Luis draws his sword. What the hell? Alarmed, I drop the volume, back off past the machine toward my desk. He falls on his knees. Lifts the sword by the blade, makes it a cross. Tears run down the leather cheeks, into the midnight beard. “Almighty God, holy Mother of God,” sob, “be with your servant.”
A chance? No time to think.
Grab the upright vacuum cleaner. Swing it on high. He hears, turns on his knees, crouches to bound up. A heavy, awkward club. Give it everything my arms and shoulders have got. Across the bike, crash the motor end onto his bare head.
He sags. Blood flows like crazy, neon-light red. Lacerated scalp. Have I knocked him out? Don’t stop to check. Let the vac clatter down on top of him. Leap to the phone.
Buzz-zz. The number? I’d better have it right. Punch-punch-punch—Luis groans. He hauls himself to all fours. Punch-punch.
Ring.
Ring. Ring. Luis takes hold of a shelf, clambers his way to a stance.
The remembered voice. “Hello. This is Manse Everard’s answering machine.”
Oh, God, no!
Luis shakes his head, wipes the blood from his eyes. It’s smeared, it drips, impossibly much, impossibly brilliant.
“I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone. If you wish to leave a message, I’ll get back to you soon’s may be.”
Luis stands slumped, his arms dangle, but he glares at me. “So,” he mumbles. “Treachery.”
“You may begin talking when you hear the beep. Thank you.”
He stoops, takes up his sword, advances. Unevenly, inexorably.
Scream, “Wanda Tamberly. Palo Alto. Time traveler.” What’s the date, what the hell’s the date? “Friday night before Memorial Day. Help!”
The sword point is at my throat. “Drop that thing,” he snarls. I do. He’s got me backed against the desk. “I should kill you for this. Perhaps I will.”
Or forget his scruples about my virtue and—
And at least I left a clue for Everard. Didn’t I?
Whoosh. The second machine above the first, its riders flattening themselves below the ceiling.
Luis yells. Scuttles backward, onto the driver’s saddle of his. Sword in hand. Other hand dances on the controls. Everard’s hampered. I see a gun in his fist. But whoosh. Luis is gone.
Everard sets down.
Whirling, keening, darkening. I never passed out before. If I can just sit for a minute.
23 May 1987
She came in from the hallway wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas. Its snugness brought forth a lithe figure, its blueness the hue of her eyes. Sunlight through the west window made gold of her hair.
She blinked. “Oh, my. Afternoon,” she murmured. “How long have I slept?”
Everard had risen from the sofa where he’d sat with one of her books. “About fourteen hours, I guess,” he said. “You needed it. Welcome back.”
She stared around. There was no timecycle, nor any bloodstains. “After my partner tucked you in bed, she and I fetched supplies and cleaned up the mess as best we could,” Everard explained. “She took off. No point in cluttering your place. A guard was necessary, of course, as a precaution. Better check around at your convenience and make sure everything is in order. Wouldn’t do for your earlier self to return and find traces of the ruckus. You didn’t, after all.”
Wanda sighed. “No, never a hint.”
“We’ve got to prevent paradoxes like that. The situation is tangled enough as is.” And dangerous, Everard thought. More than deadly dangerous. I should hearten her. “Hey, I’ll bet you’re starved.”
He liked the way she laughed. “Could eat the proverbial horse with a side of French fries, and apple pie for dessert.”
“Well, I took the liberty of laying in some groceries, and could use lunch myself, if you don’t mind my joining you.”
“Mind? Try not to!”
In the kitchen he urged that she be seated while he put the meal together. “I’m a pretty competent man with a steak and a salad. You’ve been through the meat grinder. Most people would be in a daze.”
“Thanks.” She accepted. For a minute, only the sounds of him at work broke the silence. Then, her look steady upon him, she said, “You belong to the Time Guard, don’t you?”
“Huh?” He glanced about. “Yes. In English, it’s usually the Time Patrol.” He paused. “Outsiders aren’t supposed to know that time travel goes on. We can’t tell them unless authorized, and that’s just when circumstances warrant. Clearly they do in this case; you’ve crashed into the fact. And I have authority to make the decision. I’ll level with you, Miss Tamberly.”
“Great. How did you find me? When I got your answering machine, I was in despair.”
“You’re new to the concept. Think. After I’d played your message, what’d you expect me to do but mount an expedition? We hovered outside the window, saw that man threatening you, hopped inside. Unfortunately, I was too crowded to get a shot at him before he vamoosed.”
“Why didn’t you jump back in time?”
“And save you some unpleasant hours? Sorry. I’ll tell you later about the hazards of changing the past.”
She frowned. “I know a bit already.”
“Hm, I suppose you do. Look, we needn’t discuss this till you feel recovered. Take a couple of days and get over the shock.”
She lifted her head pridefully. “Thanks, but no need. I’m unhurt, hungry, and eaten alive by curiosity. Concern, too. My uncle—No, really, please, I’d much rather not wait.”
“Wow, you’re a tough cookie. Okay. Let’s start by you telling me your experiences. Take it slow. I’ll interrupt you a lot with questions. The Patrol needs to know everything. Needs it more than you’re aware.”
“And the world is?” She shivered, swallowed, clenched fingers on the tabletop edge, launched into her story. They were halfway through their meal before he had exhausted it of detail.
Starkly, he said, “Yes, this is very bad. Be a lot worse if you hadn’t proved so courageous and resourceful, Miss Tamberly.”
She flushed. “Please, I’m Wanda.”
He forced a smile. “All right, I’m Manse. Spent my boyhood in Middle America of the nineteen-twenties and thirties. The manners they installed have stuck. But if you prefer first names, that’s fine by me.”
She gave him a long look. “Yes, you would stay a polite country boy, wouldn’t you? Roving through history, you’d miss out on the social changes in your homeland.”
Intelligent, he thought. And beautiful, in a strong-boned fashion.
Anxiety touched her. “What about my uncle?”
He winced. “I’m sorry. The Don told you nothing more than that he left Steve Tamberly on the same continent but in the far past. No location, no date.”
“You have-time to search for him.”
He shook his head. “I wish we did, but we don’t. We could use up thousands of man-years. And we haven’t got them. The Patrol’s stretched too thin. We’re barely enough to carry out our normal missions and try to cope with emergencies like this. Only so many man-years available, you see, because sooner or later every agent is bound to die or be disabled. Here events have gotten out of hand. We’ll need every resource we can spare to set matters right—if we can.”