Mulid Ruscar wore a modern robe over his quaint 18th century sleeping gown. His sandals could have been ancient Greek. The cigarette he smoked probably originated in the 20th century, clearly the smokingest of all centuries. His sleepy scowl had a way of ignoring the centuries.
“Tedor, so it’s you. I thought you’d started your report.”
Ruscar, a tall, dignified man who fifteen years before might have been a solidio idol, snapped on the overhead lights. “You look tired, Tedor. I know when my men need a rest.”
“Fornswitthe’s dead,” Tedor said, then told Ruscar what had happened. “So,” he finished, “I came to, called the police and rushed straight here.”
“Let me see your head.”
“It’s all right,” said Tedor, revealing the blood-matted hair. “What do you know of a solidio writer name of Do
