“Words,” Lockridge said. “The fact is, you got ’em to attack us. You killed friends of mine.”
Brann shook his head. “No. The Koriach did.”
“Who?”
“The woman. What did she call herself to you?”
Lockridge hesitated. But he could see no gain in being stubborn about trifles. “Storm Darroway.”
Brann laughed without sound. “That fits. Her pattern was always flamboyant. Very well, if you like, we shall call her Storm.” He set his glass down and leaned forward. The long features grew stern. “She brought this trouble on the villagers, by coming to them. And she knew the risk. Do you seriously believe she cared one atom what might happen, to them or to you? No, no, my friend, you were all only counters in a very large and very old game. She has moulded whole civilisations, and cast them aside when they no longer served her purpose, as calmly as you might discard a broken tool. What are a handful of Stone Age savages to her?”
Lockridge clenched his fists. “Shut up!” he shouted.
A stir and a growl came from the Yuthoaz in the shadows. Brann waved them back, though he kept a hand near the energy pistol at his broad coppery belt. “She does make a rather overwhelming impression, does she not?” he murmured. “No doubt she told you that her Wardens stand for absolute good and we Rangers for absolute evil. You would have no way of disproof. But think, man. When was such a thing ever true?”
“In my own time,” Lockridge retorted. “Like the Nazis.” Brann cocked an eyebrow with such sardonicism that he must add, feebly, “I don’t claim the Allies were saints. But damn it, the choice was clear.”
“Where is your evidence, other than Storm’s word, that the situation in the time war is analogous?” Brann asked.
Lockridge swallowed. The night seemed to close in, with murk and damp and remote indifferent forest sounds. He felt his aloneness, and tightened sinews against it till his jaws ached.
“Listen,” Brann said earnestly. “I do not, myself, maintain that we Rangers are models of virtue. This is as ruthless a war as was ever fought, a war between philosophies, whose two sides shape the very past that brought them into being. I ask you, though, to consider. Is the science that sends men beyond the moon, liberates them from toil and famine, saves a child from strangling with diphtheria—is it evil? Is the Constitution in the United States evil? Is it wrong for man to use his reason, the one thing that makes him more than an animal, and to harness the animal within him? Well, if not, where do these things come from? What view of life, what kind of life, must there be to create them?
“Not the Wardens’ way! Do you seriously think this earthward-looking, magic-muttering, instinct-bound, orgiastic faith of the Goddess can ever rise above itself? Would you like to see it return in the future? It has done so, you know, in my age. And then, like the worm that bites its own tail, it has gone back to cozen and terrify men in this twilight past, until they crawl before Her. Oh, they can be happy, in a fashion; the influence is diluted. But wait until you see the horror of the Wardens’ real reign!
“Think—one small archaeological item—the aborigines here bury their dead in communal graves. But the Battle Axe culture gives each his own. Does that suggest anything to you?”
Lockridge had a fleeting odd recollection of his grandfather telling him about the Indian wars. He’d always sympathised with the Indians; and yet, if he could rewrite their history, would he?
He thrust the disturbing thought away, straightened, and said, “I chose Storm Darroway’s side. I’m not about to change.”
“Or did she choose you?” Brann replied softly. “How did you happen to meet?”
Lockridge had not meant to reveal a word. God alone knew what enemy purpose that would serve. But—well—Brann didn’t act like a villain. And if he could be mollified, he might go easier on Storm. And anyhow, what importance did the details of Lockridge’s recruitment have? He explained curtly. Brann asked some questions. Before Lockridge quite knew what had happened, he was seated by the Ranger, a glass in his hand, and had told the entire story.
“Ah, so,” Brann nodded. “A curious affair. Though not untypical. Both sides use natives in their operations. That is one of the practical reasons for all this juggling of cultures and religions. You seem unusually able, however. I would like to have you for my ally.”
“You won’t,” Lockridge said, less violently than he had intended.
Brann gave him a sidewise glance. “No? Perhaps not. But tell me again, how did Storm Darroway finance herself in your era?”
“Robbery,” Lockridge was forced to confess. “She set her energy pistol to stun. Didn’t have any choice. You waged war.”
Brann freed his gun and toyed with it. “You may be interested to know,” he said idly, “that these weapons cannot be set at less than lethal force.”
Lockridge sprang up. The glass fell from his grasp. It did not shatter, but the wine ran across the floor like blood.
“They can, though, disintegrate a corpse,” Brann said.
Lockridge’s fist leaped at the talking mouth. Brann wasn’t there to meet the blow. He had flicked aside, risen, and covered the other man with his pistol. “Easy,” he warned.
“You’re lyin’,” Lockridge gasped. The world rocked around him.
“If and when I can trust you, you will be welcome to test a gun for yourself,” Brann said. “Meanwhile, use your brain. I know somewhat of the twentieth century, not only through this diaglossa but the months I spent hunting my opponent—for I did know she had escaped alive. From your account—easy, I said!—from your account, Lockridge, she had thousands of dollars. How many passersby must she have stunned, to rifle their wallets, before she got that sum together? Would such a wave of robberies, where person after person awakened from a mysterious swoon, not have been the sensation of the year? Would it not? But you read never a word.
“On the other hand, disappearances are quite common, and if the one who vanishes is obscure, the story only makes a back page of the local newspaper. . . . Wait. I did not say she never used her gun to burgle an empty place at night, and set a fire to cover her traces; though it is queer that she did not tell you this was her modus operandi. But I do offer you evidence that she is—perhaps not consciously evil, perhaps merely without mercy. After all, she is a goddess. What are mortals to her, who is immortal?”
Lockridge heaved air into his lungs. An uncontrollable trembling ran through him, his skin was cold and his mouth dry. Somehow he was able to speak: “You got the drop on me. But I’m goin’. I don’t have to listen to any more.”
“No,” Brann agreed. “I think best you be shown the truth gradually. You are a loyal sort of man. Which makes me think you will prove valuable, once you have decided where your true loyalty lies.”
Lockridge turned on his heel with a snarl and strode for the door. The Yuthoaz hurried to surround him.
Brann’s voice came in pursuit: “For your information, you will change sides. How do you think I learned of the Warden corridor in America, and of Storm’s flight to this milieu? How do you even think I know your name? You came to my own time and place, Lockridge, and warned me!”