The time was evidently quite late at night. Almost morning. The halls, artificially lighted, seemed deserted.
With infinite caution, he made his way down to the first subsurface level.
For an hour he searched in vain for one of Corith's arrows. At last he gave up. Now the clocks on the walls of the various chambers read five-thirty; the Lodge would soon be awake.
He had no choice but to go back into the past for the arrow.
Returning to the time ship, he locked himself inside and again seated himself at the controls.
This time he sent himself and the ship back thirty-five years. Before Loris' birth. Before either she or Helmar existed. And, he hoped, before Corith left for his ill-fated encounter in the far past.
Again, he had arrived late at night. He had no difficulty locating the Lodge's subsurface work area of that period, its machine stops. But Corith's workroom was, of course, securely locked. It took skillful use of the time ship before he located a moment at which he could enter. But he at last found such a moment. The door of the workroom hung open, and no one was inside. In need of a particular tool, Corith had gone off; he caught a glimpse of the man leaving, and an inspection of the near future showed that he would not return for at least two hours.
Entering, he found half-finished costumes here and there, and, on a work bench, the buffalo head. Pigments, photographs of the Indian tribes of the past--he roamed about, examining everything. There, by a lathe, he found three arrows. Only one had its flint head in place. With an odd feeling he picked up a chisel that Corith had been using. And here was the raw flint, too. He noticed the textbook on Stone Age artifacts that Corith had employed as his guide; the heavy book was propped up against the wall, held open with a block of wood.
The book--written in English--had been pilfered from the library of the University of California. It was due back on March 12, 1938, and after that the borrower would be fined.
Instead of the one finished arrow, he selected one in process, reasoning that Corith would not as readily notice its absence. By scrutinizing the book and the finished arrows, he was able to see how the flint and the feathers were secured in place.
Seating himself at the bench, he finished making the arrow. It took him well over an hour. I wonder if I've done as good a job as Corith, he asked himself.
Taking his completed arrow, he cautiously left the workroom and made his way from the subsurface level, up the ramp and along the corridors, to the time ship. Again, no one saw him; he reached the ship safely and re-entered.
And now, he thought, there is nothing more. Only the act itself. Can I do it? I have to, he realized.
I already have done it.
With precision, he selected the exact time, the period in which Corith lay recuperating from the operating which Parsons himself had performed. Again and again, he checked the settings of his dials. If he made an error at this point . . .
But he knew, with leaden hopelessness, that he would not--had not--made an error.
Wrapping the arrow, he placed it inside his shirt.
This trip he had to move in space as well as time. The room in which Corith lay was well guarded; he could not get in without being noticed and recognized. Of course, the guards would admit him, but later they would remember. He had to emerge within the room itself, close by the patient's bed.
Now, with equal precision, he began setting the controls that would relocate the ship in space. A nexus of the two, time and space, a point on the graph . . .
The control board hummed. Dials registered. And then the self-regulating banks of equipment clicked off. The trip had ended; according to the indicators, he had arrived.
At once he flung open the door of the time ship.
A room, familiar, with white walls. To his left, a bed on which lay a man, a dark-faced man with powerful features, eyes shut.
He had succeeded!
Going to the bed, Parsons bent down. He had only seconds; he could not pause. Now he brought out the arrow and stripped the wrappings from it.
On the bed, the man breathed shallowly. His large, strong hands lay at his sides, copper against the white of the sheets. His thick black hair spilled down over the pillow.
Again, Parsons thought. As if once was not enough, for both of us. Shaking, he raised the arrow back, gripping its shaft with both hands. Can I penetrate the ribs this way? he asked himself. Yes. The soft, vulnerable area around the heart . . . he had laid it open in order to perform the operation.
Good God, he realized with horror. He had to drive the arrow into that spot, into the newly-stitched tissue that he had only a short while ago repaired. The sardonic irony . . .
Before him, Corith's eyes fluttered. His breathing changed. And, as Parsons stood holding the arrow, Corith opened his eyes.
He gazed up at Parsons. The eyes, empty, saw nothing at first. And then, imperceptibly, consciousness came. The slack lines of the man's tired face altered, gained force.
Parsons started to bring the arrow down. But his hand wobbled; he had to draw the arrow back once again, to start over.
Now the dark eyes fixed themselves on him. The man's mouth opened; the lips drew back as Corith tried to speak.
After thirty-five years, Parsons thought. To come back to life, for this.
Corith lifted his hand from the sheet, raising it an inch and then letting it fall back. "You, once more . . ." Corith whispered.
"I'm sorry," Parsons said.
There was comprehension in the dark eyes. He seemed aware of the arrow. Again he put up his hand, as if reaching for it. But he did not take his eyes from Parsons. Faintly, he said, "You've been against me . . . from the start." The frail chest heaved beneath the sheet. "Spying on me as I worked . . . lying to me . . . pretending to be on my side." Now the weak, trembling hands touched the arrow, and then fell away. Consciousness ebbed; he gazed at Parsons wonderingly, with the vacant, troubled gaze of a child.
I can't do it, Parsons realized.
My entire life, everything that I've ever been and stand for, prohibits me. Even if it means my own death; even though, when this man awakens, he will name me, point me out, get his fanatic, paranoid revenge. Parsons lowered the arrow, and then dropped it to the floor, away from the bed.
He felt utter, numbing fear. And defeat.
So now this man can go on, he thought. Standing by the bed, looking down at Corith, he thought, There is nothing to stop him. A madman. He will destroy me first, and then go on to the rest of his "enemies." But I still can't do it.
Turning from the bed, he walked unsteadily back to the time ship, entered, and bolted the door after him. But there's no safety in here, he realized. Snapping on the bank of controls, he moved the ship ahead in time two hours. Two hours or two thousand years; it made no difference. Not with Corith alive. Not for that other, earlier Parsons, sitting with Loris, waiting for his patient to regain consciousness.
Now the past can unravel. Now the new chain of cause and effect can begin. Starting from that moment, at the bed, when I failed to drive the arrow into the man's chest. When I let him live. A whole new world, built up from that moment on. Unwinding, carrying itself forward with its own dynamic force.
Shutting off the controls of the time ship, he stood hesitantly at the door. Shall I see? he asked himself. Corith regaining consciousness, his wife and son and daughter and mother around him . . . and myself there, too. All of us pleased. Gratified. Bending to hear his every word.
Can I watch?
Strange . . . that he was still here. He had expected the change to set in at once, as soon as he moved away from the bed.
Now he had to look--without delay.
Tearing open the door of the time ship, he peered out at a scene that he had lived through once before. People at the bedside, their backs to him, paying no attention to him. The elaborate machinery of the Lodge's Soul Cube, the pumps that activated the cold-pack. Already, they had gotten Corith back into the cold-pack; he saw their grief-stric
ken faces, and then the man himself, drifting in the familiar medium.
The arrow, as before, projected from his chest.
Instantly, Parsons slammed the door of the time ship; he punched dials and sent the ship randomly into time, away from the scene. Had they noticed him? Evidently not; the room had been chaotic with activity, men coming and leaving, and himself--he had seen himself standing by the Soul Cube with Loris, both of them lost in the shock of the moment. Neither of them able to understand or explain--or even accept-- what had happened.
He felt that way now.
Shaken, he sat at the controls. So it was not I, he realized. I didn't kill him. Someone else did, the second time.
But who?
He had to go back. To see. After he had left the room, gone back into his time ship, someone else had arrived. Loris? But she had been with him during that period; they had been together when Helmar brought the news. Helmar?
If Corith returned to life, Helmar would be supplanted. For the first time in his life. His potent father, returning . . . and Corith would easily dominate the Wolf Tribe; Helmar would shrink to nothing. Or--
Step by step, he began methodically setting the controls of the time ship.
Who would he see when he opened the door? He steeled himself against the sight. Calculating down to seconds, he brought the ship to a point in time immediately following the moment at which he had left. There would be no gaps; he would be present during the whole sequence. It must have happened almost at once, he decided. As soon as I left, someone else came in. Someone opened the door of the room and slipped inside. Possibly they saw me; he or she was waiting for me to leave.
Throwing the controls to off, he jumped to his feet, ran to the door of the ship and opened it, looked out into the room.
At the bed two figures stood. A man and a woman, bending over the prone figure of Corith. The man's arm flashed up; it came down, and the act had been accomplished. Swiftly, the man and the woman retreated from the bed, silently, already in flight. They wasted no time; their movements were expert and orderly. Obviously, every step had been well planned long in advance. Their tense, strained faces confronted him as they turned.
He had never seen either of them before. Both the man and the woman were total strangers to him.
They were young. No more than eighteen or nineteen, with firm, smooth faces, skin almost as light as his own. The woman's hair was wheat-colored, her eyes blue. The man, somewhat darker, had heavier brows and almost black hair. But both of them had the same finely made cheek bones and molded jaw-lines; he saw the resemblance between them. The spark, the alertness and clarity, in their gaze. The high order of intelligence.
The woman--or girl--reminded him of Loris. She had Loris' carriage, her well-made shoulders and hips. And the man also had familiar lines in his body.
"Hello," the girl said.
Both of them wore the gray robes of the Wolf Tribe. But not the emblem. On their breasts a new emblem stood out: crossed snakes twining up a staff topped by open wings. The caduceus. The ancient sign of the medical profession.
The boy said, "Doctor, we should get out of here at once. Will you let my sister go in your ship?" He pointed, and Parsons saw, beside his own ship, a second identical metallic sphere with its door hanging open. "We'll meet ahead in time; Grace knows the point." He smiled briefly at Parsons as he raced past him and into his own ship. The door shut and the ship at once vanished.
"Please, Doctor," the girl said, touching his arm. "Will you let me operate the controls? I can do it more quickly, rather than telling you--" She had already started into his ship; he followed mutely, letting her shut the door after them.
After a pause, Parsons said, "How is your mother?"
"You'll be seeing her," the girl said. "She's fine."
Parsons said, "You're Loris' children. From the future."
"Your children, too," the girl said. "Your son and daughter."
SEVENTEEN
As the time ship moved into the future, Parsons understood at last why Loris had changed her mind. Why she had returned to Nova Albion for him, knowing that he had killed her father.
In the month that had followed, she had discovered that she was pregnant. Possibly she had even gone ahead into the future and seen her children. In any case, she had let the children be born; she had not had the zygotes removed and put covertly into the great Soul Cube, to merge with the hundreds of millions already there.
Realizing that, he felt a profound, humble emotion toward her; and, at the same time, pride.
"What's your brother's name?" he asked the girl. His daughter, he realized with a further deepening of emotion.
Grace said, "Nathan. She--our mother--wanted us to have names that you would approve of." She lifted her head and studied him. "Do you think we look like you? Would you have recognized us?"
"I don't know," he said. He was too overcome to think about it right now.
"We knew you," Grace said. "But of course we expected to see you; we knew that you came there, to do what had to be done. And we knew that you were unable to go through with it."
And so, he thought, you came back and did it for me. Both of you. Aloud, he said, "How does your mother feel about what you did?"
"She understands that it's necessary. It would not have worked out, for her to have children by Corith. There was already too much interbreeding. She was aware of that, even in your time. But there did not seem to be any alternative, and the old lady--our great grandmother, Nixina--would not permit anything else. Of course in our time she's long since dead."
Parsons said, "Tell me why you have the caduceus emblem on your clothing."
"I'd rather wait," she said. "Until we get back. So we can all be there, my mother and my brother and you and I."
He thought, The family in its entirety.
"She told you about me?" he asked the girl.
"Oh, yes," she said. "All about you. We've waited a long time to see you face-to-face." Her even white teeth flashed as she smiled at him. Exactly as Loris had smiled at him, he thought.
History repeats itself, he thought. And this woman waiting year after year, all her life, until this moment: seeing her father for the first time. But, in contrast to Corith, I was not entombed in a transparent cube.
As he and his daughter stepped from the time ship, Loris came to meet them. Gray-haired, a handsome middle-aged woman . . . in her late fifties, he realized. Still the strong face, the erect posture. Her hand came out, and he saw the pleasure in her eyes, her dark, full eyes.
"The last time I saw you," she said huskily, "I cursed you. I'm sorry, Jim."
"I couldn't bring myself to do it," he said. "I got there, but that was all." He became silent then.
"For me, that was a long time ago," Loris said. "What do you think of our children?" She drew Grace over to her, and now, from the other ship, Nathan appeared. "They're almost nineteen," she said. "Don't they look healthy and sound?"
"Yes," he agreed tightly, surveying the three of them. This is so much like his situation, he thought. If he had returned to life. His wife much older, his two children--which he did not even know he had. He said, "The combination of my racial heritage and yours makes an attractive amalgam."
"The union of the opposites," Loris said. "Come along, so we can sit down and talk. You can stay awhile, can't you? Before you go back to your own time?"
To my wife, he thought. How hard it is to reconcile that with this. With what I see here.
The Wolf Lodge did not seem to have changed in appearance in twenty years. The same dark, massive, aged beams. The wide stairs. The stone walls that had impressed him so much. This building would continue to stand a long, long time. The grounds, too, remained the same. The lawns and trees, the flower beds.
"Stenog remained in Drake's place for ten years or so," Loris said. "In case my father made a second try. Stenog had no way of telling what our circumstances were. He believed that Corith could still make an assassination attemp
t, but of course my father has been buried now for almost the full twenty years. We did not make any more attempts to revive him. Nixina died soon after our return from Nova Albion, and without her, much of the impetus dwindled away."
The power behind it all, Parsons thought. The savage, relentless schemes of a dried-up little old lady, who imagined herself as the protagonist of an ancient race reborn.
Loris said, "It was a fatal blow to us to discover that the man whom we had selected as the epitome of the conquering whites was actually a man from our own times. Born in our culture, adhering to its values. Stenog went back into time to protect our culture. That is, the aspect of our culture that he had taken the job of supporting. Our tribe, as you know, does not follow their system of birth or death." She added, "I have something to tell you about that, Jim."
Later, the four of them sat drinking coffee and facing one another.
"What is the caduceus?" Parsons asked. By now, he had begun to get an inkling.
His daughter said, "We're following in your footsteps, sir."
"That's right," Nathan said with agitation. "It's still illegal, but not for long--in another ten years we know it'll be accepted. We've looked ahead." His young face gleamed with pride and determination. Parsons saw some of the family's fanaticism, the desire to prevail at all costs. But in this boy, there was a fuller grasp on reality. He and his sister were not so far removed from the world as it actually was; the near-paranoid dreams were gone.
At least he hoped they were gone. Shifting his gaze, he studied Loris. The older Loris.
Can she manage them? he wondered. The image of the boy and girl at Corith's bedside remained in his mind. The swift act, completed in a matter of seconds; he had not been able to do it, and so they had, in his place. Because they believed that it had to be done. Possibly they were right. But--
"I'd like to know about your illegal group," he said, indicating the caducei.
Dr. Futurity (1960) Page 14
