Гарри Гаррисон - Rebel in Time

But it hadn't. It had come within a hair's breadth of succeeding. Yet it had failed. But it had been a very close run thing. If Troy had so much as opened that door a fraction of an inch he would have been dead on the spot, shot down instantly. He was sure of that now and felt the cool touch of perspiration at the realization of how close to death he had come.

But would there be anyone else lying in ambush here? No, McCulloch must surely have done this alone, trusting no one else with his secret, baiting the trap then lying in wait. But he had gone for the firemen. Was there a chance now to get into the room? There had to be a back door.

No, too late. Lights were coming on in the houses; voices called out one to the other. Fire! A constant danger in this city of wooden buildings. Everyone was aware of the communal threat and hurried to help. More and more people appeared and Troy drew deeper into the shadows.

Within minutes the first of the fire engines appeared, horse-drawn and primitive. But effective. Shouting men threw their weight onto the pump handles and the first streams of water jetted from the hose.

It was organized bedlam — but it was getting the job done. A bucket brigade formed, reaching to the well of the nearest house, then bucket after bucket of water began to splash onto the soaring flames. Another piece of fire apparatus arrived and McCulloch was there as well now to lead them through the front of the building to fight the fire from that side. This was Troy's chance! Fire was no respecter of race. Black and white were mixed together in the battle so there was little chance that he would even be noticed.

Troy ran to join the fire-fighters who were labouring at the back of the building.

Through the open rear door he saw that the interior was now a mass of flames. The stream of water from the hose was being played onto the roof above to stop the fire from spreading, while two rows of sweating, shouting men hurled pails of water on the fire below. Troy seized up a bucket and joined them.

It was hot and desperate work. For a while the fire would appear to be under control — then it would break out again, flaring up in the dry wood. Everyone was smeared and filthy with ashes, running with sweat. Troy worked as hard as any of the others, moving in to fight the fire in the depths of the smoking building. Pushing through the smoking embers. Kicking his foot against something made of metal.

He glanced around; for the moment no one seemed to be looking his way. He bent swiftly, grabbed up the metal and dropped it into the bucket. Plunging his hand into the water after it as the hot metal seared his flesh. Then turning, bumping into others, making his way out into the night.

The first casualties of the fire were on the far side of the road, coughing with the agony of their smoke-filled lungs. Troy joined them, his coughing realistic enough since he had breathed in a good deal of the same smoke. He dropped to the ground, sat there, coughing, his head between his legs. His hidden fingers slipping the metal out of the bucket and concealing it inside his shirt.

The night grew darker as the flames were brought under control. He found that there was no difficulty at all in slipping away and then vanishing in the blackness.

Troy controlled his impatience until he was far from the scene of the fire, in a silent street among dark trees. He sheltered behind a row of sweet-smelling shrubs, placed the piece of metal on the ground and bent over it. The match flared and the stub of candle caught and flickered. He let it burn for just a moment, then blew it out.

But he had seen enough. He knew what he had. Carefully he took up the blackened piece of metal, held it tightly in his hands.

He had held a piece of steel like this once before, in a different time and place. That had been in the Smithsonian Institute, in Washington.

The two pieces of metal were identical.

What he was holding now was the trigger plate of a Sten-gun.

It was dawn before the fire was completely out. Streamers of smoke still drifted up from the blackened ruins, while soot-smeared and weary men stood about in small groups, or sat sprawled on the ground. Wes McCulloch kicked at a burned timber in the workshop and cursed savagely under his breath. Bad, but it could have been worse; the fire had been stopped in time and none of the machinery had been seriously damaged. It would all be working again as soon as the place was cleaned up and the leather belts replaced. The storeroom had had the worst of it, but even there nothing irreplaceable had been destroyed.

'This is terrible, colonel, terrible,' the fat man said, picking his way delicately through the rubble. His spotless clothing and polished boots were sure indications that he had had no part in fighting the fire, no matter how great his concern now. 'Do you know how it started?'

'No, senator, I don't,' McCulloch said. 'But you can see over there, on the wall, where the centre of the fire was. It appears to have been located near the forge. Perhaps a stray spark from that, smouldering, you know how these things are.' He turned as he heard the horses gallop up outside. 'Excuse me, senator. We had better both get outside, it's not too comfortable in here.'

McCulloch waited until the senator had started talking to some of his friends before he waved the two hard-looking men over to him.

'Hicks, I want you and Yancy to get over to the Blue House hotel. Do you know the Scotchman, Shaw, the man who was with me yesterday?'

'Shore do, colonel. Little fancy feller.'

'Get him. Wake him up, tell him I have to see him at once. If he argues with you, why, take him anyway. I want you to get him back to the house — then lock him up. Use that cell in the slave quarters. He's involved in this fire. But don't let on about that until you get him away from the hotel. I want to keep this a private matter, because after we talk to him I think that he is going to vanish, quiet like.'

'You think he set it!'

'No — but his nigger did. So look around for the black bastard before you stir up Shaw. I don't think that he'll still be there, but look anyway. If you don't find him, why this Shaw will tell us where he can be found. I'll see to that myself. You just keep him locked away until I get back. That won't be until later today. Now get him.'

McCulloch watched as they kicked their mounts around and galloped away. Troy Harmon . He breathed the name under his breath like a curse. It was a curse. The jig had followed him after all! He never would have believed that a creature like that would have had the guts. Not guts, just stupidity, animal reflex like a snapping turtle hanging on after it was dead. Well, that didn't matter now. He was here, causing trouble. And that newsman had brought him right to his door. Shaw was going to pay for that. If only his mind hadn't been so occupied with the pressing matters to hand, if he had only recognized the jig when he had first appeared. Only later had the resemblance begun to worry him; the possibility had always been there that he might be followed. That was why he had taken precautions. The trap he had set had been a good one, had almost worked. But the jigaboo must have suspected something, found out some way. Well, that didn't matter now. Everything else was progressing on schedule. All the plans had been made and things were going forward without a hitch. Except for this little setback. So be it. You had to take your losses in war. A few lost battles didn't count. The final victory did. And that was the one that he was going to win.

As soon as the factory manager showed up, McCulloch put him in charge of the salvage, then rode home. It was almost seven o'clock. Plenty of time to wash and change, even have some breakfast. The food would have to make up for the sleep that he had missed. Coffee, and some of the bourbon. He must remember to take a flask with him as well. The meeting was set for ten. If he rode out by nine he would be there with plenty of time to spare.