“For his ears only,” Lockridge said in sheer automatism. Most of him was too astonished at the casual acceptance of his lie. How could a Warden be subverted? Surely nothing in the past was better than what he had seen in today’s Europe.
The anti-worry chemical in him suppressed puzzlement. He settled back in the austere little room and composed his ideas. First, speak to Brann; then break loose. There was a time gate, open on this year, in the foundations of the tower. He’d go back to a period before the rise of the Rangers. They might chase him the whole way, kill him, and somehow fail to return until after their lord had departed. On the other hand, he might elude them, flit to Europe, find one of the several corridors he had been told about, and get home free. Perhaps, at this very moment, he was greeting Auri in Storm’s palace. That was a thought to cherish here.
A voice from the air said: “Guardsmaster Darvast. The Director will see you.”
Lockridge went through a wall, which dilated for him, to an antechamber armoured in steel and force. The soldiers there made him strip, and searched clothes and person respectfully but most thoroughly. When he dressed again, he was allowed to keep his diaglossas—not, though, his gravity belt or weapons.
A double door beyond opened on a wide, high-ceilinged chamber, draped and carpeted in grey, airily furnished. A viewer showed the immense spectacle of Niyorek. On one wall, a Byzantine ikon glittered gilt and bejewelled. After the crampedness everywhere else, Lockridge had an odd brief sense of homecoming.
Brann sat next to a service machine. The lean black-clad body was at ease, and the face might have belonged to a statue. He said quietly, “You must have realised that no such person as you is close enough to me to be known by name. However, the fact that you could get by identification is so significant that I decided to interview you as requested. Only my Mutes are overseeing us. I assume you have no ridiculous assassination scheme in mind. Speak.”
Lockridge looked upon him, and the drug must be wearing off, because the fact struck shatteringly: My God, I met and fought this man six thousand years ago, and yet this is the first time he’s ever seen me!
The American gulped for air. His knees wobbled and his palms grew wet. Brann waited.
“No,” Lockridge got out. “I mean . . . I’m not a Ranger. But I’m on your side. I have something to tell you that, well, that I believe you’d want kept secret.”
Brann studied him, sharp features unmoving. “Take off your helmet,” he said. Lockridge did. “Archaic type,” Brann murmured. “I thought so. Most would never notice, but I have encountered too many races in too many times. Who are you?”
“Malcolm . . . Lockridge . . . U.S.A., mid-twentieth century.”
“So.” Brann paused. All at once a smile transfigured him. Be seated,” he said, as host to guest. He touched a light on me machine. A panel opened, a bottle and two goblets appeared. “You must like wine.”
“I could use some,” Lockridge husked. Remembrance came to him, how he had drunk with Brann before, and made him toss off his glass in two swallows.
Brann poured afresh. “Take your time,” he said leniently.
“No, I have to—Listen. The Koriach of the Westmark. You know her?”
Brann’s calm was not broken, but the mask slid back over him. “Yes. In age after age.”
“She’s mounting an operation against you.”
“I know. That is, she disappeared some time ago, undoubtedly on a major mission.” Brann leaned forward. His look grew so intent that Lockridge’s eyes must seek escape in the stern serenity of the Byzantine saint. The deep voice cracked forth: “You have information?”
“I . . . I do . . . master. She’s gone into my century—my country—to drive a corridor here.”
“What? Impossible! We would know!”
“They’re working under cover. Native labour, native materials, starting from scratch. But when they’re finished, the Wardens will come through, with everything they’ve got.”
Brann’s fist rang on the machine. He bounded to his feet. “Both sides have tried that before,” he protested. “Neither has succeeded. The deed isn’t possible!”
Lockridge made himself regard the figure towering over him and say: “This time the operation looks likely to work. It’s masterly well hidden, I tell you.”
“If anyone could, then she—” Brann’s voice sank. “Oh, no.” His mouth twisted. “The final thrust. Firebolts loosed on my people.”
He began to pace. Lockridge sat back and watched him. And it came to the American that Brann was not evil. In Avildaro he had spoken—he would speak—well of his Yuthoaz because they were not needlessly cruel. His anguish now was real. Evil had created him, and he served it, but behind those grey eyes lay a tiger’s innocence. When he demanded facts, Lockridge spoke with near pity:
“You’re going to stop her. I can tell you just where the corridor is. When its gate here opens, you will strike down it. She’ll only have a few helpers. You won’t get her then, she’ll escape, but you’ll have another chance later.”
More or less truthfully, he related his own experiences until he came to his arrival at Avildaro with Storm. “She claimed to be their Goddess,” he went on, “and presided over a mighty vicious festival.” As expected, the Ranger was not aware that the Tenil Orugaray, far outside his own field of cultural manipulation, did not practice ceremonial cannibalism like their neighbours. Also, perhaps, he assumed Lockridge disapproved of orgies, which was untrue but useful.
“That was what began to change my mind about her. Then you came, at the head of an Indo-European war band, and captured the village and us.” Brann’s fingers opened and closed. “I escaped. At the time, I thought that was luck, but now I reckon you kept me loosely guarded on purpose. I made my way to Flanders and found an Iberian trading ship that took me on as a deckhand. Eventually I got to Crete and contacted the Wardens there. They sent me to this year. Mainly I wanted to get home. This isn’t my war. But they didn’t let me.”
“They wouldn’t,” Brann said, self-controlled again. “The primary reason is superstitious. They think her sacred, you know, an actual immortal incarnation of the Goddess, like her colleagues. You, the last to meet her, are now too holy yourself to be profaned by becoming an ordinary citizen of an era they despise.”
Lockridge was jarred at how smoothly the story the Wardens had concocted was going over. Could Brann’s idea be true?
“They treated me pretty well otherwise,” he said. “I got, uh, very friendly with a high-ranking lady.” Brann shrugged.
She told me a lot about their intelligence operations, showed me the gear and everything. Showed me too damned much of their civilization, in fact. It’s not fit for a human being. In spite of the propaganda I was fed about the Rangers, I began to think you were more my kind of people. At least, you might send me home; and mercy—” Lockridge had to use English there—“but I’m homesick! Got obligations as well, back yonder. So finally I wheedled her into letting me go along on a survey mission last night, even dress in one of your uniforms. Since I knew about the fake Darvast identity—” He spread his hands. “Here I am.”
Brann had stopped prowling. He stood utterly still for a minute, before he asked, “What is the precise geographical location of that corridor?”
Lockridge told him. “After my story,” he said, “I wonder why the Wardens didn’t go back a few months and warn her.”
“They can’t,” Brann replied absently. “What has been, must be. In practical terms: a Koriach, even more than a Director like myself, has absolute authority. She does not divulge her plans to anyone she does not choose. For fear of spies, this one probably told no person except the few technicians she took along. Time enough to do that when the corridor was ready. Now, with so little advance notice and so much to occupy them elsewhen, there is no time to organise a substantial force of Wardens capable of operating efficiently in the past. Such as could be sent have doubtless been baffled by the uncertainty factor; they emerged too early or too late. That is, if any were sent at all. She has rivals who would not be sorry to lose her.” He considered Lockridge for a while that grew. Finally, slowly, he said: “Assuming your account true, I am grateful. You shall indeed be returned and well rewarded. But first we must establish your bona fides with a psychic probe.”