Time Patrol

by Poul Anderson

  "So you were a spy for your lord, and his enemies were surprised to find us when they came as thieves in the night, but by God's grace we are free again," he said. "What next?"

  The sun was low. Thirst raged in Tamberly's throat. His head felt ready to break open, his bones to fall apart. Blurred in his vision, Castelar squatted before him, tireless and terrible.

  "Why, we . . . we should return . . . to my comrades in arms," Tamberly croaked. "They will reward you well and . . . bring you back to your proper place."

  "Will they, now?" The grin was wolfish. "And what payment to me, at best? Nor am I sure you have spoken truth, Tanaquil. The single sure thing is that God has given this instrument into my hands, and I must use it for His glory and the honor of my nation."

  Tamberly felt as if the words driven against him, hour after hour, had each been a fist. "What would you, then?"

  Castelar stroked his beard. "I think first," he murmured, narrow-eyed, "yes, assuredly first, you shall teach me how to manage this steed." He bounced to his feet. "Up!"

  He must well-nigh drag his prisoner to the timecycle.

  I must lie, I must delay, at worst I must refuse and take my punishment. Tamberly couldn't. Exhaustion, pain, thirst, hunger betrayed him. He was physically incapable of resistance.

  Castelar crouched over him, alert to every move, ready to pounce at the slightest suspicion; and Tamberly was too stupefied to deceive him.

  Study the console between the steering bars. Press for the date. The machine recorded every shift it made through the continuum. Yes, they'd come far indeed into the past, the thirtieth century before Christ.

  "Before Christ," Castelar breathed. "Why, of course, I can go to my Lord when he walked this earth and fall on my knees—"

  At that instant of his ecstasy, a hale man might have given him a karate chop. Tamberly could merely sag across the saddles and reach for an activator. Castelar flung him aside like a sack of meal. He lay half conscious on the ground till the sword pricked him into creeping back up.

  A map display. Location: near the coast of what would someday be southern Ecuador. At Castelar's behest, Tamberly made the whole world revolve in the screen. The Conquistador lingered a while over the Mediterranean. "Destroy the paynim," he murmured. "Regain the Holy Land."

  With the help of the map unit, which could show a region at any scale desired, the space control was childishly simple to use. At least, it was if a coarse positioning sufficed. Castelar agreed shrewdly that he'd better not try such a stunt as appearing inside a locked treasure vault before he'd had plenty of practice. Time settings were as easy, once he learned the post-Arabic numerals. He did that in minutes.

  Facile operation was necessary. A traveler might have to get out of somewhere or somewhen in a hell of a rush. Flying, on the antigravity drive, paradoxically required more skill. Castelar made Tamberly show him those controls, then get on behind him for a test flight. "If I fall, you do too," he reminded.

  Tamberly wished they would. At first they wobbled, he nearly lost his seat, but soon Castelar was gleefully in charge. He experimented with a time jump, went back half a day. Abruptly the sun was high, and in the magnifying scanner screen he saw himself and the other a mile below in the valley. That shook him. Hastily, he sprang toward sunset. With the space jump, he shifted close to the now deserted ground. After hovering for a minute, he made a bumpy landing.

  They got off. "Ah, praise God!" Castelar cried. "His wonders and mercies are without end."

  "Please," Tamberly begged, "could we go to the river? I'm nigh dead of thirst."

  "Presently you may drink," Castelar answered. "Here is neither food nor fire. Let us find a better place."

  "Where?" Tamberly groaned.

  "I have thought upon this," Castelar said. "Seeking your king, no, that would be to put myself in his power. He would reclaim this device that can mean so much to Christendom. Back to that night in Caxamalca? No, not at once. We could run afoul of the pirates. If not, then certainly my own great captain Pizarro—with due respect—It would be difficult. But if I come carrying invincible weapons, he will heed my counsel."

  Amidst the inner murk bearing down on him, Tamberly remembered that the Indians of Peru were not fully subjugated when the Conquistadores fell into combat against each other.

  "You tell me that you hail from some two thousand years after Our Lord," Castelar proceeded. "That age could be a good harbor for a while. You know your way about in it. At the same time, the marvels should not be too bewildering to me—if this invention was made long afterward, as you have said." Tamberly realized that he had no dream of automobiles, airplanes, skyscrapers, television. . . . He kept his tigerish wariness: "However, I would fain begin in a peaceful haven, a backwater where the surprises are few, and feel my way forward. Yes, if we can find one more person there, someone whose word I can compare with yours—" Explosively: "You heard. You must know. Speak!"

  Light ran long and golden out of the west. Birds streamed home to roost in darkling trees. The river gleamed with water, water. Again Castelar used physical force. He was efficient about it.

  Wanda . . . she'd be in the Galapagos in 1987, and God knew those islands were peaceful enough. . . . Exposing her to this danger did worse than break the Patrol's directive; the kyradex had broken that within Tamberly anyway. But she was as smart and resourceful, and almost as strong, as any man. She'd be loyal to her poor battered uncle. Her blond beauty would distract Castelar, while he grew incautious of a mere female. Between them, the Americans could find or make an opportunity. . . .

  Afterward, often and often, the patrolman cursed himself. Yet it was not really himself that responded, by whimpers and jerks, to the urging of the warrior.

  Maps and coordinates of the islands, which no man recorded in history would tread before 1535; some description of them; some explanation of what the girl did there (Castelar was amazed, until he remembered amazons in the medieval romances); something about her as a person; the likelihood that she would be surrounded by friends most of the time, but toward the end might well take occasion to hike off alone—Again it was the questions, the cunning carnivore mind, that hunted everything out into the open.

  Dusk had fallen. Tropically rapid, it deepened toward night. Stars winked forth. A jaguar yowled.

  "Ah, so." Castelar laughed, softly and joyously. "You have done well, Tanaquil. Not of your free will; nevertheless, you have earned surcease."

  "Please, may I go drink?" Tamberly would have to crawl.

  "As you wish. Abide here, though, so I can find you later. Otherwise I fear you will perish in this wilderness."

  Dismay jagged through Tamberly. Roused, he sat straight in the grass. "What? We were leaving together!"

  "No, no. I have scant trust in you yet, my friend. I will see what I can do for myself. Afterward—that is in the hands of God. Until I come fetch you, farewell."

  Sky-glow sheened on helmet and corselet. The knight of Spain strode to the time machine. He mounted it. Luminous, the controls yielded to his fingers. "Sant'Iago and at them!" rang aloud. He lifted several yards into the air. There followed a puff, and he was gone.

  12 May 2937 B.C.

  Tamberly woke at sunrise. The riverside was wet beneath him. Reeds rustled in a low wind, water purled and clucked. Smells of growth filled his nostrils.

  His entire body hurt. Hunger clawed at him. But his head was clear, healed of the kyradex confusion and the torments that had followed. He could think again, be a man again. He climbed stiffly to his feet and stood for a span inhaling coolness.

  The sky reached pale blue, empty save for a flight of crows that cawed past and disappeared. Castelar had not returned. Maybe he'd allow extra time. Seeing himself from above had perturbed him. Maybe he wouldn't return. He could meet death, off in the future, or could decide he didn't give a damn about the false friar.

  No telling. What I can do is try to nail down that he never does find me. I can try to stay free.

 
; Tamberly began walking. He was weak, but if he husbanded his energy, following the river, he should reach the sea. Chances were there'd be a settlement at the estuary. Humans had long since crossed over from Asia to America. They'd be primitive, but likely hospitable. With the skills he possessed, he could become important among them.

  After that—Already he had an idea.

  22 July 1435

  He lets go of me. I drop a few inches to the ground, lose my footing, fall. Bounce up again. Scramble back from him. Stop. Stare.

  Still in the saddle, he smiles. Through the blood racketing in my ears, I hear: "Be not afraid, señorita. I beg your pardon for this rough treatment, but saw no other way. Now, alone, we can talk."

  Alone! Look around. We're close to water, a bay, see those outlines against the sky, got to be Academy Bay near Darwin Station, only what became of the station? Of the road to Puerto Ayora? Matazarno bushes, Palo Santo trees, grass in clumps, cactus between, sparse. Empty, empty. Ashes of a campfire. Jesus Christ! The giant shell, gnawed bones of a tortoise! This man's killed a Galapagos tortoise!

  "Please do not flee," he says. "I would simply have to overtake you. Believe me, your honor is safe. More safe than it would be anywhere else. For we are quite by ourselves in these islands, like Adam and Eve before the Fall."

  Throat dry, tongue thick, "Who are you? What is this?"

  He gets off his machine. Sweeps me a courtly bow. "Don Luis Ildefonso Castelar y Moreno, from Barracota in Castile, lately with the captain Francisco Pizarro in Peru, at your service, my lady."

  He's crazy, or I am, or the whole world is. Again I wonder if I'm dreaming, hit my head, caught a fever, delirious. Sure doesn't feel that way. Those are plants I know. They stay put. The sun's shifted overhead and the air's less warm, but the smells baked out of the earth, they're like always. A grasshopper chirrs. A blue heron flaps by. Could this be for real?

  "Sit down," he says. "You are taken aback. Would you like a drink of water?" As if to soothe me: "I fetch it from elsewhere. This is a desolate country. But you are welcome to all you want."

  I nod, do as he suggests. He picks a container off the ground, brings it in reach of me, steps off at once. Not to alarm the little girl. It's a bucket, pink, cracked at the top, usable but scarcely worth keeping. He must have scrounged it from wherever it got tossed out. Even in those shacky little houses in the village, plastic's cheap.

  Plastic.

  Final touch. Practical joke. 'Tain't funny, God. Got to laugh anyway. Whoop. Howl.

  "Be calm, señorita. I tell you, while you behave wisely you have nothing to fear. I will protect you."

  That pig! I'm no ultrafeminist, but when a kidnapper starts patronizing me, too much. The laughter rattles down to silence. Rise. Brace muscles. They shiver a bit.

  Somehow, regardless, I am no longer afraid. Coldly furious. At the same time, more aware than ever before. He stands in front of me as sharp as if a lightning flash lit him up. Not a big man; thin; but remember that strength of his. Hispanic features, all right, of the pure European kind, tanned practically black. Not in costume. Those clothes are faded, mended, grubby; vegetable dyes. Unwashed, like himself. Smell powerful but he doesn't really stink, it's an outdoor kind of odor. The ridged helmet, sweeping down to guard his neck, and the cuirass are tarnished. I see scratches in the steel. From battle? Sword hung at his left hip. Sheath at the right meant for a knife. It being gone, he must have butchered the tortoise and cut a skewer for roasting it with the sword. Firewood he could break off these parched branches. Yonder, a fire drill he made. Sinew for cord. He's been here a while.

  Whisper "Where is here?"

  "Another island of the same archipelago. You know it as Santa Cruz. That is five hundred years hence. Today is one hundred years before the discovery."

  Breathe slow and deep. Heart, take it easy. I've read my share of science fiction. Time travel. Only, a Spanish Conquistador!

  "When are you from?"

  "I told you. About a century in the future. I fared with the brothers Pizarro and we overthrew the pagan king of Peru."

  "No. I shouldn't understand you." Wrong, Wanda. I remember. Uncle Steve told me once. If I met a sixteenth-century Englishman, I'd have a devil of a time. Spelling didn't change (won't change) too much, but pronunciation did. Spanish is a more stable language.

  Uncle Steve!

  Cool it. Speak steadily. Can't quite. Look this man in the eyes, at least. "You mentioned my kinsman just before you . . . laid violent hands on me."

  He sounds exasperated. "I did no more than was necessary. Yes, if you are indeed Wanda Tamberly, I know your father's brother." He peers like a cat at a mouse hole. "The name he used among us was Estebán Tanaquil."

  Uncle Steve a time traveler too? I can't help it, dizziness rushes through me.

  I shake myself free of it. Don Luis Et Cetera sees I'm bewildered. Or else he knew I'd be. I think he wants to push things along, keep me off balance. Says, "I warned you he is in danger. That is true. He is my hostage, left in a wilderness where starvation will soon take him off, unless wild beasts do so first. It is for you to earn his ransom."

  22 May 1987

  Blink. We're there. Like a blow to the solar plexus. I almost fall off. Grab his waist. Face burrows into roughness of his cloak.

  Calm, lassie. He told you to expect this . . . transition. He's awed. Hasty in the wind, "Ave Maria gratiae plena—" It's cold up here in heaven. No moon, but stars everywhere. Riding lights of a plane, blink, blink, blink.

  The Peninsula tremendous, a sprawled galaxy, half a mile underneath us. White, yellow, red, green, blue, shining blood-flow of cars, from San Jose to San Francisco. Hulks of black to the left where the hills rise. Shimmering darkness to the right, the Bay, fire-streaked by the bridges. Towns glimpsed, clusters of sparks, on the far shore. About ten o'clock of a Friday evening.

  How often have I seen this before? From airliners. A space-time bike hanging aloft, me in the buddy seat behind a man born almost five centuries ago, that's something else.

  He masters himself. The sheer lion courage of him—except a lion wouldn't charge headlong into the unknown, the way those guys did after Columbus showed them half a world to plunder. "Is this the realm of Morgana la Hada?" he breathes.

  "No, it's where I live, those are lamps you see, lamps in the streets and houses and . . . on the wagons. They move by themselves, the wagons, without horses. Yonder goes a flying vessel. But it can't skip from place to place and year to year like this one."

  A superwoman wouldn't babble facts. She'd feed him a line, mislead him, use his ignorance to trap him somehow. Yeah, "somehow," that's the catch. I'm just me, and he's a superman, or pretty close to it. Natural selection, back in his day. If you weren't physically tough, you didn't live to have kids. And a peasant could be stupid, might even do better if he was, but not a military officer who didn't have a Pentagon to plan his moves for him. Also, those hours of questioning on Santa Cruz Island (which I, Wanda May Tamberly, am the first woman ever to walk on) have beaten me down. He never laid a hand on me, but he kept at it and kept at it. Eroded the resistance out of me. My main thought right now is that I'd better cooperate. Otherwise he could too easily make some blunder that'd kill us both and leave Uncle Steve stranded.

  "I have thought the saints might dwell in such a blaze of glory," Luis murmurs. The cities he knew went blackout after dark. You needed a lantern to find your way. If it was a fine city, it put stepping stones down the middle of the sidewalkless streets, to keep you above the horse droppings and garbage.

  He turns tactical. "Can we descend unseen?"

  "If you're careful. Go slowly as I guide you." I recognize the Stanford campus, a mostly unlighted patch. Lean forward against him, left hand holding onto the cloak. These are well-designed seats; my knees will keep me in place. That's a mighty long drop, though. Reach right arm past his side. Point. "Toward there."

  The machine tilts forward. We slant down. My nose fills with the scents
of him. I've already noticed: pungent rather than sour, yes, very macho.

  Got to admire him. A hero, on his own terms. Can't stop a sneaking wish that he'll get away with his desperate caper.

  Whoa, girl. That's a pitfall. You've heard about kidnapped people, even tortured people, developing sympathy with their captors. Don't you be a Patty Hearst.

  Still, damn it, what Luis has done is fantastic. Brains as well as bravery. Think back. Try, while we chase through the air, try to get straight in your mind what he told you, what you saw, what you figured out.

  Hard to. He admitted a lot of confusion himself. Mainly he hews to his faith in the Trinity and the warlike saints. He'll succeed, dedicating his victories to them, and become greater than the Holy Roman Emperor; or he'll die in the attempt and go to Paradise, all sins forgiven because what he did was in the cause of Christendom. Catholic Christendom.

  Time travel for real. Some kind of guarda del tiempo, and Uncle Steve works for it. (Oh, Uncle Steve, while we laughed and chatted and went on family picnics and watched TV and played chess or tennis, this was behind your eyes.) Some kind of bandits or pirates also running loose through history, and isn't that a terrifying thought? Luis escaped from them, has this machine, has me, for his wild purposes.

  How he got at me—wrung the basic information out of Uncle Steve. I'm afraid to imagine how, though he claims he didn't do any permanent damage. Flitted to the Galapagos, established camp before the islands were discovered. Made cautious reconnaissance trips into the twentieth century, 1987 to be exact. He knew I'd be around then, and I was the one person he had any hope of . . . using.