“Mr. MacDougal, perhaps you didn’t understand me. I said my name was Dirk Masterson. This is my party, and we’re scheduled to leave on a slip in about thirty minutes. I suggest you open your gate.”
From behind the truck, obscured by the bulk of the larger vehicle, Chuck heard a man shouting, “Having trouble, Mr. Masterson?”
Masterson did not turn his head. “None at all, Brock,” he called. To MacDougal, he said, “Open the gate, policeman.”
Under the steady force of his gaze, the sergeant wavered slightly.
“How do I know you ain’t a tempo?” he asked.
“A what?”
“A tempomaniac.”
Masterson laughed, throwing his head back. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Open that gate at once.”
“That gate stays closed until I see your papers,” MacDougal said. “You can just pretend I’m St. Peter.”
Masterson doubled his fists, and the muscles on his arms bulged with the effort. “Arthur!” he shouted.
Chuck saw the movement behind the windshield of the truck as the driver slid across the seat. He watched as a tall Negro swung his legs over the side and leaped down to the ground, a spurt of dust rising beneath his heels.
“Yes, Mr. Masterson?” he asked.
He was bigger than Masterson, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. He wore a white T-shirt, and the color of his skin was soft against the cotton. His head was compact, covered with close-cut hair that fitted his skull like a cap. The features of his face were classical, almost chiseled from black marble, Chuck thought. He watched as the Negro began walking toward Masterson with purposeful strides.
“See what this idiot wants,” Masterson snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Arthur said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers which he handed to MacDougal. “I imagine he’s looking for these,” he said, his teeth flashing against his face.
“If you had papers, why didn’t you show them in the first place?” MacDougal complained. He took the papers and examined them carefully while Arthur waited. “These are fine,” he said. “If you’ll get back in the truck, I’ll open the gate.”
“You’ll be reported for this, you know,” Masterson said softly.
Arthur grinned, taking the papers back, and said, “He was only doing his job, Mr. Master...”
“Nobody asked you,” Masterson snapped.
The grin vanished from Arthur’s face. For an instant a hurt expression flickered in his eyes. And then it was gone, replaced by the quiet planes of his emotionless features. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Let’s get back to the truck,” Masterson said. He turned to the guard once more and repeated, “You’ll be reported for this.”
MacDougal shrugged. “Go ahead, Mister, report me. My job is to stop tempos from scooting back into the past. As far as I’m concerned, everybody’s a tempo until he proves himself otherwise.” He shrugged again. “Go ahead. Report me.”
“I will. I will, all right. Mistaking me for a tempomaniac. Of all the utter rot.” He turned on his heel and strode for the truck, an indignant trail of dust rising behind him. Arthur walked to the other side of the truck and climbed in behind the wheel.
From the jeep, Chuck heard the same voice call, “Everything okay, Mr. Masterson?”
“We’re rolling now,” Masterson said, leaning out of the cab.
MacDougal walked into the guard booth and closed a switch. There was a gentle hum of machinery as the gate slid back.
The truck exploded into life, its motor roaring to the quiet countryside. Behind it, the jeep added its tiny voice to the general clamor. There was a grinding of gears as Arthur set the truck in motion. The big vehicle rumbled through the gate, followed by the jeep, and the gate slid shut behind it.
Chuck stepped away from the sign and waved his arm over his head. He kept waving as the vehicles moved closer. The truck shuddered to a halt some three feet from Chuck, and Masterson poked his head out of the cab.
“What is it now?” he said irritably. “Another ‘Guardian of the Gates’?”
“I’m Chuck Spencer,” Chuck said. “My brother is Owen Spencer, the guide for the expedition.”
“Where is Owen?” Masterson wanted to know. “We had the devil’s own time getting past that blockhead at the gate.”
Chuck’s glance wavered for an instant, his eyes meeting Arthur’s behind the windshield. “He was only doing his job,” Chuck said. “Tempos are more plentiful than you may realize.”
Masterson shrugged this aside and shifted the cigar butt between his teeth. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’ll be here in a moment. He asked me to tell you to move your equipment close together. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
“You mean he wants the jeep alongside the truck?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
Masterson jumped down from the cab and shouted, “Pull her up, Brock.”
The jeep clashed gears and swerved away from the truck, moving back in a wide arc. The gears sounded again, and it pulled up alongside the truck. There were two men and a young girl in the front seat.
The man behind the wheel pulled up the emergency brake and hopped out of the small vehicle. “What was all the trouble back there?” he asked Masterson.
“A small man with a big gun,” Masterson said bitterly. “Insisted on seeing our papers.” He dismissed this with a wave of his large hand. “You know how petty a petty official can get, Brock.”
The other man nodded. He was tall and thin and he wore black slacks, the cuffs shoved into the tops of his black boots. His shirt was gray, and his throat and face were a startling white against the darker colors. He had a long lantern jaw, a long nose and two glittering black eyes that darted nervously over Masterson’s face. His eyebrows made a black gash across his forehead like a shaggy, elongated hyphen. He reminded Chuck of a vulture.
“Well,” he said, “where’s our guide?”
Chuck stepped forward and extended his hand. “My name is Chuck Spencer,” he said. “My brother Owen will be guiding us.”
The thin man took Chuck’s hand, squeezed it faintly, and let it go instantly. “I’m Brock Gardel, Mr. Masterson’s assistant.”
Chuck nodded and was about to say something when Masterson said, “What’s keeping your brother, son?”
“I don’t know. I guess he...”
“Well, he’d darned well better hurry.” Masterson glanced at his watch and then set his mouth into a tight line. He looked off toward the building on the horizon. “Is that him now?” he asked suddenly.
A figure had stepped out of the building and was heading for the group.
“That’s Owen,” Chuck said happily.
Owen waved, and Chuck waved back, watching his brother walk toward them with long strides. He was taller than Chuck, six-two to his brother’s five-ten. He had Chuck’s blond hair, but he wore it longer, and it fell across his forehead in unruly strands as he hurried across the grass.
When he was close enough, he called, “Hiya!”
“What kept you?” Masterson asked.
Owen sighed deeply. “Routine checkup. Always a pain in the neck.” He rubbed his hand over Chuck’s head. “Meet everyone?” he asked.
Chuck glanced quickly at the girl and the man still in the jeep. “Just about,” he replied.
“Fine, fine,” Owen said. He followed Chuck’s eyes to the jeep, and noticed the girl for the first time. “Your niece,” he said to Masterson, “is she coming along?”
“Why, yes,” Masterson replied. “I thought you understood that from the beginning.” He frowned slightly. “You don’t have any objections to that, do you? I’ve got papers for her and everything.”
“No objections at all,” Owen said, smiling. “Except, well, the terrain where we’re headed is a bit rugged, and I was...”