Poul Anderson - The Year of the Ransom

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.

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.

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.