The wind blew harder. A few snowflakes flew upon it, outriders of winter’s last great blizzard.
13,210 B.C.
Clouds loomed whiter than the snowbanks that lingered here and there upon moss and shrub. The sun, striding higher every lengthening day, dazzled eyes. Its light flared off pools and meres, above which winged the earliest migratory birds. Flowers were in bud over all. Trodden on, they sent a breath of green into the air.
Just once did Little Willow look back, past the straggling lines of the tribe to the homes they were leaving, the work of their hands. Red Wolf sensed what she felt. He laid an arm about her. “We shall find new and better lands, and those we shall keep, and our children and children’s children after us,” he said.
So had Sun Hair promised them before she and Tall Man vanished with their tents, as mysteriously as they had come. “A new world.” He did not understand, but he believed, and made his people believe.
Little Willow’s gaze sought her man again. “No, we could not stay.” Her voice wavered. “Those moons of fear, when any night the ghost might return—But today I remember what we had and hoped for.”
“It lies ahead of us,” he answered.
A child caught her heed, darting recklessly aside. She went after the brat. Red Wolf smiled.
Then he too was grave, he too remembered—a woman whose hair and eyes were summer. He would always remember. Would she?
1990 A. D.
The timecycle appeared in the secret place underground. Everard dismounted, gave Tamberly his hand, helped her off the rear saddle. They went upstairs to a closet-small room. Its door was locked, but the lock knew him and let them into a corridor lined with packing cases which served as overloaded bookshelves. At the front of the store Everard told the proprietor, “Nick, we need your office for a while.”
The little man nodded. “Sure. I’ve been expecting you. Laid in what you hinted you’d want.” “Thanks. You’re a good joe. This way, Wanda.” Everard and Tamberly entered the cluttered room. He shut the door. She sank into the chair behind the desk and stared out at a backyard garden. Bees hummed about marigolds and petunias. Nothing except the wall beyond and an undercurrent of traffic bespoke San Francisco in the late twentieth century. The contents of a coffeepot were hot and reasonably fresh. Neither of them cared for milk or sugar. Instead, they found two snifters and a bottle of Calvados. He poured.
“How’re you doing by now?” he asked.
“Exhausted,” she muttered, still looking through the window.
“Yeah, it was rough. Had to be.”
“I know.” She took her coffee and drank. Her voice regained some life. “I deserved worse, much worse.”
He put bounce into his own words. “Well, it’s over with. You go enjoy your furlough, get a good rest, put the nightmare behind you. That’s an order.” He offered her a brandy glass. “Cheers.”
She turned around and touched rims with him. “Salud.” He sat down across from her. They tasted. The aroma swirled darkly sweet.
Presently she looked straight at him and said low, “It was you who got me off the hook, wasn’t it? I don’t mean just your arguing for me at the hearing—though Lordy, if ever a person needed a friend—That was mostly pro forma, wasn’t it?”
“Smart girl.” He sipped afresh, put the goblet aside, reached for pipe and tobacco pouch. “Yes, of course. I’d done my politicking behind the scenes. There were those who wanted to throw the book at you, but they got, uh, persuaded that a reprimand would suffice.”
“No. It didn’t.” She shuddered. “What they showed me, though, the records—”
He nodded. “Consequences of time gone awry. Bad.” He made a production of stuffing the pipe, keeping his glance on it. “Well, frankly, you did need that lesson.”
She drew an uneven breath. “Manse, the trouble I’ve caused you—”
“No, don’t feel obligated. Please. I had a duty, after I’d heard what the situation was.” He looked up. “You see, in a way this was the Patrol’s fault. You’d been meant for a naturalist. Your indoctrination was minimal. Then the outfit allowed you to get involved in something for which you weren’t prepared, trained, anything. It’s human. It makes its share of mistakes. But it can damn well admit to them afterward.”
“I don’t want excuses for myself. I knew I was violating the rules.” Tamberly squared her shoulders. “And I’m not—not repentant, even now.” She drank again.
“Which you had the guts to tell the board.” Everard made fire and brought it to the tobacco. He nursed it along till the blue cloud was going well. “That worked in your favor. We need courage, initiative, acceptance of responsibility, more than we need nice, safe routineers. Besides, you didn’t actually try to change history. That would have been unforgivable. All you did was take a hand in it. Which, maybe, was in the pattern of events from the first. Or maybe not. Only the Danellians know.”
Awed, she wondered, “Do they care, so far in the future?”
He nodded. “I think they must. I suspect this matter got bucked clear up to them.”
“Because of you, Manse, you, an Unattached agent.”
He shrugged. “Could be. Or maybe they … watched. Anyway, I’ve a hunch that the decision to pardon you came down from them. In which case you’re more important, somewhere up the line, than either of us today knows.”
Amazement shrilled: “Me?”
“Potentially, anyhow.” He wagged the pipestem at her. “Listen, Wanda. I broke the law myself once, early in my service, because it seemed like the single decent thing to do. I was ready for punishment. The Patrol can not accommodate self-righteousness. But the upshot was, I got tapped for special training and eventual Unattached status.”
She shook her head. “You were you. I’m not that good.”
“You mean you’re not that kind of good. I do still doubt you have the makings of a cop. Something else, however—For sure, you’ve got the right stuff.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to!”
She drank with him, but silently.
After a while she said, tears on her lashes, “I can never truly thank you, Manse.”
“Hm-m.” He grinned. “You can try. For openers, how about dinner this evening?”
She drew back. “Oh—” The sound trailed off.
He regarded her. “You don’t feel up to it, huh?”
“Manse, you’ve done so much for me. But—”
He nodded. “Plumb wore out. Absolutely understandable.”
She hugged herself, as if a wind off a glacier had touched her. “And, and haunted.”
“I can understand that too,” he said.
“If I can just be alone for a while, somewhere peaceful.”
“And come to terms with what happened.” He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should have realized.”
“Later—”
He smiled, gently this time. “Later you’ll be yourself again. That is certain. You’re too healthy not to.”
“And then—” She couldn’t finish.
“We’ll discuss it when the time is right.” Evérard laid his pipe aside. “Wanda, you’re about ready to keel over. Relax. Enjoy your applejack. Doze off if you want. I’ll call for a taxi and take you home.”
PART FIVE
RIDDLE ME THIS
1990 A. D.
Lightning flickered in darkness, bright enough to pierce through the lamps of New York. Thunder was still too distant to overcome traffic rush; wind and rain would follow.
Everard made himself look squarely at the enigma who sat opposite him in his apartment. “I thought the matter was settled,” he declared.