town?”
    “No. You couldn’t do it. In a plane crash – like Flight 391 – you know exactly how many people died and the envelope of the event is well defined. But there’s no way you could pull so many survivors from a disaster zone. You couldn’t be certain about who lived and who died. You’d end up with timeline problems.”
    McMahon spoke up. “I’m glad you know so much about our technology.”
    “I’m familiar with the arguments.”
    “Hiroshima?” Whelan asked.
    Were they serious? The people who’d been vaporised? Could some of them have been pulled forward in time?
    “No,” Nick said, regaining his composure. “It’s a case in point. Many people survived very close to the blast. It would be risky. And, anyway, there’s lots of footage and documents from that time. There would be no academic interest.”
    “Please save our daughter!”
    The shout had come from near the
maître d’
s lectern. So at least one of the two sides of the coin had arrived. The people who wanted NovusPart to go further. Nick looked over towards the restaurant door. A man was being thrown out. Waiters were moving to guard the entrance. People were gathering outside. The other diners had stopped eating. They probably knew they were now trapped in the restaurant. Until McMahon decided to leave, or the people outside broke in.
    Whelan leant closer. “Mr Houghton, you’re working at a third-rate university, and we know you’ve had all your research applications turned down.” His voice didn’t betray any urgency. He didn’t appear to have noticed the mix of anger and desperation forming in the lobby. His eyes remained relaxed, his tone firm. “To my mind, and from what you’ve said tonight, you deserve better. But we want your situation to be our gain. So can you think of anywhere else, Nick? Somewhere you might be interested in? Somewhere that litters your academic CV?”
    Nick flinched.
    Bodies. Bodies made of plaster cast. Choking on the ground.
    “Pompeii,” said Nick. He closed his eyes.
    “Dr Houghton…”
    “I’m not a doctor…”
    “But you could be. And can you think of a better way than by walking the streets of a living, breathing Roman town?”
    “You can’t be serious.”
    “Why not?”
    Nick winced. “Pompeii had a population of thousands,” he said. “More in its hinterland. But there’s evidence of only a few hundred bodies. Most of its inhabitants likely fled in the days leading up to the eruption.”
    “Really?” replied McMahon. He didn’t bother to raise his head, concentrating on his food. “Or were they transported? This academic paradise; it’s already up and running.”

10
    K IRSTEN TOOK A deep breath. She couldn’t just stay in the corridor. Couldn’t spend any more time in the bath. And she was just so damn cold.
    Looking down, she knew the door handle wasn’t an option. But if her hand could pass through metal, then it stood to reason the rest of her body could follow through a simple barrier of wood and paint. She took another deep breath, and walked forward.
    Sure