The Time Masters

by Wilson Tucker

  Nash had all the information he really needed to know—except one piece of course, which did not develop until afterward. Where was Carolyn hiding? How had Dikty found that hiding place where all others had failed? What one morsel of evidence did Dikty have that the others did not possess or what shrewd deduction had he made that the others could not yet grasp? Or (ironically) what bit of dumb luck had he stumbled over which was not likely to be repeated for any who followed after?

  Nash waited on the darkened hillside, crouching low and waiting for the anonymity of night to return to the road, to the house and the couple of acres. In memory he retraced the patternless path he and Dikty had strewn along the afternoon streets, retraced the seemingly aimless wanderings from one door to another, seeking a clue to Carolyn. The path that had actually led back to Carolyn in some dubious manner.

  Below (him on the road some few lights winked out and two or three automobiles moved off toward the city. There were still figures ranging about his house and even a lone flashlight poking among the trees of the apple orchard. He could not go back there, not now, maybe never. Someone would be staked out there until eternity, waiting for him to come back to claim his possessions. Cummings would regard that as mere routine; Cummings might even play it smart and send Hoffman in as bait.

  Nash dropped his eyes from the distant scene, to stare at the looming indistinct whiteness of his hands before him. Shirley Hoffman: good-bye probably, or at the very least, so long. To go back to her now for whatever reason would place her in a position of jeopardy, would force her to choose between him and her sworn loyalties. He did not want to force such a decision upon her. Still, he fervently hoped their paths might cross again someday, somewhere in the future. He would deem it a stroke of rare fortune to meet that girl again during her long lifetime.

  In the first false light of dawn, Nash quit his position on the hill and sought out the poorly gravelled road that circled and snaked around it. Fifteen minutes’ slow, careful walking brought him to the steep ravine where he had ditched his car. He looked down at it with a tinge of regret, but it was not to be helped because every police officer in the state would already be searching for that car. Sometime in the next few hours a rural traveller along the road would find it, report it, and it would be known that he was afoot. Nash turned his back on the smashed car and descended the rugged hillside.

  He went with the wry memory of the hundreds or perhaps thousands of times he had done the same thing in the past, always fleeing something or someone.

  The very first time had been his wild, surprised flight from the runty, fierce warriors who hunted with half-tamed dogs; they had been seeking wild boar and flushed him instead. The track of a flint spear point across his arm had been the first wound he had known, had been the fast realisation that not all worlds and all people worshipped life as did his own. But the Azilian hunters had been a warning foretaste of what was to come. They were the last of the hunting races but not the last of murderous mind.

  He had attempted—with fair success—to introduce some few civilizing measures to a wandering Neolithic people. He taught them to build wooden huts, to cast pottery, to breed work animals in captivity, to plant crops and work the soil, and to grind and polish tools. But in the end he again was forced to flee. He lived too long. They were not burdened with the superstitions to make of him a god or a devil, not imaginative enough to weave a legend of immortality—they were simply suspicious and decided he was evil. He ran for his life, and not for the second time.

  He had drifted south to discover that the stone age in which he found himself did not cover all portions of the planet simultaneously.

  Whereas a people of a tribe behind him worked laboriously with crude-stone tools, ahead of him to the south, on all shores of the great inland sea, were new people who already knew the art of writing, knew the use of iron, of copper and bronze. Settling among them he had made another pleasant, surprising discovery—their art of writing was not of their own invention; it was a writing he could decipher and read with some difficulty. Some other unknown survivor of the wreck had been there ahead of him. That other man or woman could not now be found, but what he had left for Nash to find in later centuries was a. warming thing.

  In all those ten thousand years of cultural evolution—Azilian, Tardenosian, Maglemosean, the Camprignian, Ertbolle, Asturian (as men now named them), the later Egyptian, Crete, Minoan—in all those ten thousand years he had been forced to run from something sometime. As he was running now, from men who believed he posed a threat to their national security.

  The boy’s sudden voice startled him.

  “Hey there—where ya’ going?”

  Nash looked up, discovered the boy just across a fence. The lad was plodding along behind a small herd of cattle, and had twisted around to stare at Nash in his hasty descent of the hill.

  “Hello,” Nash called back. “I didn’t see you. Going down to find a garage. My car’s in the ditch up there.” He pointed a vague thumb behind him.

  “Where?” the boy asked curiously.

  “You know that gravel road—the one that looks like a corkscrew?”

  “Near a lot of pink-and-black rocks. I’m in the ditch up there.”

  “Sure, I know that place. You didn’t get hurt?”

  “No, I’m all right. Just taking a short cut down into town.”

  “There ain’t no short cut that way,” the boy declared.

  “No?” Nash paused to inspect the terrain, hoping the youngster wouldn’t mention this incident to his parents. “Do you know a better one?”

  “Sure,” the lad replied with positive superiority. “Just climb over the fence and cut across here and go down there by them trees ”—he turned to point out the grove—”and you’ll see a path. Then just foller that around by the Norwood place—look out for his dogs, though. And pretty soon you’ll come out right behind that trailer court down there. They got a phone.”

  “I’ll do that, and many thanks.”

  “Be sure to watch out for the dogs, now.”

  “Will do. And thanks again.” Nash climbed the fence and struck out across the pasture. He was among the shelter of the trees before the deeper significance of the boy’s statement smote him. The trailer court had a phone.

  It also had electricity, running water, perhaps canned gas if the patron required it. The transient used the camp’s facilities, simply made the proper connections to a trailer. The transient paid the proprietor a sum therefore; it was not necessary to go into town and sign up for the utilities. The court was quite removed and separated from the city; the rental of parking space was a daily or weekly affair and settled on the spot. Anyone having a trailer in that court could, if he wished, merely glance out of the window to observe the traffic moving along the road. Anyone having a particular interest in some person living farther up that same road would find it simple to watch that person coming and going. Without being seen himself, without having to venture into the city unless he wished to run the risk.

  There, Carolyn? Living in a trailer?

  Nash moved more swiftly along the downward path, threading his way among the trees and into the open country beyond them. A house loomed up finally in the growing dawn and he kept a cautious watch for dogs; one inside the house commenced a furious barking but no one interfered with his quick passage. He continued along the faint trail, sometimes losing it in the underbrush and then having to beat around in hasty circles to find it again. The boy had said “pretty soon ” but nearly twenty minutes had passed and the sun was breaking the horizon before he sighted the trailer court. Nash stopped on the hill to study the layout.

  It was modern and of good size, having crushed rock for streets and individual walks up to each trailer door. Two sides of the court, those sides facing away from town and toward the outlying hills, were lined with head-high shrubbery and young trees; the third side lay open, looking down upon the city, while the remaining boundary faced the road. Nash sat down with his bac
k to a tree, watching the camp and studying the trailers.

  They were of varying sizes and all conditions of age or newness; there was no hint in that. Several, this early in the morning, already had wash hanging on the outside lines and he eliminated them from his search. A few children emerged from some, or men who clambered into near-by cars and drove off toward the city, or women who stood and gossiped with still other women in neighbouring doorways. Still he stayed on the hill, patiently waiting and checking off the possibilities, one by one. Here, a couple appeared, to talk with wildly waving arms and then return inside; there, a baby was brought out into the warm sun, and then another. An old man came out, to walk around his home checking the air pressure of the tyres. A grocer’s delivery truck turned in from the road and made its slow way toward one of the units. Nash leaned forward with intent eyes, following its passage. The truck turned about, backed a few feet and the driver jumped out to open the rear door. A woman appeared from the near-by trailer to watch the driver. Nash relaxed against the tree, checking off that unit from his mental list.

  By mid-morning he was down to a half dozen lifeless trailers, a half dozen which hadn’t as yet given forth any sign of life or movement.

  At noon, one of the half dozen was eliminated. A man opened the door, came out into the sun to stretch and rub the sleep from his eyes. That left five. In mid-afternoon the five remained and Nash was stretched out on his back on the ground, tired by the long watch and growing more hungry by each passing hour. In the late afternoon the morning exodus returned, the men who drove in from town, the children who had been playing about all day and those who’d been absent, the sons and husbands and fathers and paramours back from work for a night’s sleep or play. One by one they arrived and Nash checked them into the trailers they had left that morning—and with their coming two of the question marks were eliminated. A couple drove into the court and unlocked the door of one of those lifeless units; to be followed shortly by a man alone who entered another. Nash supposed those three had left in the early morning hours before he assumed his watch.

  Three trailers remained, three mute question marks. Two parked near the shrub-lined boundary before him and a third nearer the road.

  It was dark.

  Tired legs cramped and stomach demanding food, Nash arose from the ground and moved slowly down the hill. The night around him was filled with tiny cricket noises and somewhere near at hand a bird was calling. A brick building set against the rear shrub-line housed a public bath, and Nash stopped there first for water, after working his way through the trees and shrubbery. The water helped a bit but still his hunger clamoured for attention.

  Nash left the building and edged toward the nearer trailer that had claimed his interest. All about him were the human noises of the court, the odours of food and tobacco drifting on the heavy air, the sound of running water and noisy radios. Footsteps crunched on the loose rock as someone made his way to the bath building, and Nash faded back into the surrounding darkness until he should pass.

  The first of the three silent trailers came beneath his questioning fingers, still faintly warm from the day’s hot sun. It was a long, low streamlined vehicle, sparkling silver and maroon when seen by daylight. His fingers had contacted one rounded corner of it and now he slowly edged toward the door, listening intently for sounds within. At a window he stopped, twisted his face up to read a notice pasted there. For Sale. Nash hesitated only a moment more and then boldly stepped to the door and tried the knob. It turned easily and the panel swung open on emptiness.

  Within fleet seconds he was beside the second one. Using the same cautious approach as before, Nash worked his way around to the trailer door and tapped lightly. There was no answer. He tapped again and at the same time gently twisted the knob. The door was locked. Nash swung back into the concealing shrubbery and made his way toward the third and last trailer—that one nearest the road.

  It too was silent—as dark, as seemingly lifeless as it had been all the long day. There was no movement from within, no sound. Nash knew the silent darkness of it was a lie. The door of the trailer stood open as if to welcome him and only a light screen door protected the interior from night-flying insects. Despite the absence of sound or motion the stillness was a lie, for there was the tempting odour of food. He lifted his nostrils to the odour, moved a single step nearer the screen. Abruptly there came a hissing sound and before he could jerk away there came still another—that of a suddenly bubbling percolator. Within a moment the odour of the steaming coffee was carried through the screen to him.

  Nash grinned tightly and stepped to the screen door; he could see nothing at all in the blackened interior.

  He said, “I’ve come, Carolyn.”

  Her answer came promptly, a low, husky feminine voice from the trailer’s interior. “I’ve been waiting for you, Gilbert. Waiting all day.”

  Nash nodded, still with the tight, knowing grin on his lips. “All day.” The sound of her voice wiped out the millenniums as though they had never been. “All day.”

  “I discovered you up there watching me. You have the patience of a mule, Gilbert. And the intelligence.”

  He reached for the screen door.

  XIV.

  “Close the door,” the husky voice commanded him, “and turn on the lights. I want to look at you, mule.”

  Nash gently pushed the door shut behind him and fumbled along the wall until his fingers found the light switch. “Put away the gun, Carolyn,” he suggested, and flipped the wall switch. The sudden brightness caused him to squint.

  She sat casually relaxed, confidently smiling, on a long divan that filled the front of the trailer, stretching across the room from wall to wall. She was attired in light green lounging pyjamas which seemed to hug and caress her body, to display and accent her physical endowments. Carolyn held an automatic in her hand.

  Nash simply stood and looked at her, looked at the crown of flowing golden hair which now seemed somewhat lighter than he remembered, looked at the glowing yellow eyes which had lost none of their fiery magnetism. The smooth skin of her face was—if you knew what to search for—only now beginning to show signs of age, but the tiny wrinkles and indentations had not yet appeared on her neck or her hands. He looked at her hands, at the gun held in one of them, looked closely at the clinging green garment she wore and all that it pretended to conceal, stared at her and through her with the accumulated curiosity of ten thousand years. She was disturbingly attractive, provocative. He would never deny that, could easily understand how Gregg Hodgkins had fallen under her spell. Hodgkins and how many others? And this stage was set for him. Carolyn had carefully prepared for still another conquest.

  Nash relaxed against the doorsill. “It’s been a long time, Carolyn.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Gilbert. I appreciate neither the irony nor the understatement. And don’t just stand there; sit down.” Her voice was low and coaxing as she patted the divan. “Over here.” He studied her a moment more, studied her eyes and the gun in her hand, the stage she had set for the two of them, finally to turn away from her and seat himself on a straightback chair beside a tiny table. A meal awaited him there and he examined it with interest—a browned steak still slowly sizzling on its plate, nearly a half dozen side dishes, and at his elbow the automatic percolator ceased its mad bubbling and shut itself off. In all, much more than he could possibly eat although he had touched nothing since the previous evening. Nash examined each dish on the table and swung his gaze back to the woman. “Homey,” he said.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Gilbert?”

  “You know damned well I am!” The old, tight grin had reappeared a grin that seemed to mock her.

  “I fixed it for you, when I saw you leave the hill. We can talk while you eat, Gilbert.”

  “I’m sure you did—really fixed it!”

  She jerked stiffly erect to frown at him. “Oh, don’t be silly! Why would I want to kill you?”

  Nash glanced down at the gun. �
�Why, indeed?”

  Carolyn continued to frown, half angry at his insinuation. She became aware that her gaze had drifted to the untouched food on the table and quickly forced her attention back to him. “Aren’t you going to eat it? After I went to all the trouble? Gilbert, you must be starving.”

  “What was that crack about irony?” he wanted to know.

  “Please!” she retorted sharply, “let’s not quarrel—not you and me. It’s been too long a time, Gilbert, and we’re all that are left. Let’s be friends—please?”

  Nash gently moved aside the steak plate and propped an elbow on the table. “All right; we’re friends—for a little while.” He glanced again at the gun. “How are you, Carolyn?”

  “Fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Just fine.”

  After that was silence. Nash kept his eyes on the woman, on her hands and her body, on the way she sat on the divan. He watched for a sudden tenseness or stiffening of the relaxed body. Almost lazily he dropped his chin onto the palm of his hand. After a while he blinked. “Let’s talk,” Carolyn suggested uneasily.

  “Let’s,” Nash agreed. “About what?”

  “About us—and the others. Gilbert, do you realise how long it has been? We are the only ones left alive, aren’t we? I was afraid so. I’m so glad I found you; there were times when I wanted to kill myself because of the loneliness! Gilbert, it was terrible.” Her hands were moving restlessly in her lap, striking her knees to emphasise the emotions behind her words. The gun always managed to remain pointed at him. “I’m glad you came through all right.”

  “Likewise.” He nodded. “Some wild little men wanted to stick me for a pig but I disappointed them.”

  “What of your wife—Atartle?”

  “Died in the explosion,” he answered without emotion. “Didn’t have time to fasten her suit.”

  “Oh.” A moment’s thoughtful silence. “And the others?” Nash slowly blinked his eyes, inhaling the aroma of the coffee beside him. “There was Raul—you remember Raul? Ship’s doctor? He died a short while ago in Egypt, an old, old man. Died happy, you might say. Raul was the first to tell me about you, incidentally; he’d heard stories drifting up from the south and we speculated on who might be causing them.” He closed one eye, stared at her with the other. “Some stories.”