Poul Anderson: The Corridors of Time

A gleaming-new Dauphine stopped by the curb. She was at the wheel. He had not forgotten her looks, that was impossible, but when her dark head leaned out the window, he drew a breath and the Danish girls fell from his awareness.

“How do you do,” he said lamely.

She smiled. “Welcome back to freedom, Malcolm Lockridge,” the husky voice greeted him. “Shall we start?”

He put the gear in the trunk and joined her. She was wearing slacks and sneakers, but looked no less imperial than before.

She slipped the car into traffic with more skill than he could have shown. “Whew!” he said. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“There is little to spare,” she answered. “I want to be across this country before nightfall.”

Lockridge pulled his eyes from her profile. “I, uh, I’m ready for whatever you’ve got in mind.”

She nodded. “Yes, I read you aright.”

“But if you’ll tell me—”

“In a moment. I gather you were acquitted.”

“Completely. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“By helping me, of course,” she said with a touch of impatience. “But let us discuss your own situation first. I need to know what commitments you have.”

“Why—none, really. I’d no idea how long this job would take, so I haven’t applied for another. I can stay with my mother till I do get one.”

“Does she expect you back soon?”

“No. I stopped off in Kentucky to see my folks. Your letter said not to let on, so I only told them my defence had been handled by somebody rich who thought I was gettin’ a raw deal and now wanted me in Europe as a consultant on a research project that might or might not take quite a while. Okay?”

“Excellent.” She dazzled him with a look. “I did not misjudge your ingenuity either.”

“But where are we headed, anyway? What for?”

“I cannot tell you much. But, briefly, we are to recover and transport a treasure.”

Lockridge shaped a whistle and fumbled for a cigarette.

“You find that unbelievable? Melodramatic? Something from a bad novel?” Storm Darroway chuckled. “Why do people in this age think their own impoverished lives must be the norm of the universe? Consider. The atoms that built you are clouds of sheer energy. The sun that shines on you could consume this planet, and there are other suns that could swallow it. Your ancestors hunted the mammoth, crossed oceans in row-boats, died on a thousand red fields. Your civilization stands at the edge of oblivion. Within your own body, at this instant, a war is fought without quarter against invaders that would devour you, against entropy and time itself. There is a norm for you!”

She gestured at the street, where folk were about their daily business. “A thousand years ago they were wiser,” she said. “They knew the world and the gods would go under and nothing could be done but meet that day bravely.”

“Well—” Lockridge hesitated. “Okay. Maybe I’m just not the Ragnarok type.”

She laughed. The car hummed onward. They were out of the old city, into a district of high apartment buildings, before she continued:

“I will be brief. Do you remember that the Ukraine rebelled against the Soviet government, a number of years ago? The revolt was savagely put down, but the fight lasted long. And the headquarters of the freedom movement was here, in Copenhagen.”

Lockridge scowled. “Yes, I’ve studied foreign politics.”

“There was a—a war chest,” she said, “that was hidden away when the cause began to look hopeless. Now, lately, we have found someone who knows the place.”

His muscles tautened. “We?”

“The liberation movement. Not for the Ukraine alone any more, but for everyone enslaved. We need those funds.”

“Wait a minute! What the dickens?”

“Oh, we do not hope to set free a third of the planet overnight. But propaganda, subversion, escape routes to the West—such things cost money. And nothing may be looked for from governments that blither of a détente .”

He needed time to collect his wits. So he said, “That’s right. I used to claim, in bull sessions and so forth, there seems to be a will to suicide in America these days. The way we sit up and beg for any kind word from anybody, whether or not he’s sworn to wreck us. The way we turn over whole continents to idiots, demagogues, and cannibals. The way, even at home, we twist the plain words of the Constitution to buy off any bunch of—never mind. My arguments didn’t make me any too well liked.” An odd exultation flitted across her face, but she said flatly: “The gold is at the end of a tunnel in western Jutland, dug by the Germans during their occupation of Denmark for an ultra-secret research project. The anti-Nazi underground raided that base near the end of the war. Apparently everyone there who knew of the tunnel was killed, because its existence was never revealed in public. The Ukrainians learned of it from a man on his deathbed, and took it over as a hiding place. After their revolt was crushed and they disbanded, their treasury was left. You see, those few who had been told about it would not betray their trust by appropriating the gold for their private use, yet they had no more cause. Most of them are dead now, of age or accident or murder by Soviet agents. The last survivors finally decided to let our organisation have the fund. I have been assigned to fetch it. You are my helper.”

“But—but—why me? You’ve got men of your own.”

“Have you never heard of using an outside courier? An East European might too likely be watched, or searched. But American tourists go everywhere. Their luggage is seldom opened at the frontiers, especially if they are travelling cheaply.

“Beaten into leaf, the gold can be sewn into our garments, the linings of our sleeping bags, and so on. We will go by motorcycle to Geneva and there turn it over to the proper person.” Her eyes challenged him. “Are you game?”

Lockridge bit his lip. The thing was too weird to swallow in a piece. “You don’t think they’ll wave us on with this arsenal I bought, do you?”

“The guns are mere precaution while we prepare the gold to go. We will leave them behind.” Storm Darroway fell silent a while. “I will not insult your intelligence,” she said gently. “This involves certain violations of law. They might become very great violations, if there is a fight. I need a man who will take the risks and is capable of meeting trouble, and tough if he must be, yet not a criminal tempted by the chance of personal gain. You seemed right. If I have been mistaken, I beg you to tell me now.”

“Well—that is—” Lockridge recovered some humour. “If you wanted James Bond, you sure were mistaken.”

She gave him a blank glance. “Who?”

“Never mind,” he said, largely to cover his own astonishment. “Uh—All right, I’ll speak plain. How do I know you are what you say? This could be an ordinary smugglin’ ring, or a con game, or ... or anything. Even a Russian stunt. How do I know?”

The city was falling behind, the road so clear that she could give him a long regard. “I cannot tell you more than I have done,” she said. “Another part of your task is to trust me.”

He looked into those eyes and surrendered with joy. “Okay!” he exclaimed. “You got yourself a smuggler.”

Her right hand fell on his left and squeezed. “Thank you,” she said, and that was ample.

They drove on in silence, through green countryside and little red-roofed villages. He ached to talk with her, but you wait for the queen to open conversation. They were entering Roskilde when he finally ventured: “You’d better give me some details. The layout and so on.”

“Later,” she said. “This day is too fair.”