"Oh my, this is quite different." remarked Rosalind as she peered through the tear at the tastefully furnished apartment.

"Are you quite sure this is the correct space-time?"

"I have opened this tear over one hundred times Robert, have I ever brought us to an incorrect space-time?"

"Hmm. No. Then it appears this Booker is quite different."

"Quite."

Booker DeWitt was a light sleeper. Although memories of his ignominious military service had faded as the years passed, the habits and reflexes that made him an excellent cavalryman had not. At the first sound of an unfamiliar voice in his apartment he instinctively grabbed the Mauser pistol that always lay under his pillow and pointed it at the strange couple...dressed in raincoats...standing in a glowing hole in his wall?

"What the hell? Who are you?" Booker demanded.

Neither Lutece paid any attention to the man with the gun as they stepped through the tear. They were drawn to the blackboard in the corner of the room which seemed to be filled with an incomplete derivation of the non-relativistic Schrodinger equation for a single particle moving in an electric field.

"Hmm, that's not quite right." Robert frowned as he picked up the eraser and began erasing the bottom half of the board.

"Hey, put that down!" Booker demanded again as he rose from the bed and walked toward the strange couple. He stopped in mid-stride when he saw what Rosalind had begun to write in the blank space left by Robert. The Mauser slipped out of his hand. Booker could only stare as Rosalind closed the bracket around the Hamiltonian and started work on the wave function.

"My God, that looks right. But how? Only a handful of people in the world understand those symbols. Who are you?" Booker demanded again, this time with much less conviction.

"Why do you ask who," Robert began.

"When the delicious question is how," Rosalind continued.

"For example, how is there a glowing hole in the wall?" Robert finished.

Booker had completely forgotten about the glowing hole in the wall. As he turned to examine it the remarkable analytical mind that had made him one of the preeminent theoretical physicists of his time rapidly cycled through the rational possibilities for its existence, settling upon the only possibility that made sense.

"A stable Tesla tear...remarkable," Booker murmured as he tentatively moved his hand through the tear, collecting raindrops on the back of his hand. The faded letters 'AD' glistened in the light thrown off by the lone lamppost at the end of the pier. The scar from the brand had faded over time along with the pain of loss, but neither had faded entirely. Booker now remembered the last time he had seen a Tesla tear-closing as strange men disappeared through it with his infant daughter. Booker remembered beating his fists raw against the brick wall where the tear had been. Slumping against the wall in defeat. Unable to comprehend what he had seen. Unable to come to terms with the shame of selling his infant daughter to pay for his substance abuse and gambling.

With a quickness uncharacteristic of a man his age Booker leapt toward Robert Lutece with a bloodcurdling yell, which immediately turned into a surprised cry of pain as his right hand passed clean through Robert's unperturbed face and struck the blackboard.

"You missed," Rosalind remarked.

"I believe that depends on your perspective," Robert countered, "he certainly hit something."

"You son of a bitch," Booker spat out through gritted teeth as he nursed his hand, "you daughter-stealing son of a bitch."

"As I remember correctly Mr. DeWitt, you sold your daughter," Robert replied.

"He always sells his daughter," Rosalind elaborated.

"But let's not dwell on your pasts," Robert continued, "we are here to offer a chance at redemption."

Booker had picked up his Mauser from the ground with his left hand but hesitated at the word "redemption". He had been searching for this man and the answers he might have for 20 years. It didn't seem logical to shoot him now, especially since the man appeared to be incorporeal.

Robert smiled as Booker began getting dressed, placing his pistol inside a worn shoulder holster. "We would like to reunite you with your daughter, as penance for our past sins, and to settle this interminable debate I am having with my sister about the nature of reality and choice."

"How, tell me how to get my daughter back."

"But first, we are curious," Rosalind said, "please do tell us what you have done with your life since that day 20 years ago. We had not expected this outcome."

Booker closed his eyes as he began to relive his shameful past.

"After you took my daughter from me I was determined to get her back. Determined enough to get clean. At the time I thought there must be some way I could reopen that portal you and that other man escaped through. Being naive I figured the portal was a result of contemporary technology. So I began to study physics and mathematics. It turned out I had a good mind for science. I sometimes saw strange equations in my dreams, and when I woke I would write them down and find they were new discoveries. Eventually I was offered a position in the physics department at Columbia College. But although I have worked on the problem for many years I have barely begun laying the theoretical foundation for creating a multiverse tear."

"Curious," Rosalind remarked, "perhaps your dreams are a side-effect of exposure to the tear 20 years ago."

"It is not inconsistent with his daughter's gifts," Robert added.

"But this breaks the symmetry. For every Comstock who accepts the baptism there must be a Booker who rejects it. For every Comstock who builds Columbia there must be a Booker who wallows in pain and regret for 20 years. One cannot exist without the other."

"Perhaps not, dear sister. We have only observed 121 previous scenarios. The fact that all of those scenarios contains a Booker who wallows in pain and regret does not negate the existence of a scenario in which Mr. DeWitt channeled his pain and regret into something resembling a productive life. Although apparently the probability of such an outcome is quite low."

"Hmm. Quite low indeed."

Robert turned to address Booker as Rosalind continued to ponder the existence of a Booker DeWitt possessing an IQ greater than that of the average mammal.

"The man who bought your daughter is Zachary Comstock. In the universe through the tear Comstock is the founder of the floating city Columbia. He intends for Anna to succeed him as ruler of Columbia. You will need to find some way to rescue her from this fate. But this conversation is a waste of time. You will most likely experience severe memory loss once you go through the tear...so off we go!"

Booker didn't like the part about severe memory loss. "But if I suffer severe memory loss," he asked, "how will I remember my mission once I pass through the tear?"

"Ah, we have a solution to that." Robert grinned as he produced a cigar box from his jacket pocket and placed it on the nightstand. It was embossed with a shiny brass tag: "Property of Booker DeWitt, 7th Cavalry Wounded Knee".

"This box was designed to provide just enough context for you to fabricate the necessary memories and motivations to rescue your daughter. Much like a scaffold for vine growth."

"That might not be necessary this time," Rosalind countered, "a keen mind can usually survive travel through a tear without serious consequence. Robert passed through his first tear with only slight confusion and brain hemorrhage. We brought the cigar box because we had expected you to be slightly more...ah...apeish than you are. In any case, the tear won't remain stable forever. We should go."

The Luteces stepped back through the tear.

"Are you coming, Mr. DeWitt?" asked Rosalind.

"He does come you know," Robert called out as he walked down the pier to prepare the rowboat.

"Yes I know, it was more of a formality."

"What choice do I have?" Booker thought as he stepped through the tear.