The Flag on Gorbachev Crater

2. Smerll

“Smerll…” muttered Beckwith. He stared at the other briefly, then shook his head. Depend on his ancient opponent to appear whenever it was possible to foul up the action. He held the girl tighter as he brushed past the Ethics Director of the Metropolitan Bar. He knew Smerll would be watching them.

“¿Quien es?” she whispered. “¿Un amigo?”

“No.” The reply was brusque.

Irwin Smerll. Long ago they had been classmates right here at Glenwood High. Irwin Smerll had lost out to Beckwith in the election for president of the senior class. That was just the start. The football squad had voted Dan Beckwith MVP—Most Valued Player. Irwin had lost by one vote. And that ranking had followed them both into college, and then through law school.

Beckwith’s only serious girlfriend during his law school years and his apprentice year with a prestigious D.C. law firm had been Ellen May Burgess, daughter of Malcolm Burgess, the rich and powerful senator from Ohio. The young lawyer’s duties in the law firm frequently involved emergency assignments that took him out of town or locked him into the communications room to assemble last-minute information for a courtroom appearance. More and more often he had had to break dates with Ellen May. When he reneged on his promise to take her to the inauguration balls of 2032, she bade him farewell.

Ellen May had married Irwin Smerll, and her senator father had got Smerll the position of Ethics Director in the Metropolitan Bar. Here, Smerll flourished. But Beckwith heard interesting rumors. Ellen May recited daily to her wincing mate the sterling virtues of the man she had not married, but wished she had.

Dan Beckwith did not like to think about Smerll. Or Ellen May. He was quite happy the way he was. Once a week Mrs. Kuiper (who was sixty-five and a bit slow) came in and cleaned his apartment. His relationships with the women at his office were pleasant but strictly business. He was content to live alone.

So now he held the girl tightly by the arm, hunched his head down between his shoulders, and suppressed an urge to look back. He knew the other lawyer would be looking at him—and at the girl. All he wanted to do just now was to get to his car and head out to his apartment and decide what to do with this exotic specimen from fantasy land.

He needed to have a long talk with her, and he didn’t look forward to it. His thoughts jarred to a halt as they were walking into the entrance to the parking lot. She was tugging at his sleeve and asking him something.

“¡Que son… esos!” With a broad sweep of her free arm she indicated some hundred or so parked cars.

Had she never before seen a car? Was this possible? Even the wildest aborigines knew what a car was. But not this strange creature. “Son cars,” he said. “Son los coches sin los caballos.” Horseless carriages. Maybe she could understand that.

“Coches,” she repeated in wonder, “¿Sin caballos?”

“Sí,” he said.

“¿Dónde están los caballos?”

“No hay los caballos, señorita. Los coches usan los motores, no usan caballos.” The cars use motors, not horses. He opened the car door. “Favor de entrar.”

Hesitantly, clumsily, she climbed in, and he closed the door behind her. She jumped. He walked hurriedly around to the other side, got in, and started the car. She stifled a gasp. He let the motor idle a moment, and then reached for the seat-belt button—and changed his mind. What would she think when padded arms snaked around her and clicked together over her stomach and chest? Maybe he’d better skip the safety measures and simply drive very carefully. Not too much too soon.

Her next question was spoken so softly he could hardly hear it. “¿Sidi, por favor, que lugar es este?” What place is this?

“Es Pueblo Glenwood,” he said.

That evidently meant nothing to her. Not surprising. “En Virginia,” he added. “Casi cincuenta kilómetros sud de Washington.” He looked at her curiously. “En los Estados Unidos.” No sign of understanding. He concluded very slowly. “¿En la America del Norte?” It was a question.

Nothing. Apparently she had never heard of Virginia, Washington, the United States, or North America.

Good God, he thought.

She said calmly, “¿Quantas leguas está el Pueblo Glenwood de Cordoba?” How many leagues is Glenwood from Cordoba?

Not miles, not kilometers—leagues.

He made some quick estimates. A league… three miles? And how far away was Spain? He said, “No sé exactamente, pero creo que Cordoba es casi dos mil leguas de aquí.” Cordoba is two thousand leagues from here.

“Dos… mil… leguas…” She pronounced the words with slow satisfaction. “Bien. Muy bien.”

Really? he thought. Whom are you running from, young lady? Somebody back in Cordoba? A very strange Cordoba where the primary language is Arabic, and automobiles are unknown? But as for Arabic, that hadn’t been used in Spain since the early Middle Ages, when all central Spain belonged to the Moors. He grunted. He didn’t like to think about the implications. She looked over at him inquiringly, but he just shook his head. Later, az-Zahra, later. Let me get into the tube, then we’ll have a free half hour, just to talk.

He headed off through the lot exit and toward the entrance of the underground tube that led toward the southern suburbs of the nation’s capital.

He noted through the corner of his eye that she was taking it all in. She was looking everywhere: out the car windows toward the rows of buildings; inside the car, at the dashboard, the dials, the controls. Several times she whispered something. In Arabic? He caught the last one. Allah akbar. God is wonderful.

He said, “Dispense usted, por favor. Hay que llamar mi bufete.” I have to call my office.

She watched attentively as he punched in the calling code. The face of an attractive middle-aged woman appeared on the dashboard visi. Az-Zahra jerked. “¡Que cosa…!”

“Beckwith Patents,” said the lady on the screen in a quiet cultured voice. “May I help you?”

“D. B., Millie,” said Beckwith.

“Two calls, D. B. One visitor, a new client, with an invention. I put him down for Monday at ten.”

“That’s fine, Millie.” He cleared his throat, wondering how he could explain his companion simply and quickly to the office manager. There was no way. He said, “Emergency, Millie.”

Her eyes widened briefly. “Go ahead.”

“I’m headed back from Glenwood. I have a young lady in the car with me. I found her wandering around on the football field at half-time. She speaks Arabic and Spanish—no English. She has no friends or relatives in the area, and nowhere to go. We’ll be in my apartment within the hour. Can you meet us?”

Millicent Rutherford sighed. “D.B…”

“Millie…”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

The screen twinkled, then grew dark.

The girl stared over at him in awe. “¿La magia?”

Magic? “No. Es solamente un…”—he searched for a word—“visi. Un visi del car.”

And now it was suddenly semi-dark, and they were in the long looping descent into the tubes. She began to breathe even faster. A few minutes later the tube computer shunted him into a line of passenger cars, and he turned off his ignition. The magnetic cables would pull them into Alexandria in half an hour.

He turned in his seat and faced his passenger. “Az-Zahra,” he said bluntly, “¿Cuando nació usted?” When were you born?

She replied firmly, “Nací en el año mil doscientos y veinte.”

A.D. 1220.

Either she was telling the bare-bones truth or she was the most accomplished liar he had ever encountered. “¿Cuantos años tiene usted?” How old are you?

She was equally forthright. “Dieciseis.” Sixteen.

Good lord! Suddenly he foresaw all sorts of nasty possibilities. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Kidnapping. Smerll would love this. “¿Salió usted de Cordoba en el año mil doscientos treinta y seis?” You left Cordoba in 1236?

“Sí, es verdad.”

“¿Derecho a Glenwood?” Straight to Glenwood?

“Sí.”

“¿Como viajó usted?” How did you travel?

“Usé mi alfombra.”

Alfombra…? Carpet? Rug? She used her rug? Is that what she was telling him? It made no sense. “¿Alfombra?” he repeated.

“Sí. Aquí.” She held up the mat.

She was asking him to believe that she had traveled across the Atlantic on her trusty little rug. Her magic carpet. He closed his eyes briefly. I don’t have enough troubles? he thought. The U.N. Resolution… our ship hasn’t even started yet… we’ll lose the big race to Jupiter… Congress will slaughter the Space Agency… my best client… they’ll drop their patent program… in another six months I won’t be able to make a payroll… and now this very strange juvenile female… and to top it all, Smerll… an omen?

He sighed. “Digame concerniendo su vida en Cordoba.” Tell me about your life in Cordoba.