Poul Anderson - Guardians of Time

“All of us are protected against curses and shapings.”

“Well—”

“I wish you would help us freely. I will be happy to demonstrate to you the justice of our cause, if you have a few hours to spare.”

Everard shook his head, walked off and stopped by Deirdre. Her face was a blur in the thickening dusk, but he caught a forlorn fury in her voice: “I hope you told him what to do with his plans, Manslach.”

“No,” said Everard heavily. “We are going to help them.”

She stood as if struck.

“What are you saying, Manse?” asked Van Sarawak. Everard told him.

“No!” said the Venusian.

“Yes,” said Everard.

“By God, no! I’ll—”

Everard grabbed his arm and said coldly: “Be quiet. I know what I’m doing. We can’t take sides in this world; we’re against everybody, and you’d better realize it. The only thing to do is play along with these fellows for a while. And don’t tell that to Deirdre.”

Van Sarawak bent his head and stood for a moment, thinking. “All right,” he said dully.

The Littornian resort was on the southern shore of Nantucket, near a fishing village but walled off from it. The embassy had built in the style of its homeland: long, timber houses with roofs arched like a cat’s back, a main hall and its outbuildings enclosing a flagged courtyard. Everard finished a night’s sleep and a breakfast which Deirdre’s eyes had made miserable by standing on deck as they came in to the private pier. Another, bigger launch was already there, and the grounds swarmed with hard-looking men. Arkonsky’s excitement flared up as he said in Afallonian: “I see the magic engine has been brought. We can go right to work.”

When Boierik interpreted, Everard felt his heart slam.

The guests, as the Cimbrian insisted on calling them, were led into an outsize room where Arkonsky bowed the knee to an idol with four faces, that Svantevit which the Danes had chopped up for firewood in the other history. A fire burned on the hearth against the autumn chill, and guards were posted around the walls. Everard had eyes only for the scooter, where it stood gleaming on the door.

“I hear the fight was hard in Catuvellaunan to gain this thing,” remarked Boierik. “Many were killed; but our gang got away without being followed.” He touched a handlebar gingerly. “And this wain can truly appear anywhere its rider wishes, out of thin air?”

“Yes,” said Everard.

Deirdre gave him a look of scorn such as he had rarely known. She stood haughtily away from him and Van Sarawak.

Arkonsky spoke to her; something he wanted translated. She spat at his feet. Boierik sighed and gave the word to Everard:

“We wish the engine demonstrated. You and I will go for a ride on it. I warn you, I will have a revolver at your back. You will tell me in advance everything you mean to do, and if aught untoward happens, I will shoot. Your friends will remain here as hostages, also to be shot on the first suspicion. But I’m sure,” he added, “that we will all be good friends.”

Everard nodded. Tautness thrummed in him; his palms felt cold and wet. “First I must say a spell,” he answered.

His eyes flickered. One glance memorized the spatial reading of the position meters and the time reading of the clock on the scooter. Another look showed Van Sarawak seated on a bench, under Arkonsky’s drawn pistol and the rifles of the guards. Deirdre sat down too, stiffly, as far from him as she could get. Everard made a close estimate of the bench’s position relative to the scooter’s, lifted his arms, and chanted in Temporal:

“Van, I’m going to try to pull you out of here. Stay exactly where you are now, repeat, exactly. I’ll pick you up on the fly. If all goes well, that’ll happen about one minute after I blink off with our hairy comrade.”

The Venusian sat wooden-faced, but a thin beading of sweat sprang out on his forehead.

“Very good,” said Everard in his pidgin Cimbric. “Mount on the rear saddle, Boierik, and we’ll put this magic horse through her paces.”

The blond man nodded and obeyed. As Everard took the front seat, he felt a gun muzzle held shakily against his back. “Tell Arkonsky we’ll be back in half an hour,” he instructed. They had approximately the same time units here as in his world, both descended from the Babylonian. When that had been taken care of, Everard said. “The. first thing we will do is appear in midair over the ocean and hover.”

“F-f-fine,” said Boierik. He didn’t sound very convinced.

Everard set the space controls for ten miles east and a thousand feet up, and threw the main switch.

They sat like witches astride a broom, looking down on greenish-gray immensity and the distant blur which was land. The wind was high, it caught at them and Everard gripped tight with his knees. He heard Boierik’s oath and smiled stiffly.

“Well,” he asked, “how do you like this?”

“Why… it’s wonderful.” As he grew accustomed to the idea, the Cimbrian gathered enthusiasm. “Balloons are as nothing beside it. With machines like this, we can soar above enemy cities and rain fire down on them.”

Somehow, that made Everard feel better about what he was going to do.

“Now we will fly ahead,” he announced, and sent the scooter gliding through the air. Boierik whooped exultantly. “And now we will make the instantaneous jump to your homeland.”

Everard threw the maneuver switch. The scooter looped the loop and dropped at a three-gee acceleration.

Forewarned, the Patrolman could still barely hang on. He never knew whether the curve or the dive had thrown Boierik. He only got a moment’s glimpse of the man, plunging down through windy spaces to the sea, and wished he hadn’t.

For a little while, then, Everard hung above the waves. His first reaction was a shudder. Suppose Boierik had had time to shoot? His second was a thick guilt. Both he dismissed, and concentrated on the problem of rescuing Van Sarawak.

He set the space verniers for one foot in front of the prisoners’ bench, the time unit for one minute after he had departed. His right hand he kept by the controls—he’d have to work fast—and his left free.

Hang on to your hats, fellahs. Here we go again.

The machine flashed into existence almost in front of Van Sarawak. Everard clutched the Venusian’s tunic and hauled him close, inside the spatiotemporal drive field, even as his right hand spun the time dial back and snapped down the main switch.

A bullet caromed off metal. Everard had a moment’s glimpse of Arkonsky shouting. And then it was all gone and they were on a grassy hill sloping down to the beach. It was two thousand years ago.

He collapsed shivering over the handlebars.

A cry brought him back to awareness. He twisted around to look at Van Sarawak where the Venusian sprawled on the hillside. One arm was still around Deirdre’s waist.

The wind lulled, and the sea rolled in to a broad white strand, and clouds walked high in heaven.

“Can’t say I blame you, Van.” Everard paced before the scooter and looked at the ground. “But it does complicate matters.”

“What was I supposed to do?” the other man asked on a raw note. “Leave her there for those bastards to kill—or to be snuffed out with her entire universe?”

“Remember, we’re conditioned. Without authorization, we couldn’t tell her the truth even if we wanted to. And I, for one, don’t want to.”

Everard glanced at the girl. She stood breathing heavily, but with a dawn in her eyes. The wind ruffled her hair and the long thin dress.

She shook her head, as if to clear it of nightmare, ran over and clasped their hands. “Forgive me, Manslach,” she breathed. “I should have known you’d not betray us.”