So she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—return to Spain. But that wasn’t the point. She had to have a local residence. She hadn’t simply dropped out of the sky. Or had she? He was missing something vital.
Meanwhile, back to reality.
Leave her here? Walk away from this before it became any messier? Ah, Beckwith, you sucker, he thought. You’ve done it again. Beckwith the volunteer. Who was it who took the car-struck dog to the vet? Beckwith. Who tried to protect the little old lady from the mugger? Beckwith. Beckwith, the man who gets kittens down out of trees.
He kept thinking, she belongs with somebody. But who? She doesn’t seem to know. Maybe the accident has temporarily disoriented her. Where do you take lost children? To the sheriff’s office? Well… He visualized the scene. “She claims she’s from medieval Spain, Sheriff.” The sheriff would probably hold them both until the state psychiatrist could drive up from Richmond.
He studied her as 3he stood there. The inspection was mutual. She was looking at him curiously, too; her mouth was twisted in a half-smile. She seemed radiantly healthy, young. Especially, young. She was holding her rolled-up mat against her chest, but it provided no real warmth. She was shivering.
“Hace frío,” he said. “Hay que salir.” It is cold. We have to leave.
“Sí.” Then she hesitated. “¿Dónde vamonos?” Where are we going?
“A casa. A mi casa.” Home. My home.
She considered that. “¿Sidi Daniel Beckwith, es vuestra merced un buen hombre?”
Was he a good man? He said, “Dios solamente es bueno.” God alone is good.
She smiled. “Creo que El Sidi estes sufficiamente bueno. Iré con vuestra merced.”
So, thought Beckwith, I am sufficiently good, and she will go with me.
He took her arm, shouldered a path through the mixture of curious faces and band instruments, and headed toward the parking lot.
He stopped. A dark-haired man in a gray cape stood in front of them, blocking their way.
2. Smerll
“Smerll…” muttered Beckwith. He stared at the other briefly, then shook his head. Depend on his ancient opponent to appear whenever it was possible to foul up the action. He held the girl tighter as he brushed past the Ethics Director of the Metropolitan Bar. He knew Smerll would be watching them.
“¿Quien es?” she whispered. “¿Un amigo?”
“No.” The reply was brusque.
Irwin Smerll. Long ago they had been classmates right here at Glenwood High. Irwin Smerll had lost out to Beckwith in the election for president of the senior class. That was just the start. The football squad had voted Dan Beckwith MVP—Most Valued Player. Irwin had lost by one vote. And that ranking had followed them both into college, and then through law school.
Beckwith’s only serious girlfriend during his law school years and his apprentice year with a prestigious D.C. law firm had been Ellen May Burgess, daughter of Malcolm Burgess, the rich and powerful senator from Ohio. The young lawyer’s duties in the law firm frequently involved emergency assignments that took him out of town or locked him into the communications room to assemble last-minute information for a courtroom appearance. More and more often he had had to break dates with Ellen May. When he reneged on his promise to take her to the inauguration balls of 2032, she bade him farewell.
Ellen May had married Irwin Smerll, and her senator father had got Smerll the position of Ethics Director in the Metropolitan Bar. Here, Smerll flourished. But Beckwith heard interesting rumors. Ellen May recited daily to her wincing mate the sterling virtues of the man she had not married, but wished she had.
Dan Beckwith did not like to think about Smerll. Or Ellen May. He was quite happy the way he was. Once a week Mrs. Kuiper (who was sixty-five and a bit slow) came in and cleaned his apartment. His relationships with the women at his office were pleasant but strictly business. He was content to live alone.
So now he held the girl tightly by the arm, hunched his head down between his shoulders, and suppressed an urge to look back. He knew the other lawyer would be looking at him—and at the girl. All he wanted to do just now was to get to his car and head out to his apartment and decide what to do with this exotic specimen from fantasy land.
He needed to have a long talk with her, and he didn’t look forward to it. His thoughts jarred to a halt as they were walking into the entrance to the parking lot. She was tugging at his sleeve and asking him something.
“¡Que son… esos!” With a broad sweep of her free arm she indicated some hundred or so parked cars.
Had she never before seen a car? Was this possible? Even the wildest aborigines knew what a car was. But not this strange creature. “Son cars,” he said. “Son los coches sin los caballos.” Horseless carriages. Maybe she could understand that.
“Coches,” she repeated in wonder, “¿Sin caballos?”
“Sí,” he said.
“¿Dónde están los caballos?”
“No hay los caballos, señorita. Los coches usan los motores, no usan caballos.” The cars use motors, not horses. He opened the car door. “Favor de entrar.”
Hesitantly, clumsily, she climbed in, and he closed the door behind her. She jumped. He walked hurriedly around to the other side, got in, and started the car. She stifled a gasp. He let the motor idle a moment, and then reached for the seat-belt button—and changed his mind. What would she think when padded arms snaked around her and clicked together over her stomach and chest? Maybe he’d better skip the safety measures and simply drive very carefully. Not too much too soon.
Her next question was spoken so softly he could hardly hear it. “¿Sidi, por favor, que lugar es este?” What place is this?
“Es Pueblo Glenwood,” he said.
That evidently meant nothing to her. Not surprising. “En Virginia,” he added. “Casi cincuenta kilómetros sud de Washington.” He looked at her curiously. “En los Estados Unidos.” No sign of understanding. He concluded very slowly. “¿En la America del Norte?” It was a question.
Nothing. Apparently she had never heard of Virginia, Washington, the United States, or North America.
Good God, he thought.
She said calmly, “¿Quantas leguas está el Pueblo Glenwood de Cordoba?” How many leagues is Glenwood from Cordoba?
Not miles, not kilometers—leagues.
He made some quick estimates. A league… three miles? And how far away was Spain? He said, “No sé exactamente, pero creo que Cordoba es casi dos mil leguas de aquí.” Cordoba is two thousand leagues from here.
“Dos… mil… leguas…” She pronounced the words with slow satisfaction. “Bien. Muy bien.”
Really? he thought. Whom are you running from, young lady? Somebody back in Cordoba? A very strange Cordoba where the primary language is Arabic, and automobiles are unknown? But as for Arabic, that hadn’t been used in Spain since the early Middle Ages, when all central Spain belonged to the Moors. He grunted. He didn’t like to think about the implications. She looked over at him inquiringly, but he just shook his head. Later, az-Zahra, later. Let me get into the tube, then we’ll have a free half hour, just to talk.
He headed off through the lot exit and toward the entrance of the underground tube that led toward the southern suburbs of the nation’s capital.
He noted through the corner of his eye that she was taking it all in. She was looking everywhere: out the car windows toward the rows of buildings; inside the car, at the dashboard, the dials, the controls. Several times she whispered something. In Arabic? He caught the last one. Allah akbar. God is wonderful.