Luis isn’t the swinish sort either. He’s keeping his promise, absolutely polite. Unyielding, but polite. A killer, a racist, a fanatic; a man of his word, fearless, ready to die for king or comrade; Charlemagne dreams, tender little memories of his mother, poor and proud in Spain. Kind of humorless, but a flaming romantic.

  Glance at my watch. Close to midnight. Good Lord, have we sat here that long?

  “What do you mean to do, Don Luis?”

  “Obtain weapons of your country.”

  Level voice. Smile on lips. Sees my shock. “Are you surprised, my lady? What else could I seek? I would not abide in this place. From above, it may resemble the gates of Heaven, but I think down on earth, those engines rushing and roaring demonic in their thousands must make it more akin to Hell. Foreign folk, foreign language, foreign ways. Heresy and shamelessness rampant, no? Forgive me. I believe you are chaste, in spite of those garments. But are you not an infidel? Clearly, you defy God’s law concerning the proper status of women.” He shakes his head. “No, I will return to that age which is mine and my country’s. Return well armed.”

  Appalled: “How?”

  He tugs his beard. “I have given thought to this.

  A Wagon of your kind would be of small use or none where there are neither roads nor fuel for it. Moreover, it would at best be a clumsy steed, set beside my gallant Florio—or the chariot I have captured. However, you must have firearms as far beyond our muskets and cannon as those are beyond the spears and bows of the Indios. Hand-held, yes, that would be best.”

  “But, but I haven’t any weapons. I can’t get any.”

  “You know what they are like and where they are kept. In military arsenals, for example. I will have much to ask you in the days to come. Thereafter, why, I have the means to pass unseen by bolts and bars, and carry off what I wish.”

  True. Chances are he’ll succeed. He’ll have me, first for briefing, later for guide. No way do I get out of that, unless I’m heroic and make him kill me. Which would leave him free to try elsewhere, and Uncle Steve forsaken wherever-whenever he is.

  “How—how will you—use those guns?”

  Solemn: “In the end, marshal the armies of the Emperor and lead them to victory. Hurl back the

  Turks. Uproot the Lutheran sedition in the North that I’ve heard of. Humble the French and English. The final Crusade.” Draws breath. “First, I should assure the conquest of the New World and my own power within it. Not that I am more greedy for fame than others. But God has appointed me to this.”

  My mind spins through the insanity of what would follow from the least of his projects. “But everything around us now, it’ll never have been! I’ll never have been born!”

  He crosses himself. “That is as God wills. However, if you give faithful service, I can take you back with me and see to your well-being.”

  Yeah. Well-being a la sixteenth-century Spanish female. If I exist. My parents wouldn’t have, would they? I’ve no idea. I’m simply convinced Luis is juggling forces beyond his imagining, or mine, or anybody’s except maybe that Time Guard—like a child playing on a snowfield ripe for an avalanche—

  The Time Guard! That Everard man last year. Asking about Uncle Steve, why? Because Stephen Tamberly didn’t really work for a scientific foundation. He worked for the Time Guard.

  Their job has got to include heading off disasters. Everard gave me his card. Phone number on it. Where’d I put that bit of cardboard? Tonight the universe is balanced on it.

  “I should begin by learning what did happen in Peru after I . . . left it,” Luis is saying. “Then I can plan how to amend the tale. Tell me.”

  Shudder. Shake off the sense of nightmare. Think what to do. “I can’t. How should I know? It was more than four hundred years ago.” Solid, sinewy, sweaty, a ghost from that vanished past sits across from me, behind soiled plates, coffee cups, and beer cans.

  Eruption in my head.

  Hold voice low. Look downward. Demure. “We have history books, of course. And libraries that everyone may enter. I’ll go find out.”

  He chuckles. “You are bold, my lady. However, you shall not leave these rooms, nor be out of my sight, until I am certain of my mastery of things. When I venture forth—to look about, or sleep, or for whatever reason—I will return to the same minute as I departed. Avoid the middle of the floor.”

  Time machine appears in the same space as me. Boom! No, likelier it’d be jarred aside a few inches. I’d be thrown against the wall. Could break bones, uselessly.

  “Well, I c-can talk to somebody who knows the history. We have . . . devices . . . for sending speech through wires, across miles. There’s one in the main room.”

  “And how shall I tell whom you speak with or what you say in your English tongue? Most assuredly, you shall lay no hand on that engine.” He doesn’t know what a phone looks like, but I couldn’t begin to use mine before he realized.

  The hostility drops. Earnest: “My lady, I pray you, understand that I bear no ill will. I do what I must. Those are my friends yonder, my country, my Church. Have the wisdom—the compassion—to accept that? I know you are learned. Do you have any book of your own that may help? Remember, whatever happens, I am going ahead with my sacred mission. You can make the course of it less terrible for those who you love.”

  Excitement ebbs away with hope. I feel how tired I am. An ache in every cell of me. Cooperate in this. Maybe afterward he’ll let me sleep. What dreams may come couldn’t possibly be as bad as my wakefulness.

  The encyclopedia. Birthday present from Suzy a couple of years ago, my sister, who’s doomed if Spain will have conquered Europe, the Near East, and both the Americas.

  Ice-thrill. I remember! I dropped Everard’s card in a desk drawer, upper left, where I keep miscellany. Phone right above, beside the typewriter.

  “Senorita, you tremble.”

  “Haven’t I reason to?” Rise. “Come.” The cold wind through me whistles the exhaustion out. “I do have a book or two that may have information.”

  He follows directly behind. His presence is a shadow over me, a shadow with weight.

  At the desk, “Hold! What do you want from that drawer?”

  I never was a good liar. Can keep my face turned away, and a wobble in my voice is to be expected. “You see how many the volumes are. I must consult my record of them, to locate the chronicle. Watch. No hidden arquebus.” Whip it open before he grabs my wrist. Stand passive, let him paw through, satisfy himself. The card skips amongst the clutter. Like my pulse.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady. Give me no occasion to suspect you, and I will give you no roughness.”

  Flip the card right side up. Make that look accidental. Read again: Manson Everard, midtown Manhattan address, the phone number, the phone number. Cram that into my mind. Scratch about. What can I palm off as a sort of library catalogue? Ah, my auto insurance policy. Had it out for a look after that fender-bender months ago—no, last month, April—and haven’t—hadn’t—gotten around to putting it back in the safe deposit. Make a show of studying it. “Ah, here we are.”

  Okay, now I know how to call for help. Opportunity to do it is lacking. Stay watchful.

  Sidle past the time bike to the bookshelf. Luis treads close against me. Payn to Polka. Take it out, page through. He looks across my shoulder. Exclaims when he recognizes Peru. He’s literate. Not in English, though.

  Translate. Early history. Pizarro’s journey to Tumbez, the awful hardships, his eventual return to Spain in search of backing. “Yes, yes, I have heard, how often I have heard.” To Panama in 1530, Turnbez in 1531, “I was with him.” Fighting. A small detachment makes an epic trek over the mountains. Entry into Cajamarca, capture of the Inca, his ransom. “And then, and then?” Judicial murder of Atahuallpa. “Oh, bad. Well, no doubt my captain decided it was necessary.” March to Cuzco. Almagro’s expedition to Chile. Pizarro founds Lima.

  Manco, his puppet Inca, escapes, raises the people against the invaders. Cuzco besieged from early February 1536 till Almagro comes back and relieves it in April 1537; meanwhile, desperate valor on both sides, throughout the country. Right after the hard-won Spanish victory, Indians still waging guerrilla warfare, the Pizarro brothers and Almagro fall out with each other. Pitched battle in 1538, Almagro defeated and executed. His half-caste son and friends embittered; conspire; assassinate Francisco Pizarro in Lima, 26 June 1541. “No! Body of Christ, this shall not happen!” Charles V has sent a new governor, who now takes over, beats the Almagro faction, and beheads the young man. “Horrible, horrible. Christian against Christian. No, it is clear, we require a strong man to take leadership at the earliest moment of misfortune.”

  Luis draws his sword. What the hell? Alarmed, I drop the volume, back off past the machine toward my desk. He falls on his knees. Lifts the sword by the blade, makes it a cross. Tears run down the leather cheeks, into the midnight beard. “Almighty God, holy Mother of God,” he sobs, “be with Your servant.”

  A chance? No time to think.

  Grab the upright vacuum cleaner. Swing it on high. He hears, turns on his knees, crouches to bound up. A heavy awkward club. Give it everything my arms and shoulders have got. Across the bike, crash the motor end onto his bare head.

  He sags. Blood flows like crazy, neon-light red. Lacerated scalp. Have I knocked him out? Don’t stop to check. Let the vac clatter down on top of him. Leap to the phone.

  Buzz-zz. The number? I’d better have it right. Punch-punch-punch—Luis groans. He hauls himself to all fours. Punch-punch.

  Ring.

  Ring. Ring. Luis takes hold of a shelf, clambers his way to a stance.

  The remembered voice. “Hello. This is Manse Everard’s answering machine.”

  Oh, God, no!

  Luis shakes his head, wipes the blood from his eyes. His head is smeared, it drips, impossibly much, impossibly brilliant.

  “I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone. If you wish to leave a message, I’ll get back to you soon’s maybe.”

  Luis stands slumped, his arms dangle, but he glares at me. “So,” he mumbles. “Treachery.”

  “You may begin talking when you hear the beep. Thank you.”

  He stoops, takes up his sword, advances. Unevenly, inexorably.

  Scream, “Wanda Tamberly. Palo Alto. Time traveler.” What’s the date, what the hell’s the date? “Friday night before Memorial Day. Help!”

  The sword point is at my throat. “Drop that thing,” he snarls. I do. He’s got me backed against the desk. “I should kill you for this. Perhaps I will.”

  Or forget his scruples about my virtue and—And at least I left a clue for Everard. Didn’t I?

  Whoosh. The second machine above the first, its riders flattening themselves below the ceiling.

  Luis yells. Scuttles backward, onto the driver’s saddle of his. Sword in hand. Other hand dances on the controls. Everard’s hampered. I see a gun in his fist. But whoosh. Luis is gone.

  Everard sets down.

  Whirling, keening, darkening. I never passed out before. If I can just sit for a minute.

  23 MAY 1987

  She came in from the hallway wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas. Its snugness brought forth a lithe figure, its blueness the hue of her eyes. Sunlight through the west window made gold of her hair.

  She blinked. “Oh, my. Afternoon,” she murmured. “How long have I slept?”

  Everard had risen from the sofa where he’d sat with one of her books. “About fourteen hours, I guess,” he said. “You needed it. Welcome back.”

  She stared around. There was no timecycle, nor any bloodstains. “After my partner tucked you in bed, she and I fetched supplies and cleaned up the mess as best we could,” Everard explained. “She took off. No point in cluttering your place. A guard was necessary, of course, as a precaution. Better check around at your convenience and make sure everything is in order. Wouldn’t do for your earlier self to return and find traces of the ruckus. You didn’t, after all.”

  Wanda sighed. “No, never a hint.”

  “We’ve got to prevent paradoxes like that. The situation is tangled enough as is.” And dangerous, Everard thought. More than deadly dangerous. I should hearten her. “Hey, I’ll bet you’re starved.”

  He liked the way she laughed. “Could eat the proverbial horse with a side of French fries, and apple pie for dessert.”

  “Well, I took the liberty of laying in some groceries, and could use lunch myself, if you don’t mind my joining you.”

  “Mind? Try not to!”

  In the kitchen he urged that she be seated while he put the meal together. “I’m a pretty competent man with a steak and a salad. You’ve been through the meat grinder. Most people would be in a daze.”

  “Thanks.” She accepted. For a minute, only the sounds of him at work broke the silence. Then, her look steady upon him, she said, “You belong to the Time Guard, don’t you?”

  “Huh?” He glanced about. “Yes. In English, it’s usually the Time Patrol.” He paused. “Outsiders aren’t supposed to know that time travel goes on. We can’t tell them unless authorized, and that’s just when circumstances warrant. Clearly they do in this case; you’ve crashed into the fact. And I have authority to make the decision. I’ll level with you, Miss Tamberly.”

  “Great. How did you find me? When I got your answering machine, I was in despair.”

  “You’re new to the concept. Think. After I’d played your message, what’d you expect me to do but mount an expedition? We hovered outside the window, saw that man threatening you, hopped inside. Unfortunately, I was too crowded to get a shot at him before he vamoosed.”

  “Why didn’t you jump back in time?”

  “And save you some unpleasant hours? Sorry. I’ll tell you later about the hazards of changing the past.”

  She frowned. “I know a bit already.”

  “Hm, I suppose you do. Look, we needn’t discuss this till you feel recovered. Take a couple of days and get over the shock.”

  She lifted her head pridefully. “Thanks, but no need. I’m unhurt, hungry, and eaten alive by curiosity. Concern, too. My uncle—No, really, please, I’d much rather not wait.”

  “Wow, you’re a tough cookie. Okay. Let’s start by you telling me your experiences. Take it slow. I’ll interrupt you a lot with questions. The Patrol needs to know everything. Needs it more than you’re aware.”

  “And the world is?” She shivered, swallowed, clenched fingers on the tabletop edge, launched into her story. They were halfway through their meal before he had exhausted it of detail.

  Starkly, he said, “Yes, this is very bad. Be a lot worse if you hadn’t proved so courageous and resourceful, Miss Tamberly.”

  She flushed. “Please, I’m Wanda.”

  He forced a smile. “All right, I’m Manse. Spent my boyhood in Middle America of the 1920s and ’30s. The manners they installed have stuck. But if you prefer first names, that’s fine by me.”

  She gave him a long look. “Yes, you would stay a polite country boy, wouldn’t you? Roving through history, you’d miss out on the social changes in your homeland.”

  Intelligent, he thought. And beautiful, in a strongboned fashion.

  Anxiety touched her. “What about my uncle?” He winced. “I’m sorry. The Don told you nothing more than that he left Steve Tamberly on the same continent but in the far past. No location, no date.”

  “You have—time to search for him.”

  He shook his head. “I wish we did, but we don’t. We could use up thousands of man-years.

  And we haven’t got them. The Patrol’s stretched too thin. We’re barely enough to carry out our normal missions and try to cope with emergencies like this. Only so many man-years available, you see, because sooner or later every agent is bound to die or be disabled. Here events have gotten out of hand. We’ll need every resource we can spare to set matters right—if we can.”

  “Might Luis go back for him?”

  “Maybe. I suspect not. He’ll have more important things in mind. Hide out till his injury heals, and then—” Everard stared past her. “A hard, smart, unmerciful, reckless man, loose on a machine. He could appear anywhere, any when. The harm he can do is unlimited.”

  “Uncle Steve—”

  “He might be able to help himself. I’m not sure how, but he may hit on a plan, if he survives. He’s bright and strong. I see now why you’ve been his favorite relative.”

  She dabbed at a tear. “Damn it, I will not bawl!

  Maybe later—maybe later we’ll find a clue. Meanwhile, m-my steak’s getting cold.” She attacked it as if it were an enemy.

  He resumed his own eating. In an odd way, the silence between them changed from strained to companionable. After a while she asked quietly, “How about telling me the whole truth?”

  “An outline of it,” he agreed. “That alone will take a couple of hours.”

  —In the end she sat wide-eyed on the sofa while he paced before her, to and fro. His fist hammered his palm. “A Ragnarok situation,” he said. “But not hopeless. Wanda, whatever has become or will become of Stephen Tamberly, he did not live in vain. Through Castelar, he passed two words on to you, Exaltationists and Vilcabamba. Not that I imagine Castelar would have done it if you hadn’t had the wits—under those conditions, at that—to lead him on, get him to tell what he knew.”

  “That was very little,” she demurred.

  “A bomb can be small too, till it explodes. Look, the Exaltationists—I’ll tell you more in due course, but briefly, they’re a gang of desperados from the rather far future. Outlaws in their milieu; snatched several vehicles and escaped into space-time tracklessness. We’ve had to cope with results of their doings before now—‘before now’ in terms of my life, that is—but they’ve always avoided capture. Well, you’ve told me they were in Vilcabamba. Archaeologists these days disagree about its identity, but ours have learned that Bingham was right and it was in fact Machu Picchu. From the descriptions you got out of Castelar, the date must be soon after the last native resistance to the Spaniards was crushed. That’s a sufficient lead for our scouts to locate the scene exactly.