Poul Anderson - The Year of the Ransom

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.

Some saw him pass over. He glimpsed upturned faces, heard cries. There followed a thunder of gallop, a deep-toned “Sant’Iago and at them!”

He crossed the southern bounds of the city, banked, swung about for his onslaught. Now that he knew this machine, how splendidly it responded to him—his horse of the wind, that he would ride into liberated Jerusalem—and at last, at last, into the presence of the Saviour on earth?

Ya—a—a!

Alongside him, another flyer, two men upon it. His fingers stabbed for the controls. Agony seared. “Mother of God, have mercy!” His steed was slain. It toppled through emptiness. At least he would die in battle. Though the forces of Satan had prevailed against him, they would not against the gates of Heaven that stood wide for Christ’s soldier.

His soul whirled from him, away into night.

“The ambush worked almost perfectly,” Carlos Navarro reported to Everard. “When we spotted him from space, we activated the electromagnetic generator and jumped to his vicinity. The field it projected induced voltages that caused his machine to give him a severe electric shock. Disabled it, too, scrambled the electronics. But you know this. We gave him a stun shot to make sure and plucked him out of the air before he hit the ground. Meanwhile the cargo carrier appeared, scooped up the crippled vehicle, and made off. Everything was complete in less than two minutes. I suppose a number of men glimpsed us, but it would have been fleetingly, and in the general confusion of battle.”

“Good work,” said Everard. He leaned back in his shabby old armchair. His New York apartment surrounded them, comfortable with souvenirs—Bronze Age helmet and spears above the bar, polar bear rug from Viking Age Greenland on the floor, stuff such as would not cause outsiders to wonder much but did hold memories for him.

He hadn’t gone on the mission. No reason thus to waste an Unattached agent’s lifespan. There had been no danger, except that Castelar would be too quick and get away. The electric gimmick prevented that.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your operation is part of history.” He gestured at the volume of Prescott on an end table beside him. “I’ve been reading that. The Spanish chronicles describe apparitions of the Virgin above the burning hall of Viracocha, where the cathedral was later built, and of Saint James on the battlefield, inspiring the troops. That’s generally taken to be a pious legend, or an account of hysterical illusions, but—ah, well. How’s the prisoner?”

“When I left him, he was resting under sedation,” Navarro replied. “His burns will heal without scars. What will they do with him?”

“That depends on a number of things.” Everard took his pipe from the ashtray where he had laid it and coaxed it back to life. “High on the list is Stephen Tamberly. You know about him?”

“Yes.” Navarro scowled. “Unfortunately, though unavoidably, the current surge through the vehicle wiped the molecular record of where and when it’s traveled. Castelar’s gotten a preliminary kyradex quiz—we knew you’d want to know—and doesn’t recall the place and date he left Tamberly at, merely that it was thousands of years ago and near the Pacific coast of South America. He knew he could retrieve the exact data if he wanted to, and rather doubted he would. Therefore he didn’t bother memorizing the coordinates.”

Everard sighed. “I was afraid of that. Poor Wanda.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind.” Everard consoled himself with smoke. “You may leave. Go out on the town and enjoy yourself.”

“Wouldn’t you like to come along?” Navarro asked diffidently.

Everard shook his head. “I’ll sit tight for a while. It’s barely possible that Tamberly found some way to get rescued. If so, he was brought first to one of our bases for debriefing, and inquiry has shown I’m involved in his case, and I’ll be informed. Naturally, that couldn’t be before we wind up this job otherwise. Maybe I’ll get a call soon.”

“I see. Thank you. Good-bye.”

Navarro departed. Everard settled back down. Dusk seeped into the room, but he didn’t turn on the lights. He wanted just to sit thinking, and quietly hoping.

Where the river met the sea, the village clustered its houses of clay. Only two dugout canoes lay drawn up on the shore, for fishers were out on this calm day. Most women were likewise gone, cultivating small patches of gourd, squash, potato, and cotton at the edge of the mangrove swamp. Smoke lifted slow from the communal fire that an old person always tended. Other women and aged men had tasks to do in their homes, while small children took care of smaller. Folk wore brief skirts of twisted fiber, ornaments of shell, teeth, feathers. They laughed and chattered.

The Vesselmaker sat cross-legged in the doorway of his dwelling. Today he did not shape pots and bowls or bake them hard. Instead, he stared into space and kept silence. He often did, since he learned the speech of men and began his wondrous labors. It must be respected. He was kindly, but these fits came upon him. Perhaps he planned a beautiful new piece of work, or perhaps he communed with spirits. Certainly he was a special being, with his great height, pale skin and hair and eyes, enormous whiskers. A cape decked him against the sun, which he found harsher than common folk did. Inside the house, his woman ground wild seeds in her mortar. Their two living infants slept.

Shouts arose. The field tillers swarmed into sight. People in the village hurried to see what this meant. The Vesselmaker rose and followed them.

Along the riverbank came a stranger striding. Visitors were frequent, mainly bringing trade goods, but nobody had seen this man before. He looked much like anyone else, though heavier muscled. His garb was noticeably different. Something hard and shiny rested in a sheath on his hip.

Where could he be from? Surely hunters would days ago have noticed a newcomer making his way down the valley. The women squealed when he hailed them. The old men gestured them back and offered seemly greeting.

The Vesselmaker arrived.

For a long while Tamberly and the explorer stood gaze upon gaze. He’s of the local race. Odd how calm the knowledge was in him, now when at last time had brought him to the goal of his yearnings. Would be. Best not to raise extra questions, even in the heads of simple Stone Agers. How’d he plan to explain that sidearm?

The explorer nodded. “I half expected this,” he said in slow Temporal. “Do you understand me?”

The language had rusted in Tamberly. However—“I do. Welcome. You’re what I’ve waited for these past . . . seven years, I think.”

“I am Guillem Cisneros. Thirtieth-century born, but with the Universarium of Halla.”—in a milieu after time travel had been achieved and could therefore be done openly.

“And I, Stephen Tamberly, twentieth century, field historian for the Patrol.”

Cisneros laughed. “A handshake is appropriate.”

The villagers watched in dumbstruck awe.

“You were marooned here?” Cisneros asked redundantly.

“Yes. The Patrol must be told. Take me to a base.”

“Certainly. I hid my vehicle about ten kilometers upstream.” Cisneros hesitated. “My object was to pose as a wanderer, stay for a time, try to solve an archaeological mystery. I suspect you are the answer to it.”