The Other Time

by Mack Reynolds

  He then drifted over to some temple steps and sat and watched the soldiers drill. The show was obviously intended to impress the visitors. Diego Ordaz presided as drill master and ordered the three hundred footmen up and down the enclosure. To the left flank, march; to the right flank, march; about face! They were no troop of West Point cadets, Don decided, but they weren’t bad. Certainly, such discipline must pay off in combat with a mob of savages.

  As he sat, he thought it over, all over again. He was going to have to offer his services as an interpreter to Captain-General Cortes. There was no alternative. For one thing, the situation was impossible. How could Cortes and Motechzoma communicate when the war chief thought the adventurer was a god and the adventurer thought the Indian war chief an emperor?

  But then the thought came to him: what if he did take over the interpreting? In that case the historic mistakes that had taken place would not have occurred and history would be revised. Could he revise history? But how could he? If he did, then very likely he would never have been born. And here he was. He shook his head in black, sick despair.

  Shortly he saw the two Indian ambassadors, accompanied by Cortes and his people, emerge from the temple. Still projecting the utmost amiability, the Captain-General conducted his guests back to the others who had accompanied them from the Tenocha capital and the procession left the enclosure still trying to maintain its shaken dignity. Don wondered bitterly how Charles the Fifth would have reacted to a demonstration of an explosion of an H-Bomb.

  Even from this distance Don Fielding could see the expression on the face of Hernando Cortes. Obviously the Spaniard had only contempt for his Indian foes. He turned with his group and re-entered the temple.

  He might as well get about it. Don stood and made his way in that direction. He ascended the stone steps and headed in the direction of the room where the army head made his offices.

  Two soldiers armed with pikes stood guard. One of them was Botello, the alleged astronomer and seer. He seemed to pull a lot of guard duty, Don thought. At his approach they crossed their pikes, barring the way.

  Don said to the pockmarked footman, “I have a message for Don Hernando.”

  The other’s small eyes shifted. He said, “The Captain-General is in conference with his captains and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “It is an important message.”

  The eyes shifted again, uncomfortably, and the other licked his upper lip. He said stubbornly, “His orders were specifically that he not be disturbed. Important issues are being discussed.”

  There was something wrong about all this, but Don Fielding had no clue to just what it was. There was nothing for it; he turned and marched back down the steps. He had the uncomfortable feeling that not only was the Captain-General not available to him now but perhaps was not going to be later, though Don had nothing definite to go on in the way of evidence.

  He walked back to his quarters and, on looking through the door, saw that Diego Ordaz had retired, in full armor and with sword in hand, as usual. No need in disturbing him, so Don withdrew.

  He thought about it and decided to go for a swim. Washing facilities were at a minimum here in the camp and he was beginning to feel clammy with dried sweat and dust.

  He walked over to the gateway, with its guard of ten, nodded to the captain of the watch, who turned out to be Alonzo de Avila, the handsome, young officer who had impressed Don with his quiet dignity at the dinner with Cortes and his officers. He began to exit through the gate, but Avila called to him.

  “Just a moment, Don Fielding. Where do you go?”

  Don halted. “I was thinking of going down to the river for a swim. I haven’t washed for days.”

  The other shook his head. “It is the Captain-General’s command that no smaller number than three ever leave the enclosure and even then only upon his permission.”

  “But I am not of your army. The command doesn’t apply to me.”

  There was an element of embarrassment in Avila’s voice. “I am afraid that it does, Don Fielding. The Captain-General mentioned your name in particular when giving me his orders.”

  “I see,” Don said. “Very well. Undoubtedly, the order is well taken. There can be no trouble with the Indians if we all remain within the safety of the enclosure.”

  He turned and headed back in the direction of the conglomerate of temples and pyramids. He didn’t like it. He got somewhat the same impression from Avila that he had from Diego Ordaz the last time he had spoken to his roommate. Something was offbeat. Well, the only thing he could do was to see Cortes, offer his services, and if anything was wrong, try to rectify it.

  To kill time until the conference of officers was over and he could again attempt to see the army head, Don Fielding decided to inspect the pyramids and such temples as were not being used as living quarters or to fill the other needs of the Spanish forces. He approached the largest of the massive structures, the one that he had at first thought a remarkable job of reconstruction when he had originally entered the large courtyard. The steps were steep and many, and he could feel the sweat coming through his shirt by the time he reached the top.

  He had looked forward to inspecting the interior of the small temple that crowned the great pile of stone. After all, he was still an anthropologist and archeologist and, in spite of the situation in which he found himself, still fascinated by the possibilities that presented themselves to him in the way of research.

  But he was to find that the interior had been stripped of its original contents of native gods and whatever, washed down, and whitewashed. In the center was an altar and atop it a carved Madonna and Child, richly robed. Crosses were hung on the walls. Evidently, the good Fathers had taken over with a vengeance.

  He peered at the Madonna and decided that it must have been imported from Spain, or at least Cuba. The robes and ornaments, gaudily ornate as they were, could never have been produced in this country. The local religious decorations were ornate, but of a different culture.

  Although the single room was whitewashed, some of the Indian reliefs could be made out. It was while he was studying these that she found him.

  He heard a sound and turned, expecting to confront one of the soldiers who had come up for prayer. But it was Malinche.

  She said to him in Nahuatl and urgently, though in low voice, “I must speak to you quickly, Don Fielding, for someone else may come.”

  He frowned. “All right, but what is all this?”

  “You are in great danger.”

  “But… why?”

  “You spoke too much of the great wealth of this land of yours to the north.”

  He swore inwardly. What an ass he had been.

  “What has happened?”

  She said, “I do not speak this Spanish tongue but I can understand more of the words than they know. My lord, the Captain-General, and his captains… they discussed you. It was decided that you suspected their desire to march north, after subjecting Tenochtitlan and add your own country to the realm of Charles, the great chief in the lands across the sea. They are afraid that you might escape and return to your country to warn them there. They would rather appear as a surprise. There is great advantage in surprise.”

  “They’d be the ones to be surprised, all right,” Don growled. “They’d never find my native land.”

  She frowned puzzlement. “Is it, then, so hard to find?”

  “It is impossible,” Don said. “You were correct. We are all, my people, evidently magicians, since all but I have disappeared. But tell me, what did they decide?”

  “I do not know. My lord, the Captain-General, ordered me on an errand before they had come to decision. Padre Diaz wished to have you arrested for being a heretic and brought to trial. But Captain De Leon objected to that. For some reason, he does not wish there to be religious trials in this country. Then Tonatiuh, the Sun…”

  “Who?” Don said.

  “Alvarado. The Indians call him the Sun because of his brillia
nt hair. He laughed at De Leon and said that he was part Jew, whatever that is, and that one day the Inquisition would get him. Whatever the Inquisition is.”

  “All right,” Don said. “I understand that. But then what happened?”

  “I do not know. It was then I left. You must flee, Don Fielding. I have told this to you since you tried to aid me with your words last night about being a princess. I have since told Aguilar what you informed me to say and he, in turn, has repeated it to the others. He is not a man of great mind. You should have known that there were no such things as princesses in all this land, but he seems to have learned little of our ways in the seven years he spent in the Maya country.”

  “But what are they going to do? I can’t flee. They won’t let me out of the enclosure.”

  “I do not know. But you are in great danger and now I must leave.”

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted it upward. Don Fielding was not much of a lady’s man, but this girl had risked her own life in an attempt to save his. He bent down and kissed her on the lips. “Thank you, Dona Marina.”

  She brought her head backward in surprise and touched her fingers to her mouth. It came to him that in spite of the fact that she was the mistress of Cortes, she had never been kissed before. Could it be that the Spanish leader was actually so contemptuous of her that he refrained from kissing, as one usually refrains from such an embrace with a whore?

  She shot a quick, startled look at him from the sides of the dark eyes, spun, and darted away. He couldn’t help but note her figure, even through the sacklike clothing.

  A fine time to be thinking about a woman’s figure! The fat was in the fire.

  He made his way slowly down the steps of the pyramid. It was already beginning to grow dark.

  Over at the kitchens, the Spanish footmen were lining up for the evening repast, but he could feel no appetite within him. Survive! Live! But how? Should he attempt to gain an audience with Cortes? To what end? By this time the other had decided what to do with Don Fielding, native of a land to the north which teemed with gold. All over again, Don castigated himself. Why couldn’t he have described the slums of Newark rather than the contents of Fort Knox?

  He went to his quarters—there was nowhere else to go. Diego Ordaz was no longer there. The husky commander of foot was probably already about his duties as captain of the night guard. Don wondered what his orders might be in regard to himself. Probably to shoot on sight, he decided sourly.

  Well, for the present there was nothing he could do. He kicked together a bed of the mats and blankets. He took a lesson from Ordaz and first threw the magazine from the butt of his Beretta automatic and checked the contents. It was full. He rammed the clip back into the gun and jacked a cartridge into the barrel. He flicked the safety with his thumb, returned the gun to its holster, and made sure it rode loosely there. He was no quick-draw expert by any means, but he didn’t want the thing sticking if he got in the crunch. “A .22,” he growled. What he needed was a .45.

  He stood there a moment in thought and then brought out his entrenching tool from its canvas cover on his left hip. He unfolded it, so that now it was a spade. Back to him came a bit of early reading, All Quiet on the Western Front, by a man named Remarque who had fought in the German army. He had mentioned, in passing, that the German infantryman, in trench warfare, had often found that the entrenching tool was more handy than the clumsy rifle and bayonet when it came to close quarters. Don Fielding had no idea how near his own American war surplus was to Remarque’s German tool of the First World War. It had a somewhat pointed steel shovel attached to a heavy wooden handle about two feet long. He would hate to get whacked with it.

  He stretched out on the improvised bed, the entrenching tool in his right hand, with no intentions of sleeping but with the idea in mind of trying to think his way out of his predicament. Shortly he would confront Cortes and try to iron it all out. Should he confess that he had exaggerated? That actually there was nothing in this age to the north but wide deserts and then animal-covered plains. The other would probably have him skewered on the spot.

  He had miscalculated his weariness. In spite of his fairly good slumber of the night before, the past several days had exhausted him, both physically and mentally, not to speak of the psychological drain. He fell off into sleep almost immediately.

  But his subconscious was on the alert. He expected something to happen to him and hence woke to immediate action when it did.

  It was dark outside. On top of that, the mat at the door parlayed the gloom of the small room. The first sword thrust missed him entirely and dug only into his bedding.

  Don frantically rolled. The handle of the entrenching tool was in his hand. He swung with it and missed. He could make out his assailant, hulking above him.

  The other disentangled his blade from the bed clothing, swore, “Por Dios,” and lunged again.

  Don Fielding, on his knees, scampered away and found himself with his back to the stone wall, cornered. He swung wildly as the other stumbled forward, swearing still at the impossible darkness of the room.

  Another lunge which pierced Don’s clothing and carried through to the wall, the point of the sword striking into the stone.

  Don was now fully awake, the adrenaline surging in him. To his later astonishment, he was perfectly cool—the reaction would come in fifteen or twenty minutes. He had never been in personal combat before, save for the usual fist fights of his grammar school days and teens.

  He chopped with the entrenching tool at the other’s extended arm and hit at the wrist. His would-be assassin screamed in pain.

  Already, Don’s eyes were accomodating themselves to the dark. He swung desperately upward and caught the other under the chin. And it came to him now why the German infantrymen had favored the entrenching tool over the bayonet. He could feel it cut halfway into the other’s head.

  It couldn’t have taken more than fifteen seconds. His attacker was on the floor, gurgling his life away.

  Don Fielding’s first reaction was to bolt, simply to flee. To where, he didn’t know. He tried to capture himself. He forced himself to stand firm for a moment. Perhaps the small patio outside teemed with other opponents. But then, if it did, he didn’t have a chance. Stand firm for a moment. Think. And then, incongruously, at a moment like this, to his mind came the slogan of International Business Machines. Think! Ha.

  He debated, momentarily searching the body of the fallen man.

  For what?

  What could the other have that made any difference to him?

  Nothing.

  He stooped and picked up the sword. He brushed the door’s mat aside and stared forth. No one else was in sight. He scurried through.

  To his mind came the thought, have I left anything behind? But no. He had gone to bed wearing everything he possessed. This time he hadn’t even used his bush jacket as a pillow. He had been a fool to allow himself sleep. But he was proving Don Fielding a fool over and over again in this impossible, insane situation in which he found himself.

  Sword in hand, he proceeded, unconsciously humped as though trying to present as small a figure as possible. He hurried through the patio, through the gateway, to the left, to the left again, and to the stone stairs that mounted to the wall.

  Whatever agnostic gods there might be, he prayed to them that there be no sentries at the top.

  The agnostic gods came through. At the wall’s top he tossed the sword over, got down on his knees, lowered himself by his hands, and dropped to the ground, twelve feet or so below.

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  For a moment Don Fielding stood up against the wall, listening. Had he been spotted by one of the sentries? If he had, then a shout would go up immediately. No shout. For the moment he was safe.

  One of the large community houses loomed across the way, possibly a hundred feet distant. Now here was the crucial point, so far as the sentries on the battlements of the enclosure were concerne
d. He doubled over and sprinted for the shade of the wall of the house. Luck again. No challenging shout.

  He made his way around the side of the building so that now the wall sheltered him completely from sight from the camp. He dug into his pocket and came forth with the compass. He could hardly make out its face in the gloom. He set a course due west and started off at a rapid walk.

  The town wasn’t as large as all that. He estimated it at about ten thousand citizens, even considering the manner in which the Indians packed themselves in. As he recalled history, Cortes, in his letters to Charles Fifth, had claimed it to be thirty thousand, but Cortes was a soldier and the soldier who didn’t exaggerate the number of his enemies and the size of the towns he captured had yet to be born. He hadn’t upped it by more than three times.

  Don worked his way around and about the sprawl of community houses, the market place, the pyramids and temples. There wasn’t a soul on the streets at this hour. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven o’clock. He’d had quite a sleep before his would-be assassin showed up. He wondered who the man was. Possibly nobody he knew. He had not recognized the voice when the other had sworn. Possibly, on the other hand, it might have been one of the Cortes staff. The Captain-General might have wished to keep the army as a whole from knowing about the killing. There might be some who would think the less of a commander who resorted to personal assassination without legal cause. Though, come to think of it, from what Don had seen, they were as vicious a bunch of cutthroats as had ever come down the pike. The sole exceptions he could think of—and he wasn’t even sure they were exceptions—were Fray Olmedo, Bernal Diaz, possibly Alonzo de Avila, and Malinche, of course.

  He came eventually to the outskirts of town and headed in the direction of the river. He wanted to find the path by which he had entered so few days ago. And, yes, here it was. He set off at a jogging run.

  Time was important now. Whoever that man was he had killed, someone was undoubtedly waiting for him to report. When he didn’t, someone else would be sent to find out why. How much time would elapse, Don couldn’t know, but it wouldn’t be too much, and already perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed since the attempt.