If you laughed at Jud Elliott’s sardonic tours through Byzantium, the nitpicky Time Service regulations, and the cascade of paradox-avoidance protocols, you’ll feel right at home with Willis’s comedy of temporal errors. In To Say Nothing of the Dog, historians blunder through Victorian England to retrieve a ludicrously specific church artifact, dodging causality breaches with the same harried energy as those Constantinople pageants Jud kept re-staging. It’s witty, fizzy, and full of butterfly-effect hijinks—like your favorite Time Service audit gone delightfully off the rails.

Loved shepherding tourists around Constantinople and juggling no-contact rules? Powers sends a modern scholar tumbling into 1810 London, where time fissures, impostors, and ritual magic make keeping the timeline intact as tricky as Jud’s endlessly reset tours. The Anubis Gates matches that breathless scramble you enjoyed when schedules slipped and the ‘no-crossing-your-own-path’ rules started to fray—only here the alleys reek of fog and gunpowder, and every leap risks locking you into the wrong century for good.

If Jud’s gleeful corner-cutting and taboo-skimming—right down to that ill-advised ancestral entanglement—hooked you, Gerrold’s razor-sharp novella doubles down. The Man Who Folded Himself follows a narrator who uses a time belt to splinter, seduce, and compete with versions of himself, pushing the same ethical lines that Jud toyed with when the Time Service wasn’t watching. It’s intimate, audacious, and brutally honest about how one impulsive traveler can turn causality into a hall of mirrors.

The way Jud ping-pongs through eras—and keeps tripping over earlier (and later) versions of himself—has a kindred spirit in Vonnegut’s Billy Pilgrim, who becomes unstuck in time. Slaughterhouse-Five threads war, absurdity, and destiny into a collage of moments, much like those overlapping tours and self-crossings you enjoyed—only here the jumps turn memory into a profound, darkly funny meditation on what we can (and can’t) change.

If Jud’s confessional voice—narrating botched itineraries, Time Service lectures, and a romance that courts disaster—was your sweet spot, Mendoza’s first-person account will click. In In the Garden of Iden, a recruited time operative navigates Tudor England under a corporate timeline policy that’s as fussy as any paradox briefing Jud ever ignored, while falling for someone she shouldn’t. It’s wry, intimate, and steeped in the same tension between mission protocol and human impulse.