Poul Anderson - The Shield of Time

She drew an uneven breath. “Manse, the trouble I’ve caused you—”

“No, don’t feel obligated. Please. I had a duty, after I’d heard what the situation was.” He looked up. “You see, in a way this was the Patrol’s fault. You’d been meant for a naturalist. Your indoctrination was minimal. Then the outfit allowed you to get involved in something for which you weren’t prepared, trained, anything. It’s human. It makes its share of mistakes. But it can damn well admit to them afterward.”

“I don’t want excuses for myself. I knew I was violating the rules.” Tamberly squared her shoulders. “And I’m not—not repentant, even now.” She drank again.

“Which you had the guts to tell the board.” Everard made fire and brought it to the tobacco. He nursed it along till the blue cloud was going well. “That worked in your favor. We need courage, initiative, acceptance of responsibility, more than we need nice, safe routineers. Besides, you didn’t actually try to change history. That would have been unforgivable. All you did was take a hand in it. Which, maybe, was in the pattern of events from the first. Or maybe not. Only the Danellians know.”

Awed, she wondered, “Do they care, so far in the future?”

He nodded. “I think they must. I suspect this matter got bucked clear up to them.”

“Because of you, Manse, you, an Unattached agent.”

He shrugged. “Could be. Or maybe they … watched. Anyway, I’ve a hunch that the decision to pardon you came down from them. In which case you’re more important, somewhere up the line, than either of us today knows.”

Amazement shrilled: “Me?”

“Potentially, anyhow.” He wagged the pipestem at her. “Listen, Wanda. I broke the law myself once, early in my service, because it seemed like the single decent thing to do. I was ready for punishment. The Patrol can not accommodate self-righteousness. But the upshot was, I got tapped for special training and eventual Unattached status.”

She shook her head. “You were you. I’m not that good.”

“You mean you’re not that kind of good. I do still doubt you have the makings of a cop. Something else, however—For sure, you’ve got the right stuff.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to!”

She drank with him, but silently.

After a while she said, tears on her lashes, “I can never truly thank you, Manse.”

“Hm-m.” He grinned. “You can try. For openers, how about dinner this evening?”

She drew back. “Oh—” The sound trailed off.

He regarded her. “You don’t feel up to it, huh?”

“Manse, you’ve done so much for me. But—”

He nodded. “Plumb wore out. Absolutely understandable.”

She hugged herself, as if a wind off a glacier had touched her. “And, and haunted.”

“I can understand that too,” he said.

“If I can just be alone for a while, somewhere peaceful.”

“And come to terms with what happened.” He blew smoke at the ceiling. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should have realized.”

“Later—”

He smiled, gently this time. “Later you’ll be yourself again. That is certain. You’re too healthy not to.”

“And then—” She couldn’t finish.

“We’ll discuss it when the time is right.” Evérard laid his pipe aside. “Wanda, you’re about ready to keel over. Relax. Enjoy your applejack. Doze off if you want. I’ll call for a taxi and take you home.”

Lightning flickered in darkness, bright enough to pierce through the lamps of New York. Thunder was still too distant to overcome traffic rush; wind and rain would follow.

Everard made himself look squarely at the enigma who sat opposite him in his apartment. “I thought the matter was settled,” he declared.

“Considerable dissatisfaction remained,” said Guion in his deceptively pedantic English.

“Yeah. I pulled rank and wires, threw my weight around, cashed in favors owing to me. But I am an Unattached and it was, it is my judgment that punishing Tamberly for doing what was morally right would accomplish nothing except lose us a good operative.”

Guion’s tone stayed level. “The morality of taking sides in foreign conflicts is debatable. And you, of all people, should know that we do not amend reality, we defend it.”

Everard knotted a fist. “You, of all people, should know that that isn’t always exactly true,” he snapped.

Deciding that he likewise had better keep this peaceable: “I told her I didn’t think I could’ve pulled it off if some kind of word hadn’t come down from on high. Was I right?”

Guion evaded that, smiling slightly and saying, “What I came here for is to give you personal reassurance that the case is indeed closed. You will find no more lingering resentments among your colleagues, no unspoken accusations of favoritism. They now agree that you acted properly.”

Everard stared. “Huh?” Several heartbeats passed. “How the devil was that done? As independent a bunch as ever bearded any king—”

“Suffice that it was done, and without compromising their independence. Stop fretting. Give that Middle Western conscience of yours a rest.”

“Well, uh, well, this is awfully kind of you—Hey, I’ve been mighty inhospitable, haven’t I? Care for a drink?”

“I would not say no to a light Scotch and soda.”

Everard scrambled from his chair and sought the bar. “I am grateful, believe me.”

“You needn’t be. This is more a business trip than an errand of mercy. You see, you have earned a certain amount of special consideration. You have proved too valuable an agent for the Patrol to want you unnecessarily hampered by unwilling and incomplete cooperation.”

Everard busied his hands. “Me? No false modesty, but in a million years of recruitment the outfit has got to have found a lot of guys a lot more able than me.”

“Or me. Sometimes, however, individuals have a significance far beyond their ostensible worth. Not that you or I count for nothing in ourselves. But as an illustration of the general principle, take, oh, Alfred Dreyfus. He was a competent and conscientious officer, an asset to France. But it was because of what happened to him that great events came about.”

Everard scowled. “Do you mean he was … an instrument of destiny?”

“You know very well there is no such thing as destiny. There is the structure of the plenum, which we strive to preserve.”

I s’pose, Everard thought. Though that structure isn’t just changeable in time as well as space. It seems to be subtler and trickier than they see fit to teach us about at the Academy. Coincidences can be more than accidents. Maybe Jung glimpsed a little of the truth, in his notions about synchrony — I dunno. The universe isn’t for the likes of me to understand. I only work here. He drew himself a Heineken’s, added a shot of akvavit on the side, and brought the refreshments back on a tray.

As he settled down, he murmured, “I suspect the way has also been smoothed for Specialist Tamberly.”

“What makes you think that?” replied Guion noncommittally.

“On your last visit you were inquiring about her, and she’s mentioned an evening with you while she was a cadet. I doubt that … whoever sent you … would be so interested in the average recruit.”

Guion nodded. “Her world line, like yours, appears to impinge on many others.” He paused. “Appears, I say.”

Unease stirred afresh. Everard reached for pipe and tobacco pouch. “What the hell is going on, anyway?” he demanded. “What’s this all about?”

“We hope it is nothing extraordinary.”