The burnished red of their skins glowed in the artificial light that reflected throughout this subsurface chamber. That was natural, the fine, impressive red. He glanced at his own arms. How different he felt from them . . . what a contrast.
"You'll be all right," Loris said. "We have pigments."
"I have my own," he said. "In my instrument case."
By himself, in a side room, he removed all his clothing. This time he rubbed the pigment onto every part of him; he did not leave the telltale middle area white, as he had before. Then, with the help of several servants, he dyed his hair black.
"That isn't enough," Loris said, entering the room.
Startled, he said, "I haven't got anything on." He stood naked, the reddish pigment drying on him, with the servants braiding artificial hair into his, to give length to it. Loris, however, did not seem to care. She paid scarcely any attention to him.
"You must remember your eyes," she said. "They are blue."
With contact lenses, the pupils of his eyes were given a dark brown cast.
"Now look at yourself in the mirror," Loris said. A full-length mirror was produced, and Parsons studied himself in it. Meanwhile, the servants began to dress him in the furs. Loris watched critically, seeing to it that each part of his garments was placed on him properly.
"How about it?" he said. The man in the mirror moved when he moved; he had trouble accepting the image as his, this frowning, bare-armed, bare-legged warrior, with his coppery skin, his greasy-looking uncut hair falling down the back of his neck.
"Fine," Loris said. "It isn't important that we be authentic, but that we fit the sixteenth century English stereotype of Indians--they're the ones we have to deceive. They kept several armed scouts posted here and there on the cliffs overlooking their careened ship."
"What's the relationship between Drake's party and the local Indians?" Parsons asked.
"Evidently good. He has been plundering Spanish ships to his heart's content, so there is plenty of valuable material aboard--no need of ravaging the countryside. To him and his men, the California Coast area has no value; he's there because after he successfully plundered the Spanish ships near Chile and Peru, he went north seeking a passage to the Atlantic."
"So in other words," Parsons said, "he's not there for conquest. At least, not against the Indians. It's been other whites that he's preyed on."
"Yes," she admitted. "And now that you are all ready, I think we had better be getting back to the others."
As they walked back to join the group, Loris asked, "In case of emergency, you're familiar enough with the controls of our time ship so that you could operate it?"
"I hope so," he said.
Loris said, "You can be killed there, in Nova Albion."
"Yes," he said, thinking of the lifeless figure floating and drifting silently, unchangingly in the cold-pack. And, he thought, if anything went wrong, if we're not able to get back to our own centuries . . .
We would be catching abalone and mussels. Living on elk and deer and quail.
These people could extol the virtues of Indian culture, but certainly they themselves would be unable to endure it. With an eerie awareness he thought, They would probably try to get back to England with Drake's men.
And, he thought, so would I.
The "Plate of Brasse," which Drake's men had left on the California Coast had been found forty miles north of San Francisco Bay. The Golden Hind had cruised up and down a considerable part of the coast before Drake, an expert and provident seaman, had found a harbor that suited him. The ship needed its rotten planks repaired, its bottom breamed, for the voyage across the Pacific and back to England; it was loaded with enormous treasure, enough to transform the economy of the home country. To insure safety for the men and ship during the careenage, Drake needed a harbor that would give him as much privacy and freedom as possible. At last he found the harbor, with white cliffs, fog, much like the Sussex Coast that he knew so well. The ship was brought into the Estero, its cargo removed, and the careening begun.
Standing on the cliff, several miles from the Estero, Jim Parsons watched the work through high-powered prismatic binoculars.
Ropes from the ship trailed out into the water where they were attached to stakes driven deep and out of sight. The ship, on its side, lay like some injured animal washed up onto the beach, helpless and unable to get back to its element. Out in the water, several winches controlled the angle of the ship. The seaman at work replacing rotten planks stood on a wooden platform that kept them, at high tide, above the water level. Through his binoculars, Parsons saw them working with what appeared to be pots of tar or pitch; fire smoldered beneath the pots, and the men carried the tar to the side of the ship by means of broomlike poles. The men wore cloth trousers, rolled up, and cloth shirts, washed a light blue. Their hair, in the warm, midday sun, shone yellow.
To his ears came the distant, faint noises of their voices.
He saw no sign of Drake himself.
Surveying the Estero, Parsons tried to recall what had become of this region in his own time. A subdivision of tract houses called Oko Village, named after the twentieth century realtor who had financed it. And a resort frontage along the water's edge: private beaches and boats.
"Where is Drake?" he said, crouching down beside Helmar and Loris and the others in their fur wrappers.
"Off somewhere in a dinghy," Helmar said. "Scouting."
Behind them, the time ship had been hidden among trees, covered with shrubbery and branches to disguise its metal exterior. Now, as Parsons glanced back at it, he saw that they were bringing out the old woman in her chair. With her was her daughter, Jepthe, the wife of her son. The old woman, wrapped in a black wool shawl, complained in a shrill peevish voice as the chair bumped over the uneven ground.
"Can't she be kept more quiet?" he said softly to Loris.
"This excites her," Loris said. "They won't hear. Sound travels up here because it's reflected by the water and cliffs. She knows that she has to be careful."
The old woman, as her chair neared the cliff edge, became silent.
"What are we supposed to do?" Loris said to Parsons.
He said, "I don't know." He did not know what he himself was supposed to do. If he could sight Drake . . . "You're sure he's not aboard the ship," he said.
With a sardonic twitch of his lips, Helmar said, "Look along the cliff."
Turning his glasses, Parsons saw, hidden among the rocks, a small group of figures. Red arms, shiny black hair, the gray fur of their garments. Both men and women.
"Ourselves," Helmar said hoarsely. "The previous time."
In the binoculars, Parsons saw a woman rise up slightly, a powerfully built woman whose strong neck glistened in the heat. Her head turned and he recognized Loris.
And, further along, also perched in a declivity of rock, another group. Through the glasses he once more identified Loris, and, with her, Helmar and the others. Beyond that, he could not see.
He said to Loris beside him, "Where is your father?"
"He left Nixina and Jepthe at the time ship," she said tonelessly. "He made them wait there while he started along the cliff. For quite a time they lost sight of him. When he reappeared he had changed to his costume and he was about one-third of the way down the face of the cliff. He disappeared behind some rocks, and then--" Her voice broke. Presently she resumed. "Anyhow, they saw him jump up, just for a second, and go over head-first with a yell. Whether the arrow had gotten him at that point we don't know. They next saw him roll down until he came to rest against a shrub growing from the face of the cliff. They hurried to the edge and managed to get down to him. And of course when they got to him they found him with the arrow in his heart."
Now she ceased talking. Helmar finished. "They saw no one else. But of course they were too busy trying to get the ship close enough to get him into it. They managed to land the ship on the cliff face, using its jets to support it until they had him inside."
> "Was he dead?" Parsons asked.
"Dying," Helmar said matter-of-factly. "He lived for several minutes. But he wasn't conscious."
Loris touched Parsons' arm. "Look down again," she said.
Again he studied the Estero far below.
A small boat with five men in it had appeared from the far side of the careened ship. Methodically, it moved along, with four of the men working long oars. The fifth man, bearded, had some kind of metal instrument in his hand; Parsons saw it glint in the sun.
The man was Drake.
Yes, Parsons thought. But was it Stenog? He saw only the head, the beard, the man's clothes; the face was obscured, and too far away. If that is Stenog, he said to himself, then this is a trap, a fake. They are waiting. And they have weapons as good as ours.
"What weapons do they have?" he asked.
Loris said, "We understand that they have cutlasses, of course. And wheel-lock rifles, or possibly the older matchlock rifles. It is possible that some rifles have spiral grooves in the barrels, but that's only conjecture. They can't possibly fire this far in any case. There are a few cannon, removed from the ship--or at least we assume there are. We have seen none on the beach, however, and if they're still aboard the ship they certainly can't be fired. Not with the ship on its side. They took everything possible off to lighten the ship, so it would draw the least water. In any case, they have never fired on us, either with hand weapons or cannon."
They didn't have to, Parsons thought. At least, not with the weapons that Loris supposed. He said aloud, "So Corith went down the cliff assuming he was not in jeopardy."
"Yes," she said. "But Drake's men wouldn't be using an Indian weapon, would they?" The doubt, the bewilderment, showed in both her voice and face. This catastrophe made no sense to her; now, as before, it was beyond them. With the information they had, they could not deal with it. "And why would a native kill him?" Loris demanded.
Below them, the small boat had begun pushing away from the Golden Hind. It moved gradually to the south, in their direction. Presently it would pass directly beneath their spot.
Parsons said, "I'm going down." Handing her the binoculars, he took the coil of rope that they had brought and began lashing one end to a well-secured rock. Helmar helped him, and together they got the rope tight. Then, taking the coil, Parsons started away from the group.
Almost at once he realized that he could not descend directly. Even if the rope were long enough to let him down to the beach, he would be conspicuous, dangling against the white cliff; the men in the boat would be aware of him. Leaving the rope, he scrambled back up to the top of the cliff and began to run. Ahead of him he made out a deep cleft, overgrown with shrubbery, a tangle of broken rocks and roots that dipped out of sight beneath him.
Catching hold, he crept down, step by step. Below, the Pacific seemed perfectly flat, spread out as far as the eye could see; the ocean and the cliffs--nothing else. The blue of the water, the crumbling rock in his hands as he clawed his way down. Now, for an instant, he caught sight of the small boat once more. The men rowing. Ribbon of sand, with foam and breakers, driftwood washed up. The disorderly collections of seaweed . . .
He stumbled and almost fell. Head-first, he hung, clutching at roots. Rocks and bits of shrubbery rained past him, falling somewhere. He could hear the sound echo.
Far below, the boat continued on. Silently. None of the tiny figures seemed to hear or notice.
Parsons, by degrees, righted himself. Facing the cliff, not looking at the ocean below, he again descended.
When next he halted, getting his wind, he saw that the boat had come closer to shore. Two of the men had gotten out and were wading in the surf.
Had they seen him?
Swiftly, he made his way down. The rock surface became smooth; he clung for an interval, and then, taking a deep, prayerful breath, he released his grip and dropped. Beneath him, the sand rose. He struck and fell, his legs thrashing with pain. Rolling, he slid down among the seaweed and lay, wheezing, enduring the gradually declining numbness of impact.
The boat had been dragged up onto the shore. The men were searching for something on the beach, kicking at the sand. Some lost tool or instrument, Parsons thought. He lay stretched out, watching.
One of the men came toward him. And, after him, Drake. Both men passed directly in front of Parsons, and, as Drake turned, Parsons saw his face clearly, outlined against the sky.
Scrambling up, Parsons said, "Stenog!"
The bearded man turned. His mouth fell open with astonishment. The other men froze.
"You are Stenog," Parsons said. It was true. The man stared at him without recognition. "Don't you remember me?" Parsons said grimly. "The doctor who cured the girl, Icara."
Now recognition came. The expression on the bearded man's face changed.
Stenog smiled.
Why? Parsons wondered. Why is he smiling?
"They got you out of the prison rocket, did they?" Stenog said. "We thought so. One dead shupo and two unidentified corpses out of nowhere, sealed in and traveling back and forth." His smile grew, a knowing, confident smile. "I'm surprised to see you--you completely threw me off. How interesting . . . you here." His white, even teeth showed; he had begun to laugh.
"Why are you laughing?" Parsons demanded.
"Let's see your friend," Stenog said. "The one who's going to do the killing. Send him down." He put his hands on his hips, his legs wide apart. "I'm waiting."
FOURTEEN
Like a voice in a nightmare, the laughter followed after Parsons as he raced along the base of the cliff.
I was right, he thought.
Pausing once, he looked back. There on the beach, Stenog and his men waited for Corith. From the sand they had fished up what they had been searching for, a deadly, gleaming little weapon.
They had managed to complete the time-travel experiments.
Catching hold of roots and branches, Parsons scrambled up the cliff wall. I have to get to him first, he thought. I have to warn him. Rocks tumbled away; he sprawled and rolled back, clutching.
The figures below became smaller. They made no move to follow him.
Why don't they shoot me? he asked himself.
Now a ledge of rock came between him and Stenog. Gasping, he rested for a minute, out of sight, protected. But he had to go on. Struggling up, he seized a tree root and continued on up.
Don't they think I can stop him? he wondered. Is it fore-ordained that he will go through his cycle, be killed no matter what I do?
Am I going to fail?
Now, reaching out, he managed to catch hold of the turf at the crest of the cliff. He was able to pitch himself up onto the level ground. But at once he was up again, on his feet.
Where was Corith?
Somewhere. Not far off.
Trees grew ahead, a grove of wind-bent pines. He entered the grove, panting for breath. Back and forth he ran, searching among the trees.
I can't blame Stenog, he thought. He's protecting his society. It's his job.
And this is my job, he realized. To save my patient. The man I was called on to heal.
He stopped now, winded, unable to go on. Sinking down, he sat in the damp grass, in the shadows, resting and recovering. His fur garments were torn from scrambling up the cliff. Drops of blood oozed from his arm; he wiped it off on the grass.
Strange, he thought. Stenog, with his dark skin dyed white, masquerading as a white man. And myself, with my white skin dyed dark, masquerading as an Indian.
And--a white man struggling to help Corith kill Drake. And Stenog on the other, taking Drake's place.
Or not taking Drake's place. But actually Drake. Is there an authentic Drake? Or is Stenog Drake? Was there another man, actually born in England in the early sixteenth century, named Francis Drake? Or has Stenog always been Drake? And there is no other person.
If there is another Drake, a real Drake, then where is he?
One thing he knew: the engraving and
portrait had been made of Al Stenog, with beard and white skin, in Drake's place. So Stenog, not Drake, had come back to England from the New World with the plunder, and been knighted by the Queen. But had Stenog then continued to be Drake for the rest of his life?
Had that been Stenog who fought the Spanish warships, later on, in the war against Spain?
Who had been the great navigator? Drake or Stenog?
An intuition . . . the exploits of those explorers. The fantastic navigation and courage. Each of them: Cortez, Pizarro, Cabrillo . . . each of them a man transplanted from the future, an imposter. Using equipment from the future.
No wonder a handful of men had conquered Peru. And another handful, Mexico.
But he did not know. If Corith died while trying to reach Drake, there would be no reason for Stenog, for the government of the future, to go on. The man could die only once.
Parsons got shakily to his feet. He began to walk, preserving his strength. The man is here somewhere, he told himself. If I keep looking, I'll eventually find him. There's no need for a panic reaction; it's only a question of time.
Ahead of him, among the trees, someone moved.
Cautiously, he approached. He saw several figures . . . reddish skin, furs. Had he found him? Reaching out, he spread apart the foliage.
On the far side of a rise the metallic sphere of a time ship caught the afternoon sun.
One of them, he realized. But which one?
Not the one he himself had come in; that was hidden elsewhere, disguised with mud and branches. This one sat out in the open.
There would be at least four time ships.
Assuming that this trip was the last.
I wonder if I will ever make any more, he thought. If, like Loris and Nixina, I will come again. Like a ghost. Haunting this spot, seeking a way to change the flow of past events.
One of the figures turned, and Parsons saw--who? A woman he did not recognize. A handsome woman, in her thirties . . . like Loris, but not Loris. The woman's black hair tumbled down her bare shoulders, her strong chin raised as she stood listening. She wore a skirt of hide around her waist, an animal pelt. Her naked breasts glistened, swayed as she turned her body. A wild-eyed, fierce woman who now dropped, crouching, alert.
Dr. Futurity (1960) Page 11
