ABSTRACT
Kitty was sick to death of time travel. As she leaned back to wait for that oh-so-sensationless moment of transference from here to whenever or back again, she tried to remember what it had been like before. Vaguely she could recall how, as a child, she had thrilled to the point where a transport would exceed the speed of light, that marginal but profoundly sexy—she now realized—shock of the transformation of your matter between time and space. Somewhere too she had read about ‘differential time’, a concept that went back to the very early days of human thought, and she groped for an idea, a notion, that would not be the same as the simultaneity that now made up the textures of the everyday. Textures?, she mused. Where did that word come from? she didn’t even know what it meant. All she really knew was that when, like she, a busy administrator of the Hegelian process, you had to do a lot of time travel, it was terribly important to hang on to a sense of origin. But, come to think of it, how could she do even that, when neither did she have any clear idea of the meaning of difference.
