Time Patrol

by Poul Anderson

  The sword point is at my throat. "Drop that thing," he snarls. I do. He's got me backed against the desk. "I should kill you for this. Perhaps I will."

  Or forget his scruples about my virtue and—

  And at least I left a clue for Everard. Didn't I?

  Whoosh. The second machine above the first, its riders flattening themselves below the ceiling.

  Luis yells. Scuttles backward, onto the driver's saddle of his. Sword in hand. Other hand dances on the controls. Everard's hampered. I see a gun in his fist. But whoosh. Luis is gone.

  Everard sets down.

  Whirling, keening, darkening. I never passed out before. If I can just sit for a minute.

  23 May 1987

  She came in from the hallway wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas. Its snugness brought forth a lithe figure, its blueness the hue of her eyes. Sunlight through the west window made gold of her hair.

  She blinked. "Oh, my. Afternoon," she murmured. "How long have I slept?"

  Everard had risen from the sofa where he'd sat with one of her books. "About fourteen hours, I guess," he said. "You needed it. Welcome back."

  She stared around. There was no timecycle, nor any bloodstains. "After my partner tucked you in bed, she and I fetched supplies and cleaned up the mess as best we could," Everard explained. "She took off. No point in cluttering your place. A guard was necessary, of course, as a precaution. Better check around at your convenience and make sure everything is in order. Wouldn't do for your earlier self to return and find traces of the ruckus. You didn't, after all."

  Wanda sighed. "No, never a hint."

  "We've got to prevent paradoxes like that. The situation is tangled enough as is." And dangerous, Everard thought. More than deadly dangerous. I should hearten her. "Hey, I'll bet you're starved."

  He liked the way she laughed. "Could eat the proverbial horse with a side of French fries, and apple pie for dessert."

  "Well, I took the liberty of laying in some groceries, and could use lunch myself, if you don't mind my joining you."

  "Mind? Try not to!"

  In the kitchen he urged that she be seated while he put the meal together. "I'm a pretty competent man with a steak and a salad. You've been through the meat grinder. Most people would be in a daze."

  "Thanks." She accepted. For a minute, only the sounds of him at work broke the silence. Then, her look steady upon him, she said, "You belong to the Time Guard, don't you?"

  "Huh?" He glanced about. "Yes. In English, it's usually the Time Patrol." He paused. "Outsiders aren't supposed to know that time travel goes on. We can't tell them unless authorized, and that's just when circumstances warrant. Clearly they do in this case; you've crashed into the fact. And I have authority to make the decision. I'll level with you, Miss Tamberly."

  "Great. How did you find me? When I got your answering machine, I was in despair."

  "You're new to the concept. Think. After I'd played your message, what'd you expect me to do but mount an expedition? We hovered outside the window, saw that man threatening you, hopped inside. Unfortunately, I was too crowded to get a shot at him before he vamoosed."

  "Why didn't you jump back in time?"

  "And save you some unpleasant hours? Sorry. I'll tell you later about the hazards of changing the past."

  She frowned. "I know a bit already."

  "Hm, I suppose you do. Look, we needn't discuss this till you feel recovered. Take a couple of days and get over the shock."

  She lifted her head pridefully. "Thanks, but no need. I'm unhurt, hungry, and eaten alive by curiosity. Concern, too. My uncle—No, really, please, I'd much rather not wait."

  "Wow, you're a tough cookie. Okay. Let's start by you telling me your experiences. Take it slow. I'll interrupt you a lot with questions. The Patrol needs to know everything. Needs it more than you're aware."

  "And the world is?" She shivered, swallowed, clenched fingers on the tabletop edge, launched into her story. They were halfway through their meal before he had exhausted it of detail.

  Starkly, he said, "Yes, this is very bad. Be a lot worse if you hadn't proved so courageous and resourceful, Miss Tamberly."

  She flushed. "Please, I'm Wanda."

  He forced a smile. "All right, I'm Manse. Spent my boyhood in Middle America of the nineteen-twenties and thirties. The manners they installed have stuck. But if you prefer first names, that's fine by me."

  She gave him a long look. "Yes, you would stay a polite country boy, wouldn't you? Roving through history, you'd miss out on the social changes in your homeland."

  Intelligent, he thought. And beautiful, in a strong-boned fashion.

  Anxiety touched her. "What about my uncle?"

  He winced. "I'm sorry. The Don told you nothing more than that he left Steve Tamberly on the same continent but in the far past. No location, no date."

  "You have—time to search for him."

  He shook his head. "I wish we did, but we don't. We could use up thousands of man-years. And we haven't got them. The Patrol's stretched too thin. We're barely enough to carry out our normal missions and try to cope with emergencies like this. Only so many man-years available, you see, because sooner or later every agent is bound to die or be disabled. Here events have gotten out of hand. We'll need every resource we can spare to set matters right—if we can."

  "Might Luis go back for him?"

  "Maybe. I suspect not. He'll have more important things in mind. Hide out till his injury heals, and then—" Everard stared past her. "A hard, smart, unmerciful, reckless man, loose on a machine. He could appear anywhere, any when. The harm he can do is unlimited."

  "Uncle Steve—"

  "He might be able to help himself. I'm not sure how, but he may hit on a plan, if he survives. He's bright and strong. I see now why you've been his favorite relative."

  She dabbed at a tear. "Damn it, I will not bawl! Maybe later—maybe later we'll find a clue. Meanwhile, m-my steak's getting cold." She attacked it as if it were an enemy.

  He resumed his own eating. In an odd way, the silence between them changed from strained to companionable. After a while she asked quietly, "How about telling me the whole truth?"

  "An outline of it," he agreed. "That alone will take a couple of hours."

  —In the end she sat wide-eyed on the sofa while he paced before her, to and fro. His fist hammered his palm. "A Ragnarok situation," he said. "But not hopeless. Wanda, whatever has become or will become of Stephen Tamberly, he did not live in vain. Through Castelar, he passed two names on to you, 'Exaltationists' and 'Machu Picchu.' Not that I imagine Castelar would have done it if you hadn't had the wits—under those conditions, at that—to lead him on, get him to tell what he knew."

  "That was very little," she demurred.

  "A bomb can be small too, till it explodes. Look, the Exaltationists—I'll tell you more in due course, but briefly, they're a gang of desperados from the rather far future. Outlaws in their milieu; snatched several vehicles and escaped into space-time tracklessness. We've had to cope with results of their doings before now—'before now' in terms of my life, that is—but they've always avoided capture. Well, you've told me they were in Machu Picchu. We know the natives didn't abandon that city entirely till the last resistance to the Spaniards was crushed. So from the descriptions you got out of Castelar, the date the Exaltationists were there must be soon after. That's a sufficient lead for our scouts to locate the scene exactly.

  "An agent of ours had 'already' reported outsiders active in the court of the Inca, some years before Pizarro arrived. It seems they tried and failed to head off an apportionment of power that led to civil war and paved the way for that corporal's guard of invaders. In the light of what you've told me, I'm sure they were the Exaltationists, attempting to change history. When it didn't work, they decided they'd at least hijack Atahualpa's ransom. That'd be disruptive enough, and could well enable them to do still more mischief."

  "Why?" she whispered.

  "Why, to a
bort the whole future. Make themselves overlords, first in America, eventually throughout the world. There'd never have been a you or a me, a United States, a Danellian destiny, a Time Patrol . . . unless they organized one of their own to protect the misshapen history they brought into being. Not that I think they could long have stayed in charge. Selfishness like that generally turns on itself. Battles through time, a chaos of changes—I wonder how much flux the space-time fabric could survive."

  She whitened, then whistled. "Ye gods, Manse!"

  He stopped his prowling, leaned over, touched her below the chin to bring her face upward toward his, and asked with a crooked smile. "How does it feel knowing you may have saved the universe?"

  15 April 1610

  The spacecraft was black, lest they on Earth see a star pass over them, swift before sunrise or after sunset, and know they were watched. Nevertheless a broad one-way transparency filled it with light. It was orbiting dayside when Everard arrived, and the planet stretched vast, blue swirled with white around the ruddinesses that were continents.

  His cycle appeared in the receiver bay and he jumped off without pausing to love the sight as he had done often and often. The gravitor put full weight under his feet. He hastened to the pilot deck. Three agents whom he knew, though centuries sundered their births, awaited him.

  "We believe we've acquired the moment," said Umfanduma immediately. "Here's the playback."

  Another vessel, of those that between them kept Machu Picchu under surveillance, had taken the data. This was the command ship. Everard had come as soon as messages transmitted through space and relayed through time reached him. The image was from minutes earlier. At ultramagnification after light had crossed atmosphere, it was blurry. Yet when Everard froze its motion and peered closer, he saw metal shine on the head and torso of a man. That one and another were getting to their feet beside a timecycle, on a platform where the view swept from end to end of the great dead city, on to the mountains around. Dark-clad people crowded near.

  He nodded. "Got to be," he said. "We don't know just when Castelar will make his break for freedom, but I'd guess it as within the next two or three hours. What we want to do is hit the Exaltationists right afterward."

  Not before, because that did not happen. We dare not undermine even this forbidden pattern of events. The enemy dares do anything. That is why we must destroy him.

  Umfanduma frowned. "Tricky," she said. "They always keep a machine aloft, well equipped with detectors. I'm sure they're prepared to flee at an instant's notice."

  "Uh-huh. However, their scooters are too few to carry them all at once. They'd have to ferry. Or else, likelier, abandon those who aren't so lucky as to be right by the transportation. We won't need many of our own. Let's get organized."

  In the span that followed, the ships filled with armed vehicles and their riders. Tight-beamed communications flickered back and forth. Everard developed his plan, gave out his assignments.

  Thereafter he must stand by, try to keep his nerves quiet, abide the word. He found it helpful to think about Wanda Tamberly.

  "Now!"

  He leaped to the saddle. Gunner Tetsuo Motonobu was already in place. Everard's fingers flew over the console.

  They hung aloft in enormous azure. A condor wheeled afar. The mountainscape spread beneath, a majestic labyrinth, intensely green save where snow flashed on peaks or gorges plunged shadowful. Machu Picchu was mightiness in stone. What would the civilization that created it have done, had fate allowed it to live?

  Again Everard could not pause to wonder. The Exaltationist sentry hovered yards off. He saw the man clearly in thin air and candent sunlight, astounded but fierce, snatching for a sidearm. Motonobu fired his energy gun. Lightning flared, thunder crashed. The man dropped charred from his mount and fell as Lucifer fell. Smoke trailed him. The vehicle wavered out of control.

  We'll take care of it later. Down!

  Everard didn't overjump the space between. He wanted an overview. As he power-dived, wind roared around an invisible force screen. The buildings swelled in his vision.

  His fellow Patrolmen were raking them with fire. Bolts flew hell-colored. When Everard got there, the battle was over.

  —Evening yellowed the western sky. Night rose from the valleys to lap ever higher around the walls of Machu Picchu. It had grown chilly and hushed.

  Everard left the house he had used for interrogation. Two agents stood outside. "Round up the rest of the squad, bring out the prisoners, prepare to return to base," he said wearily.

  "Have you learned something, sir?" asked Motonobu.

  Everard shrugged. "Something. The intelligence staff will get more out of them, of course, though I doubt it'll prove of much use. I did find one who's willing to cooperate in return for a promise of comfortable surroundings on the exile planet. Trouble is, he doesn't know what I wish he did."

  "Where-when those that got away have gone?"

  Everard nodded. "The ringleader, name of Merau Varagan, took a bad sword wound when Castelar fought free. A couple of his men were about to whisk him off to a destination he alone knew to tell them, for medical care. So they were in a position to scram with him when we showed up. Three more managed it too."

  He straightened. "Ah," he said, "we succeeded as well as could be looked for. The bulk of the gang are dead or under arrest. The few who escaped must have scattered randomly. They may never find each other. The conspiracy's broken."

  Motonobu's tone was wistful. "If only we could have come earlier, arranged a proper trap. We'd have bagged the lot."

  "We couldn't because we didn't," said Everard sharply. "We are the law, remember?"

  "Yes, sir. What I also remember is that crazy Spaniard and the havoc he may yet make. How're we going to track him down . . . before—it's too late?"

  Everard made no reply, but turned toward the esplanade where the vehicles were parked. To the east he saw the Gate of the Sun on its ridge, etched black against heaven.

  24 May 1987

  Wanda let him in when he knocked on her door. "Hi!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "How are you? How'd things go?"

  "They went," he said.

  She took both his hands. Her voice softened. "I've been so worried about you, Manse."

  That felt almighty good to hear. "Oh, I take care of my hide. The operation, well, we nabbed most of the bandits without loss to ourselves. Machu Picchu is clean once more." Was clean. Was left in its loneliness for another three centuries. Now tourists halloo everywhere. But a Patrolman shouldn't pass judgments. He needs to be case-hardened, if he's to work in the history of humankind.

  "Marvelous!" Impulsively, she hugged him. He hugged back. They retreated in a slight, shared confusion.

  "If you'd come ten minutes ago, you wouldn't've found me," she said. "I couldn't sit and do nothing. Went for a long, long walk."

  Dismayed, he snapped, "I told you not to leave this place! You aren't safe. We've planted an instrument here that'll warn of any intruder, but we can't trail around after you. Damnation, girl, Castelar's still at large."

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "Better I should climb these walls? Why would he chase after me again?"

  "You were his single twentieth-century contact. You could possibly give us a lead to him. Or so he may fear."

  She grew serious. "As a matter of fact, I can."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  She tugged his hand. How warm hers was. "C'mon, relax, let me fetch us a beer, and we'll talk. That hike I took cleared my head. I started thinking back, reliving the whole business, except free of terror and, and unfamiliarity. And, yes, I believe I can tell you what point Luis is bound to make for."

  He stood where he was. His pulse slugged. "How?"

  The blue eyes searched him. "I did get to know the man," she said low. "Not what you'd call intimately, but the relationship sure was intense while it lasted. He isn't a monster. By our standards he's cruel, but he's a son of his era. Ambitious and greedy—and in his heart a
knight errant. I searched my memory, minute by minute. Kind of stood outside and watched the two of us. And I saw how he reacted when he learned the Indians would rebel and besiege Francisco Pizarro's brothers in Cuzco, and the troubles that would follow. If he appears as if by miracle and raises the siege, that'll put him straightaway in command of the whole shebang. But over and above any such calculations, Manse, he has got to be there. His honor calls him."

  6 February 1536 [Julian calendar]

  In the upland dawn, the imperial city burned. Fire arrows and rocks wrapped in blazing oil-soaked cotton flew like meteors. Thatch and wood kindled. Stone walls enclosed furnaces. Flames howled high, sparks showered, smoke roiled thick on the wind. Soot dulled the rivers where they met. Through the noise, conchs lowed, throats shrieked. In their tens of thousands, the Indios seethed around Cuzco. They were a brown tide, out of which tossed chieftainly banners, feather crests, copper-edged axes and spears. They surged against the thin Spanish lines, smote, struggled, recoiled in blood and turmoil, billowed again forward.

  Castelar arrived above a citadel that brooded north of the combat. He glimpsed its massiveness filled with natives. For an instant he wanted to swoop down, kill and kill and kill. But no, yonder was where his comrades fought. Sword in right hand, left on the helm board, he rushed through the air to their deliverance.

  What matter if he had failed to bring guns from the future? His blade was sharp, his arm strong, and the archangel of war winged over his bare head. Nonetheless he kept wholly alert. Foes might lurk in this sky or snap forth out of nowhere. Let him be ready to jump through time, evade pursuit, return to strike swiftly again and again, as a wolf slashes at an elk.

  He swept above a central square, where a great building raged with conflagration. Horsemen trotted down a street. Their steel flashed, their pennons streamed. They were bound on a sally, out into the enemy horde.

  Castelar's decision sprang into being. He would veer off, wait a few minutes, let them become engaged, and then smite. With such an avenging eagle on their side, the Spanish would know God had heard him, and hew a road through foemen smitten with panic.