Tamberly recalled enough to make this an hour of nightmare. The thirty-first millennium was—is—will be—only Temporal grammar has the verbs and tenses to deal with these concepts—it is far earlier than the development of the first time machines, but chosen members of

  its civilization know about the travel, take part in it, some join the Patrol, like individuals in most milieus. Only . . . this era had its supermen, their genes created for adventurousness on the space frontier; and they came to chafe beneath the weight of that civilization of theirs, which to them was older than the Stone Age is to me; and they rebelled, and lost, and must flee; but they had learned the great fact, that timefaring exists, and had, incredibly, managed to seize some vehicles; and “since then” the Patrol has been on their track, lest they do worse mischief, but I know of no report that the Patrol “will” catch them. . . .

  “I can’t tell you more than you’ve deduced,” he protested. “If you torture me to death, I can’t.”

  “When a man plays a dangerous game,” replied Merau Varagan, “he should prepare contingencies. I admit we failed to anticipate your presence. We thought the treasure vault would be deserted at night, except for sentries outside. However, the possibility of an encounter with the Patrol has been very much on our minds. Raor, the kyradex.”

  Before Tamberly could wonder what that word meant, the woman was at his side. Horror surged through him as he divined her purpose. He started to rise, scramble free, get himself killed, anything.

  Her pistol blinked. It was set to less than knockout force. His sinews gave way, he flopped back onto his chair. Only its embrace kept him for sliding to the carpet.

  She sought the cabinet, returned with an object.

  It was a box and a sort of luminous helmet, joined by a cable. The hemisphere went over his head. Raor’s fingers danced across glow-spots that must be controls. Symbols appeared in the air. Meter readings? A humming took hold of Tamberly. It grew and grew until it was all there was, he was lost in it, he spun down into the darkness at its heart.

  Slowly he ascended. He regained use of his muscles and straightened in the seat. Relaxation pervaded him, though, like that which follows long sleep. He seemed detached from himself, an observer outside, emotionless. Yet he was totally awake. Every sensory detail stood forth, smells of his unwashed robe and body, mountain air coming sharp through the doorway, Varagan’s sardonic Caesar visage, Raor with the box in her hand, the weight of the helmet, a fly that sat on the wall as if to remind him he was as mortal as it.

  Varagan leaned back, crossed his legs, bridged his fingers, and said with weird courtesy, “Your name and origin, please.”

  “Stephen John Tamberly. Born in San Francisco, California, United States of America, June the twenty-third, 1937.”

  He answered fully and truthfully. He must. Or, rather, his memory, nerves, mouth must. The kyradex was the ultimate interrogator. He could not even feel the ghastliness of his condition. Deep underneath, something screamed, but his conscious mind had become a machine.

  “And when were you recruited into the Patrol?”

  “In 1968.” It had happened too gradually for him to give an exact date. A colleague introduced him to some friends, interesting sorts who, he understood afterward, sounded him out; eventually he agreed to take certain tests, allegedly as part of a psychological research project; afterward the situation was revealed to him; he was invited to enlist, and accepted with infinite eagerness, as they had known he would. Well, he was on the rebound from divorce. The decision would have been more difficult if he’d had to lead a double life constantly. Regardless, he knew he would have, for it gave him worlds to explore that until then had been only writings, ruins, shards, and dead bones.

  “What is your standing in the organization?”

  “I’m not in enforcement or rescue or anything of that sort. I’m a field historian. At home I was an anthropologist, had done work among the modern Quechua, then went into the archaeology of the region. That made me a natural choice for the Conquest period. I would have liked better to study the pre-Columbian societies, but of course that was impossible; I’d have been too conspicuous.”

  “I see. How long is your Patrol career thus far?”

  “About sixty years of lifespan.” You could run up centuries, doubling around in time. A tremendous perquisite of membership was the longevity process of an era futureward of his own. To be sure, that brought the pain of watching people you loved grow old and die, never knowing what you knew. To escape that, as a general thing you phased out of their lives, let them believe you’d moved away, made contact with them dwindle gradually to nothing. For they must not notice how the years did not gnaw you down like them.

  “Where and when did you depart on this latest mission of yours?”

  “From California in 1968.” He had maintained his old relationships longer than most agents did. His lifespan age might be ninety, his biological age thirty, but stress and sorrow told on a man, and in 1986 he could claim his calendrical age of fifty, though kinfolk often remarked how youthful he still looked. God knew there was grief aplenty in a Patrolman’s days, along with the adventure. You witnessed too much.

  “Hm,” said Varagan. “We’ll go into that in more detail. First describe your assignment. Just what were you doing last century in Cajamarca?”

  The later name of the town, observed a distant part of Tamberly, while his automaton consciousness replied: “I told you, I’m a field historian, gathering data on the period of the Conquest.” It was for more than the sake of science. How could the Patrol police the time lanes and maintain the reality of events unless it knew what those events were? Books were often misleading, and many a key happening was never chronicled. “The corps got me accredited—as Esteban Tanaquil, a Franciscan

  friar—accredited to Pizarro’s expedition when he returned in 1530 from Spain to America.”—before Waldseemiiller bestowed that name. “I was simply to observe, recording as much as I was able unbeknownst.” And do what heartbreakingly slight things he could to lighten, the tiniest bit, the brutality. “You must know, too, those years will loom large in history—futureward of my home century, pastward of yours—when the Resurgents call on their Andean heritage.”

  Varagan nodded. “Indeed,” he said conversationally. “If matters had gone otherwise, why, already the twentieth century might be very different.” He grinned. “Suppose, for example, Inca Huayna Capac had not divided heirship between his sons Huascar and Atahuallpa. Then the empire would not have been in a state of civil war when Pizzaro arrived. His minuscule gang of adventurers could not possibly have overthrown it. The Conquest would have required more time, more resources. This would have affected the balance of power in Europe, where the Turks were pressing inward while the Reformation broke what scant unity Christendom had possessed.”

  “Is that your aim?” In vague way Tamberly knew he should be furious, aghast, anything but apathetic. He barely had the curiosity to ask the question.

  “Perhaps,” Varagan taunted. “However, the men who found you were only scouts in advance of a much more modest enterprise, bringing Atahuallpa’s ransom here. That would be quite upsetting in itself, of course.” He laughed. “But it might preserve those priceless works of art. You were content to make holograms of them for people uptime.”

  “For all humankind,” said Tamberly automatically.

  “Well, for such of it as can be allowed to enjoy the fruits of time travel, under the watchful eye of the Patrol.”

  “Bring the treasure . . . here?” fumbled Tamberly. “Now?”

  “Temporarily. We’ve camped where we are because it’s a convenient base.” Varagan scowled. “The Patrol is too vigilant in our original milieu. Arrogant swine!” Calm again: “As isolated as Vilcabamba is at present, it will not be noticeably affected by changes in the near past—for instance, by such a detail as Atahuallpa’s ransom unaccountably disappearing one night. But your associates will be in full quest of you, Tamberly. They’ll follow up every last clue they can find. Best we have that information at once, to forestall any moves of theirs.”

  I should be shaken to the roots of my soul. This utter, absolute recklessness—risking loops in the world lines, temporal vortices, destruction of the whole future. No, not risking. Deliberately bringing it about. But I cannot feel the horror. The thing that squats on my skull holds down my humanity.

  Varagan leaned forward. “Therefore let us discuss your personal history,” he said. “What do you consider your home? What family have you, friends, ties of any kind?”

  The questions quickly became knife-sharp. Tamberly watched and listened while their skilled wielder cut from him detail after detail. When something especially interested Varagan, he pursued it to the end. Tamberly’s second wife ought to be safe; she was also in the Patrol. His first wife was remarried, out of his life. But oh, God, his brother, and Bill’s own wife, and he heard himself confess that his niece was like a daughter to him—

  The doorway darkened. Luis Castelar bounded through.

  His sword slashed. The guard there buckled, crumpled, fell and lay squirming. Blood spouted from his throat, its red like the shriek he could no longer sound forth.

  Raor dropped the control box and snatched for her sidearm. Castelar reached her. His left fist smashed at her jaw. She staggered back, sagged, went to the floor and gaped up at him, stunned. His blade sang even as she dropped. Varagan was on his feet. Incredibly quick, he dodged a cut that would have laid him open. The room was too cramped for him to get past. Castelar stabbed. Varagan clutched his belly. Blood squirted between his fingers. He leaned against the wall and shouted.

  Castelar wasted no time finishing him. The Spaniard ripped the helmet off Tamberly. It thudded to the floor. Wholeness of spirit broke like a sunbeam into the American.

  “Get us away!” Castelar rasped. “The witchhorse outside—”

  Tamberly reeled from his chair. His knees would barely hold him. Castelar’s free arm gave support. They stumbled into the open. The timecycle waited. Tamberly crawled onto the front saddle, Castlar leaped to the rear. A man in black appeared in the courtyard gateway. He yelled and reached for his weapon.

  Tamberly slapped the console.

  11 MAY 2937 B.C.

  Machu Picchu was gone. Wind surrounded him. Hundreds of feet below lay a river valley, lush with grass and groves. Ocean gleamed in the distance.

  The cycle dropped. Air brawled. Tamberly’s hands sought the gravity drive. The engine awoke. The fall stopped. He brought the vehicle to a smooth and silent landing.

  He began to shake. Darkness went in rags before his eyes.

  The reaction passed. He grew aware of Castelar standing on the ground beside him, and the Spaniard’s swordpoint an inch from his throat.

  “Get off that thing,” Castelar said. “Move carefully, your arms up. You are no holy man. I think you may be a magician who should burn at the stake. We will find out.”

  3 NOVEMBER 1885

  A hansom cab brought Manse Everard from Dalhousie & Roberts, Importers—which was also the Time Patrol’s London base in this milieu—to the house on York Place. He mounted the stairs through a dense yellowish fog and turned the handle on a doorbell. A maidservant let him into a wainscoted anteroom. He gave her a card. She was back in a minute to say that Mrs. Tamberly would be pleased to receive him. He left his hat and overcoat on a rack and followed her. Interior heating failed to keep out all the dank chill, which made him for once glad to be dressed like a Victorian gentleman. Usually he found such clothes abominably uncomfortable. Otherwise this was, on the whole, a marvelous era to live in, if you had money, enjoyed robust health, and could pass for an Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

  The parlor was a pleasant, gas-lit room, lined with books and not overly cluttered with bric-a-brac. A coal fire burned low. Helen Tamberly stood close, as if in need of what cheer it offered. She was a small reddish-blond woman; the full dress subtly emphasized a figure that many doubtless envied. Her voice made the Queen’s English musical. It wavered a little, though. “How do you do, Mr. Everard. Please be seated. Would you care for tea?”

  “No, thanks, ma’am unless you want some.” He made no effort to dissemble his American accent. “Another man is due here shortly. Maybe after we’ve talked with him?”

  “Certainly.” She nodded dismissal to the maid, who left the door open behind her. Helen Tamberly went to close it. “I hope this doesn’t shock Jenkins too badly,” she said with a wan smile.

  “I daresay she’s grown used to somewhat unconventional ways around here,” Everard responded in an effort to match her self-possession.

  “Well, we try not to be too outré. People tolerate a certain amount of eccentricity. If our front were upper class, rather than well-to-do bourgeois, we could get away with anything; but then we’d be too much in the public eye.” She stepped across the carpet to stand before him, fists clenched at her sides. “Enough of that,” she said desperately. “You’re from the Patrol. An Unattached agent, am I right? It’s about Stephen. Must be. Tell me.”

  Without fear of eavesdroppers, he continued in the English language, which might sound gentler in her ears than Temporal. “Yes. Now we don’t yet know anything for sure. He’s—missing. Failed to report in. I suppose you remember that was to have been in Lima late in 1535, several months after Pizarro founded it. We have an outpost there. Discreet inquiries turned up the fact that the friar Esteban Tanaquil vanished mysteriously two years before, in Cajamarca. Vanished, mind you, not died in some accident or affray or whatever.” Bleakly: “Nothing as simple as that.”

  “But he could be alive?” she cried.

  “We may hope. I can’t promise more than that the Patrol will try its damnedest—uh, pardon me.”

  She gave a broken laugh. “That’s all right. If you’re from Stephen’s milieu, everybody’s careless with speech, true?”

  “Well, he and I were both born and raised in the U.S.A., middle twentieth century. That’s why I’ve been asked to lead this investigation. A background shared with your husband just might give me some useful insight.”

  “You were asked,” she murmured. “Nobody gives orders to an Unattached agent, nobody less than a Danellian.”

  “That’s not quite correct,” he said awkwardly. Sometimes his status—assigned to no particular milieu, but free to go anywhere and anywhen there was need and act on his own judgment—embarrassed him. He was by nature unpretentious, a meat-and-potatoes kind of man.

  “Good of you to agree,” she said and blinked hard against tears. “Do please be seated. Smoke if you wish. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t care for tea and biscuits or perhaps a spot of brandy?”

  “Maybe later, thanks. But I will avail myself of my pipe.” He waited till she sat down by the hearth to take the armchair opposite, which must be Steve Tamberly’s. The fire quivered blue between them.

  “I’ve been in on a few cases like this in the past—my lifeline past, that is,” he began cautiously. “It’s desirable to start by learning as much as possible about the person concerned. That means talking with those close to him or her. So I’ve come a tad early today, hoping we could get acquainted. An agent who’s been on the spot will be along in a while to tell us what he discovered. I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, no.” She drew breath. “But tell me, please. I’ve always had difficulty understanding, even when I think in Temporal. My father was a physics don, and it’s hard to set aside the strict logic of cause and effect he drilled into me. Stephen . . . encountered trouble somehow, in sixteenth-century Peru. Maybe the Patrol can save him, maybe it can’t. Whatever, though, whatever the result is . . . the Patrol will know. There’ll be a report in the files. Can’t you go at once and read it? Or, or skip ahead in time and ask your future self? Why must we go through this?”

  Upbringing or no, she must be hideously shaken to raise such a question, she who had also been trained at that academy back in the Oligocene period—back before there was any human history for its existence to upset. Everard didn’t think the less of her. Rather, it made him appreciate the courage that maintained her calmness. And, after all, her work did not expose her to the paradoxes and hazards of mutable time. Nor had Tamberly experienced them—he had been a straightforward, if disguised, observer—till suddenly they laid hold of him.

  “You know that’s forbidden.” He kept his tone soft. “Causal loops can too easily turn into temporal vortices. Annulment of the whole effort would be the least of the disasters we’d risk. And it’d be futile, anyway. Those records, those memories could be of something that never happened. Just think how our actions would be influenced by what we believed was foreknowledge. No, we’ve got to go through with our jobs in as nearly causal a way as we possibly can, in order to make our successes or failures real.”

  For reality is conditional. It is like a wave pattern on a sea. Let the waves—the probability-waves of ultimate underlying quantum chaos—change their rhythm, and abruptly that tracery of ripples and foam-swirls will be gone, transformed into another. Already in the twentieth century, physicists had a dim glimmering of this. But not until time travel came to be did the fact of it stab into human lives.

  If you have gone into the past, you have made it your present. You have the same free will as always. You have laid no special constraints on yourself. Inevitably, you influence what happens.

  Ordinarily the effects are slight. It’s as if the spacetime continuum was like a mesh of tough rubber bands, restoring its configuration after it’s felt some disturbing force. Indeed, ordinarily you are a part of the past. There really was a man who traveled with Pizarro and called himself Brother Tanaquil. That was “always” true, and the fact that he wasn’t born in that century, but long afterward, is incidental. If he does minor anachronistic things, they don’t matter; they may excite comment, but memory of them will die out. It’s a philosophical question whether or not reality keeps flickering through such insignificant changes.