With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grinning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."
"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff He looked on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a shine).
"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking. Come in, if your need's so frantic."
"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.
The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.
Rod cleared his throat loudly.
The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"
"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered.
Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned opaque.
"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away.
Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"
The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heavens, and turned back. "What now?"
"Where are we supposed to go?"
"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away.
Rod stood, a moment, gaping.
He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well follow him, I suppose."
"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts.
As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so much for the Romans," he muttered.
"My lord?"
"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred years earlier."
"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for thee to say. In what world would we be, then?"
Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might— just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gramarye, of course—another world, circling another sun." He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."
"What is 'Terra'?"
For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth to her species… ! But he caught himself, remembering that Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact, its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other than their own.
"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear— the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's the home world of our kind."
Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.
As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the plasticrete.
A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that, They're soldiers!
Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts.
They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers, though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of chips.
The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder.
She smiled, politely but firmly.
Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers. The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he stepped towards Gwen.
Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times, then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small fellow, ain't you?"
"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step back to the game, why don't you?"
The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.
The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose. "A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, learn then, lad, that women be property common on the Wall."
He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the way.
It didn't bat.
Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just go on back to the game, Sergeant. Be a good fellow."
"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the sidelines.
"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to rape a guest's…"
"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.
He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing rape!"
"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh, quite willingly, yes."
Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't."
The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a narrow-eyed glare.
"Teach him manners, Thaler," the slob growled.
My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are loose stones on the ground nearby. I might…
No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt? The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit."
Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once, twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground, doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth…
… and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head crashing up under Rod's jaw.
Rod fell back against the ramparts.
Thaler waded in, fists hammering.
Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.
Thaler snarled, and came after him.
Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin.
But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back, lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked, and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the bridge of his nose.
Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned, not only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thaler's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended in:
Death.
They really didn't like strangers here.
Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete. He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch, punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the moment was all Rod needed.