Mind Out of Time

by Christopher Stasheff

  Well, Angus had made his decision, all right, but he could go back on it, Doc had admitted that—but did he want to?

  He sighed, pulled on his coat, and turned toward the door. He wasn't going to think clearly in here, that was for sure.

  Yorick looked up from his newspaper, nodded, and turned back to reading. Then his head snapped up, eyes wide. "How'd you get out of the hospit... Oh."

  "Oh," Angus mocked. "What's the date?"

  "May 12." Then, cautiously: "Uh... Ang?"

  Angus stopped with his hand on the knob, looked back. "Yeah?"

  "Need any help getting back?" Yorick seemed embarrassed. "I mean, we can have somebody who knows how to operate that first pilot model standing by."

  Angus stood for a moment, thinking, then nodded. "Not a bad idea. Have him push the button at, uh..." He glanced at his watch; it was still clocking the time of May 14. "...6:15 PM."

  "Will do." Yorick sounded very, very happy.

  Angus glared at him, but the Neanderthal was studiously engrossed in his newspaper again. Angus snarled and turned toward the door again—then stopped, suddenly remembering. He turned back to Yorick. "Uh... there's a gun battle coming up in here tomorrow."

  Yorick raised his head, frowning slightly. Then he managed to dredge up a weak smile. "Y'know, I'd almost forgotten about that."

  "Uh... yuh." Angus studied Yorick's face a moment, decided not to ask how he'd come by the information. "Uh, you'll, uh... take precautions?"

  "Oh, sure!" Yorick waved a hand airily. "Bullet-proof vest—and the coffee table's got a slab of armor plate inside the top. Won't stop a laser forever, but it slows it down quite a bit."

  "Uh—yeah, sure." Angus felt a little light-headed. He turned toward the door again. "Well, uh—g'night..."

  "'Night," Yorick said cheerfully, returning to his newspaper.

  Angus limped out the door, feeling numb. The promise of battle seemed to have been just what Yorick needed. Angus shivered. Some parts of this business, he was very glad he could leave in others' hands.

  Maybe it was the promise that GRIPE, and Yorick, would keep existing. Angus held on to that.

  He walked the darkened streets for an hour, so engrossed in analyzing the problem that he completely failed to notice the dozen scuffles he left in his wake. Finally he remembered Alasper and stopped, wondering how Yorick could cheerfully abandon this modern world and choose to live out his life in a Neolithic cave.

  Then he remembered Nacha, and knew the answer.

  It hadn't started out as something permanent, had it? Yorick had thought it was just one more assignment, and that Doc had his own reasons for wanting Yorick to make the hike across the Bering Straits Bridge, reasons that would strengthen GRIPE somehow, and the big guy had so much faith in Angus's future self that he had gone along with it cheerfully. Well, maybe not cheerfully, but at least willingly.

  Then he had met Nacha, and known what those secret reasons were.

  If Angus didn't finish setting up GRIPE, Yorick would die before his teens. He wouldn't ever be part of GRIPE, wouldn't ever meet Nacha.

  Yorick was something completely new in Angus's life. Not just a time-traveler—a friend. Angus had never had a friend before. Not really.

  But was Yorick his friend, or Doc's?

  His. Angus had met Doc. He was sure the only reason Yorick liked him was because they'd been friends so long.

  And a friend didn't abandon a friend to an early death.

  Angus turned on his heel and headed back toward the apartment. Now he was so filled with zeal, with a fiery sense of purpose, that he never stopped to think what might be happening behind him—and of course he never looked back to see the silent spears of light that winked in the night.

  Angus slammed into the apartment, ignoring Yorick's startled stare, and shucked his coat on the way to the bedroom-laboratory. He closed the door behind him, limped to the center of the darkened room, and stood waiting stiffly, trying to relax but failing, staring at the coil on the chair... waiting for the future...

  An instant of dizziness, nausea, then...

  Sunlight, gold and orange, the light of sunset—and the coil was larger, more convoluted. Angus squeezed his eyes shut, bowed his head. "What's the date?"

  "May 14, 6:15 PM." Yorick's voice, gentle, somewhat tired.

  Angus lifted his head slowly, turned to look at the Neanderthal, saw a stranger behind him at the improvised control board—and behind her, charred patches of wall, out in the hall. He swallowed with difficulty, remembering the battle. Involuntarily, his eyes went to the stain on the floor. He wrenched his gaze away, looked up to find Yorick watching him, trying to hide his tension and not succeeding.

  Angus frowned. What was he waiting for?

  Of course—a sign of commitment. So far, Angus could still change his mind.

  But Yorick had gone through enough hell for him—Yorick, and all the agents he hadn't met. They had a right to a bond. He nodded, lifted his head slowly with a sardonic smile. "Who's the first time agent?"

  Yorick let out a whoop of victory. Angus noticed that the woman at the controls had a radiant smile. Then Yorick leaped into the center of the room beside him, under the coil. "C'mon, Ang!" Then, to the woman at the controls, "You wired in the remote?"

  "Right in here." She handed Angus a neat plywood box with a couple of knobs and a knife switch.

  "Then set this monstrosity and let's go!"

  "All right, all right," she said, grinning, and turned away to the control panel.

  "When are we going to?" Angus asked.

  "Tuesday, October 5th, 6:37 pm, in 82,684 BCE!" Yorick crowed.

  The woman set the dial. "Where?"

  "Twelve miles south-by-southwest of Prague! Hurry!"

  Angus watched her set other dials, one part of his mind identifying each one's purpose while another wondered at Yorick's impatience. Well, it was probably to be expected.

  The woman at the controls stood back, waving.

  Angus swallowed, lifted a hand in reply, and pressed the button.

  They stood in the middle of a field with the golden light of late afternoon about them. Yorick looked around, his face strangely taut, then pointed toward a range of hills rising out of a pine forest, raw and eroded, with sparse clumps of grass. "There. Second hill from the left, on that ledge above the talus slope—about three miles away and a hundred feet up."

  Angus glanced up at him, frowning, wondering at the tension in the Neanderthal's voice. Then he turned back to the remote box, set the dials, pressed the button.

  They stood on the ridge; looking down the slope.

  Yorick glanced at the sky. "Three hours ahead—toward the future."

  Angus set the dial, frowning, hit the button.

  The sun was down, but its glow still made the sky light. Dusk gathered beneath the pines.

  "Nice evening for dying."

  Angus glanced up at Yorick, puzzled by the irony in the big man's voice.

  Then he stared.

  Eyes still on the sky, Yorick was taking an automatic from a shoulder holster inside his shirt, an eighteen-inch barrel from his left trouser leg, a rifle stock from his right. He began fitting them together absently, eyes still on the sky.

  Angus cleared his throat delicately. "You, uh... always carry that thing?"

  "Huh?" Yorick glanced down, seemed almost surprised to find the completed rifle in his hands. "Oh... usually. Not always, though." He slipped a small telescopic sight out of his pocket, screwed it on.

  Angus felt prickles at the base of his skull.

  "There." Yorick nodded his head down the slope, hands still busy with the rifle. "That rock outcrop, near the stand of pine—see?"

  Angus looked and frowned. "I see it."

  Yorick nodded. "Nothing there now—but there will be. Watch."

  After perhaps fifteen minutes, Yorick suddenly pulled Angus down behind a scraggly thorn bush, muttering, "There. Coming out of the trees at the bottom of the slope. S
ee him?"

  Angus looked, saw a stocky, wind-tanned boy limping painfully up the slope. He wore only a loincloth but carried a heavy spear. His forehead sloped, his brow ridges were heavy; he had no chin.

  Neanderthal.

  And he limped because his right foot was twisted to the side.

  He looked terrified.

  "His name is 'Aacthuu,'" Yorick said, low. "He's the joke of his clan; everyone despises him. His parents have told him, often, that they wish he hadn't been born—they've lost status for having birthed a deformed male. He's a burden to them and to the whole clan—but by tribal custom, he had to be given a fair chance to prove his worth, so his parents had to raise him.

  "But not any more. This is the summer of his twelfth year—time for him to prove he's worthy to be counted among the men of the clan, by killing a saber-tooth with nothing but that spear. Worse, he's committed a heresy—he invented something."

  Angus stared. He knew innovations had been very rare among the Neanderthals; they had kept the same technology for tens of thousands of years. To invent something... "What?"

  "A bow and arrow," Yorick said sardonically.

  A weapon of death—and a threat to everyone else in the tribe. No wonder the boy had been exiled.

  But the intelligence that invention showed, the will that had pitted him against tradition!

  "Nobody expects him to return," Yorick said. "In fact, they expect just the opposite—that they'll never see him again. And, frankly, they'll be happier that way." He spoke with a tight, sour smile. "He meets all the requirements, Angus. All."

  Angus realized he was staring at Yorick. He shook himself and turned away to watch the boy. "You mean that if Aacthuu disappears, nobody's going to miss him. But there has to be more than that, doesn't there? He has to die without having affected the destiny of any other living thing. Otherwise, we change history, and who knows what effects that might cause?"

  "Been thinking about it, have you?" For a moment, Yorick's smile was victorious again; then it curdled. "Any effects his life has had are part of the past already—and he definitely will die without affecting anything else. Just watch."

  The boy had scrabbled his way up to the outcrop. As he tried to circle the boulder at its top, though, that twisted foot wrenched about, skidding on loose gravel and shooting out from under him. With a cry of alarm, the boy fell. He scrambled to his feet, but the foot collapsed under him again.

  "He broke it!" Angus cried.

  Yorick shook his head. "Only a sprain—but he can't get up again. Can't get up, so he'll have to fight from his knees."

  "Fight who?" Angus asked in alarm.

  The boy crouched behind the boulder, glancing warily over the top from time to time as he raked together the fallen leaves and sticks that had blown up against the granite. He took one of the sticks and began to rub it against the shaft of his spear, feverishly, almost in a panic.

  Angus realized he was trying to light a fire—not just for warmth, but for a weapon. "Tell me! Who's he going to fight?"

  "A saber-toothed tiger," Yorick answered, his face grim and set.

  Aacthuu crouched behind the boulder shivering, fear knotting his belly. He knew the cat denned near here; he had found its spoor often. And this was the strongest place he could find near the den—rock for some protection, and open space for a clear throw. The wind was at his back; it must surely bring his scent to the long-tooth. He himself was the bait—and he couldn't stand, couldn't walk! He rubbed the sticks feverishly, as he had seen the shaman do, but no fire came! He shuddered, tried vainly to summon some anger.

  The long-tooth prowled out from the trees.

  Aacthuu saw it and tensed. Fear and the sureness of death lent him strength. If he must die, he would die a man.

  Would anyone know? Or care?

  Yes. Himself.

  The long-tooth crouched.

  Aacthuu set himself and, suddenly, the fear was gone.

  The long-tooth sprang.

  Aacthuu shot upright on his knees, arm snapping down and around. The spear flew straight and true, struck deep into the cat's breast. It yowled with pain—but the momentum of its leap carried it to Aacthuu. It struck hard, claws raking his chest, fangs slashing. He staggered back, tripped, and fell, curling his legs in. His good foot caught the long-tooth in the belly. He straightened his legs in one massive surge, hurling the cat clear of him, heard its body jar against the ground, snap. It screamed one last time before he felt the welling, sticky warmth at his throat, spreading over his chest, and saw the sky clot and fade.

  On the ledge above, Angus pounded Yorick's shoulder, screaming, "Do something! You've got a rifle—use it!"

  Yorick turned his head from side to side, his face granite, his body ironwood.

  "Why not?" Angus screamed.

  "For you."

  Angus stared, horrified.

  Yorick stretched out an arm, pointing. "There. Are you satisfied?"

  His voice was so dead, so flat... Angus felt as though an electric field were playing about his back, his neck. He turned and looked.

  On the slope below, the boy lay dead, his throat torn away, his blood a widening pool around him. Near him lay the saber-tooth, curled around the heavy spear, still struggling feebly.

  "They're dead," Yorick said, his voice flat and harsh. "Both of them. Dead. Their life-lines stop here, knotted together." He turned slowly to face Angus. "Dead, out here, where no one witnessed but ourselves, where no one will find them but the vultures." He frowned into Angus's eyes, brooding. "So what if one of the bodies is gone? A few vultures will lose a few calories; so what?"

  Angus turned away, looking down the slope.

  "Will a few grams of lead make much difference to history, Ang?"

  "No," Angus whispered.

  "It's not too late to do something," Yorick said, voice low. "Not for us."

  Angus bent his head and set the remote box for ten minutes in the past.

  The long-tooth crouched.

  Aacthuu set himself and, suddenly, the fear was gone.

  The long-tooth tensed, gathering itself to spring...

  Thunder shook the slope.

  A ragged, bloody hole appeared where the long-tooth's face had been as its body shot backward, slammed to the earth.

  Aacthuu knelt, staring, stupefied.

  Then fear shot strength down his veins. He spun about wildly, seeking the demon that had struck down the cat.

  They rose from a thorn bush on a ledge above him—not one, but two! One was surely a demon, bent, gnarled, flat-faced, jut-chinned, with earth-colored skins hung on its body—but the other was a man like himself, though it wore very colorful skins...

  And they were coming down toward him.

  Aacthuu cringed, knowing he was helpless before them. Would they now hurt him, after saving him? But if they would not hurt him, they would not be demons!

  Aacthuu stared at them, struck by a new thought. Then he trembled anew. Were they demons, or... gods!

  They came down the slope to the boy, Angus dazed and puzzled, Yorick's face wooden—but somehow, there was great compassion in the big man's whole stance and attitude. He knelt, slowly, a few feet from the boy, spoke in a strange, fluid language.

  The boy stared, shocked.

  Yorick spoke again, softly. Then he knelt, silent and waiting.

  Slowly, the boy began to recover from his fear...

  And Angus's eyes widened. He stared at the boy's face, then glanced at Yorick, then back to the boy. Chill and bony fingers stroked his spine, fondled the base of his skull. He couldn't be sure, he hadn't seen very many Neanderthals, so naturally they all still looked alike to him—but there was something about those two faces, something... He glanced back at Yorick, felt something akin to horror at finding that the Neanderthal was watching him.

  Yorick's wooden mask finally broke in a sardonic smile. Slowly, he nodded.

  Angus swallowed hard and looked away.

  Yorick turned back
to the boy.

  Suddenly Aacthuu blurted. "You are gods!"

  The Gnarled One looked puzzled, but the Man said, "No, Aacthuu. We are men, and only men. Like your father, like the men of your clan—like yourself."

  Aacthuu hung his head in misery. "I am no man. I could not kill my long-tooth."

  "You could have." The Man's voice was harsh. "But you'd have died in the killing of it."

  "Then should I not have?" Aacthuu cried. "Should I have not died a man?"

  The Man stood slowly, gaze still fixed on him. "You shall prove your manhood later, Aacthuu. We shall find you greater lions than this for your testing."

  The Gnarled One spoke in a strange, ugly tongue.

  "What's he saying?" Angus asked.

  "He insists we're gods."

  Angus snorted. "Then tell him he's coming to Valhalla."

  The Man spoke again in Aacthuu's tongue. "You must come with us, Aacthuu. Our shamans will see your foot straightened. We will watch you grow to the fullness of manhood—and you shall prove that manhood in our service."

  "The land of the gods!" Aacthuu breathed—then wondered at the way the Man's features twisted. But he gathered his nerve and cried, "I will serve you the whole of my life if you will take me there!"

  "Why then, so you shall," the Man said quietly—and he bent down to gather Aacthuu up in his arms, almost tenderly.

  Aacthuu clung to his neck, at first gingerly, then with a death-grip.

  Yorick closed his eyes for a moment, letting the surge of emotion pass; then opened them to see Angus staring—but his face instantly went neutral. "Shall we go?"

  "Not quite yet." Yorick's mouth tightened. "One small formality, Ang—this boy's no longer a member of his clan. He can't bear the name they gave him any more. He needs a new one."