Ice-thrill. I remember! I dropped Everard's card in a desk drawer, upper left where I keep miscellany. Phone right above, beside the typewriter.
"Señorita, you tremble."
"Haven't I reason to?" Rise. "Come." The cold wind through me whistles the exhaustion out. "I do have a book or two that have information."
He follows directly behind. His presence is a shadow over me, a shadow with weight.
At the desk, "Hold! What do you want from that drawer!"
I never was a good liar. Can keep my face turned away, and a wobble in my voice is to be expected. "You see how many the volumes are. I must consult my record of them, to locate the chronicle. Watch. No hidden arquebus." Whip it open before he grabs my wrist. Stand passive, let him paw through, satisfy himself. The card skips amongst the clutter. Like my pulse.
"I beg your pardon, my lady. Give me no occasion to suspect you, and I will give you no roughness."
Flip the card right side up. Make that look accidental. Read again: Manson Everard, midtown Manhattan address, the phone number, the phone number. Cram that into my mind. Scratch about. What can I palm off as a sort of library catalogue? Ah, my auto insurance policy. Had it out for a look after that fender-bender months ago—no, last month, April—and haven't—hadn't—gotten around to putting it back in the safe deposit. Make a show of studying it. "Ah, here we are."
Okay, now I know how to call for help. Opportunity to do it is lacking. Stay watchful.
Sidle past the time bike to the bookshelf. Luis treads close against me. Payn to Polka. Take it out, page through. He looks across my shoulder. Exclaims when he recognizes Peru. He's literate. Not in English, though.
Translate. Early history. Pizarro's journey to Túmbez, the awful hardships, his eventual return to Spain in search of backing, "Yes, yes, I have heard, how often I have heard." To Panama in 1530, Túmbez in 1531, "I was with him." Fighting. A small detachment makes an epic trek over the mountains. Entry into Cajamarca, capture of the Inca, his ransom. "And then, and then?" Judicial murder of Atahualpa. "Oh, bad. Well, no doubt my captain decided it was necessary." March to Cuzco. Almagro's expedition to Chile. Pizarro founds Lima. Manco, his puppet Inca, escapes, raises the people against the invaders. Cuzco besieged from early February 1536 till Almagro comes back and relieves it in April 1537; meanwhile, desperate valor on both sides, throughout the country. Right after the hard-won Spanish victory, Indians still waging guerrilla warfare, the Pizarro brothers and Almagro fall out with each other. Pitched battle in 1538, Almagro defeated and executed. His half-caste son and friends embittered; conspire; assassinate Francisco Pizarro in Lima, 26 June 1541. "No! Body of Christ, this shall not happen!" Charles V has sent a new governor, who now takes over, beats the Almagro faction, and beheads the young man. "Horrible, horrible. Christian against Christian. No, it is clear, we require a strong man to take leadership at the earliest moment of misfortune."
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."