gistfile1.txt

The lot of an agent of the Time Patrol is agony, and the agony is always 
self-inflicted. Normal men see injustice and work to cure it, or at least 
rail against the gods. But an agent must cope with knowing that it is 
within his power to make a difference, but *he dare not act*. For how 
tenuous is the thread of human existence! How terrible the consequences 
of mistakes-- and he *will* make mistakes! To cite the mildest of examples: 
Beethoven's magnificent tenth symphony exists now only in the Patrol archives 
and every attempt to reintroduce it to society has failed. The universe tends 
towards entropy, toward apathy, toward despair, and our brief attempts to 
light a candle amidst the darkness are almost laughable. Why then do we 
struggle against the inevitable? For with the agony comes also the ecstasy; 
what agent has not whiled away the hours at the penultimate performance of 
Lear at the Globe, or sung with the Chorus at Olympus Mons? This, then, is 
our remit: preserve what is so that humanity can build the future we know 
to be there.