Corrupting Dr. Nice by John Kessel

Herod's palace. As a boy he had envisioned this place with awe. But the time travelers had only to wave some of their toys at Herod for him to abandon it, like a puppy begging scraps beneath a table. The sight of Herod wearing his spandex jacket and sunglasses as he walked through the upper market with one of his whores turned Simon's stomach. It was easy to have contempt for Herod. But what if you felt yourself slipping away?
    Simon put the mop in the bucket, wrung it out and began swabbing down the floor along the second row of cages. At six pm--the invaders had given him a wristwatch, and he could indeed read it--he left his mopping. He took the canvas cart of laundry, filled it with old towels, and pushed it down the corridor. The hallway was empty. He wheeled past the laundry to a closet, took his keys and unlocked it. Inside were two cases marked "Transtemporal Music Imports."
    Quickly, he loaded the cases into the cart and covered them with dirty towels. He then ran the cart over to Trash and transferred the cases into plastic bags of refuse that were bound for the gehenna landfill. He made an aleph on the bags with masking tape and wheeled the cart back to the laundry. One of the other custodial staff, Jacob, was unloading sheets from an industrial dryer.
    "Shalom, Simon. How are you?" Jacob asked.
    "I am fine." Simon began unloading the dirty towels.
    "I did not near you singing tonight. Usually you sing while you work."
    "I have been in the kennel. The dogs do all the singing there."
    Jacob touched the music bead in his ear. "I have a new song for your son. One of the tourists gave it to me. It's called 'Don't Get Around Much Anymore.'" He pronounced the English with a thick accent. Simon had worked hard on eliminating his own.
    They shared an interest in the futurians' music. It was one of the few changes Simon could accept, one of the still fewer he and his son Samuel could share. But his own liking for the music troubled him. How could such infidels create such heartfelt music? Perhaps Simon's love for it was a sign that he was being corrupted.
    "I don't want to listen to secular music," Simon said. "I have work."
    Simon went back to the kennel and finished cleaning. At the end of his shift he washed up, hung his uniform in the locker room and put on his tunic, robe and sandals. He paused to feel the fabric of the uniform. He ran his thumb over the close woven cloth. The weave was as fine as that of the clothes of Herod himself, but inhumanly regular. They said that this cloth was made by a machine. The metal of the uniform's belt shone like silver, but was much harder.
    He drew his hand back, felt the cloth of his own robe. His father, a weaver, had made it for him. It brought back memories of the shop in Capernaum, his father bent over his loom. The boys in town had mocked Simon's father behind his back. To be a weaver, associating with women, was the lowest of professions. Simon had told himself that those who scorned his father could not live without his skill. But now these men from out of time, with bolts of cloth made by machines, had driven weavers out of business. He closed his locker, and left.
    At the security booth he was searched, then left through the staff exit. He entered the streets of west Jerusalem. All was quiet.
    He hurried from the time traveler's quarter, under the harsh sodium lights, and down the hill into the dark second quarter of the city, where the only illumination came from occasional oil lamps in hanging baskets. Few Jews were abroad so late. He met his friends in a large house in the northeast, beneath the wall near the Damascus Gate. The house belonged to Asher of Carmel, a merchant who supported their cause. The others greeted him with excitement, and they went up to the roof and knelt in prayer.
    "Oh God of Israel, grant that we may establish again your holy kingdom on earth," Jephthah chanted. Jephthah's dark beard shone with oil, his voice cracked with harsh emotion. He was