Nothing. No shots, shouts or sounds of movement He crawled back into the stand of trees, his fingertips brushing the way before him. Finally, he turned to his right and made his way around the rear of the hostel, still crawling. Leila's room remained dark. He could smell the burnt mattress ticking.
He advanced until he had a full view of the parking lot. No additional vehicles seemed present in the light of the quarter-moon and a scattering of stars. He remained within the wood, however, heading toward the point where his attacker had fallen.
When he reached the spot, he discovered that the covered body still lay there, its shroud weighted down with stones. He crouched beside it, pistol in hand, and regarded his truck. Five minutes passed. Ten...
He advanced. He circled the truck, inspecting it, then entered on the driver's side. He placed his book in a slot beneath the dashboard, then inserted his ignition key.
"Thtop! Don't turn the key!"
"Why not?"
"I am trickling a minimal charge through the thythtem. There ith rethithtanth that doethn't belong."
"A bomb?"
"Perhapth."
Cursing, Red stepped out and opened the hood. He produced his flashlight and began an inspection. After a time, he slammed the hood and climbed back in, still
cursing. ^ "Wath it a bomb?
"Yes."
He started the engine.
"What did you do with it?"
"Chucked it back into the woods."
He put the truck into gear, backed up, turned and headed out of the lot, stopping only to top off the tank.
Two
He had left his vehicle at a roadstop several days distant, yet worlds away. He was excessively tall and thin, with a great shock of dark hair above his high forehead, and he seemed garishly garbed for the mountains of Abyssinia. He wore purple khaki trousers and a purple shirt; even his boots and belt were of dyed purple leather; ditto his large backpack. Several amethyst rings adorned his abnormally long fingers. As he hiked along the rocky trail, apparently oblivious to the chill wind, it seemed he could almost be a young Romantic poet off on a Wanderjahr, save that the nineteenth century was eight hundred years in the future. Hollow eyes burning in his near-emaciated face, he searched for obscure landmarks and found them. He had not rested the entire day, even taking his rations as he walked. Now, though, he paused, for two distant peaks had finally come into line and the end of his journey was in sight.
Several hundred meters ahead, the trail widened, forming a large, flat bank which ran backward into a recess in the mountainside. He moved again, heading in that direction. When he reached the level area, he advanced into the recess. Walls of rock towered on either hand as he moved through the defile.
At length, passing through a wooden gate, he emerged into a small valley. Cows munched the grasses within it There was a pool at its farther end. Nearer, a corral stood beside one of several cave mouths. Seated before that entranceway was a short, baldheaded black man. He was enormously fat, and his thick fingers caressed the turning clay on a treadle-operated potter's wheel.
He looked up, regarding the stranger who greeted
him in Arabic. "... And peace be with you," he replied in that
language. "Come and refresh yourself." The purple-clad stranger approached.
"Thank you." He dropped his pack and squatted across from the
potter.
"My name is John," he said.
"... And I am Mondamay, the potter. Excuse me. I am not being rude, but I cannot desert the pot at this point. It will take me several more minutes to be assured it will grow properly. I will fetch you food and drink immediately then."
"Take your time," said the other, smiling. "It is a pleasure to watch the great Mondamay at his work."
"You have heard of me?"
"Who has not heard of your pots—turned to perfection, fired with an amazing glaze?"
Mondamay remained without expression.
"You are kind," he observed.
After a time, Mondamay stopped the wheel and rose to his feet.
"Excuse me," he said.
He moved with a peculiar, shuffling gait. John, his long fingers dipping into a purple pocket, watched the potter's back as he went.
Mondamay entered the cave. Several minutes later, he returned bearing a covered tray.
"I bring you bread and cheese and milk," he said.
"Excuse me if I do not partake of them with you, as I have just eaten."
He bent, graceful for all his bulk, to place the tray before the stranger.
"I will slay a goat for your dinner—" he began. John's left hand was a blur. His incredibly long fingers dug into the area beneath the other's right shoulder blade. There they penetrated, tearing away a huge flap. His right hand, holding a small crystalline key, was already plunging toward the exposed metallic surface. The key entered a socket there. He turned it.
Mondamay became immobile. A series of sharp clicks occurred somewhere within his stooped form. John withdrew his hand, moved back.
"You are no longer Mondamay the potter," he said. "You have been partially activated, by me. Assume a standing position now."
A soft whirring, accompanied by occasional crackling noises, emerged from the figure before him. Slowly it straightened; then it grew motionless once again. "Now remove your human disguise." The figure before him raised its hands slowly to the back of its head. They remained there for a moment, then drew apart and forward, stripping the dark pseudo-flesh from what came to be revealed as a metallic, stepped pyramid set about with numerous lenses. Then the hands moved to what appeared to be the neck, pressed there, pulled downward. Metal. More metal was revealed. And cables, and quartz windows behind which tiny lights flickered, and plates and nozzles and grids...
Within two minutes, all of the false flesh had been stripped away, and the one who had been known as Mondamay stood gleaming, flashing and crackling before the tall man.
"Give me access to Unit One," the man ordered. Cash register-like, a narrow metal drawer extruded itself from the automaton's chest. John leaned forward,
his amethyst rings flashing, and made adjustments upon the controls contained within it. "Why are you doing this to me?" Mondamay asked
"You are now fully activated and must obey me. Is that not correct?"
"Yes, it is. Why have you done this to me?"
"Deaccess Unit One, straighten up and go stand where you were when I arrived."
Mondamay obeyed. The man seated himself and began eating.
"Why have I activated you?" John said after a few moments. "Because," he answered himself, "I am, at the moment, the only man in the world who knows what you are."
"There have been many mistakes concerning me ..."
"Of that I am certain. I do not know whether there are parallel futures, but I do know that there are many pasts leading up to that time from which I have come. Not all of them are accessible. The sideroads have a way of reverting to wilderness when there are none to travel them. Do you not know that Time is a superhighway with many exits and entrances, main routes and secondary roads, that the maps keep changing, that only a few know how to find the access ramps?"
"I am aware of this, though I am not one who can find his way along them."
"How is it that you know?"
"You are not the first such traveler I have met."
"I know that, here in your branch, a hypothesis which intelligent men find laughable in my own branch happens to be quite true: namely, that the Earth was visited long ago by creatures from another civilization, creatures who left various artifacts behind them. I know you are such an artifact. Is it not so?"
"It is correct."
"I know, further, that you are a fantastically sophisticated death machine. You were designed to destroy