The Shield of Time

I’ll ask, I’ll get every detail I can from him and everybody else, before Sir Manfred regretfully decides that duty calls him back to Saxony after all. Maybe, maybe I’ll pick up a clue to somebody who came out of time and disrupted fate. But I doubt it. The knowledge was freezingly cold.

1137 A. D.

30 October (Julian calendar).

Beneath a pale sky, those few cottages that were the village of Rignano huddled by a road running from the mountains in the west to Siponto on the Adriatic coast., Low above stubblefields and in woodlots and orchards going sere, sunrise mists blurred the horizons of North Apulia. The air was cold and still. Banners drooped, pavilions sagged wet, in the opposing camps.

A mile or so of mostly bare earth separated them, divided by the road. Smoke rose straight upward from a few fires, but only a few. Clang and clatter, shout and shriek of readymaking violated silence.

Yesterday King Roger and Duke Rainulf had conferred. None less than Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux, revered by whole nations, strove to avert bloodshed. But Rainulf was vengefully determined on battle and Roger flushed with victories. Moreover, Bernard was of the party of Pope Innocent.

Today they would fight.

The king trod forth, hauberk darkly shining, and smote fist in palm. “Up and at them!” he exulted. His voice was lionlike. Leonine too were the black-bearded features; but the eyes were viking-blue. He glanced at the man who had shared his tent, beguiling with tales those hours after plans had been laid and before sleep would come. “What, still glum on this day of all days?” he asked jovially. “I should think a djinni like you—Are you afraid yon priest will stuff you back into your bottle?”

Manson Everard forced a smile. “At least let it be a Christian bottle, with some wine in it.” His jest was harsh of tone.

For a space more Roger regarded him. Big though the king was, his companion hulked over him. That was not the sole thing strange about the fellow, either.

His story sounded straightforward enough. Bastard of an Anglo-Norman knight, Manson Everard left England years ago to seek his fortune. Like many of his countrymen, eventually he joined the Varangian Guard of the emperor in Constantinople, fought the barbarian Pechenegs, but as a Catholic felt reluctant when the Byzantines moved against the Crusader domains. Discharged, with a fair amount of money from pay and spoils, he drifted west till he landed in Bari, not far from here. There he spent a while taking his ease and pleasure, and heard much about King Roger, whose third son, Tancred, had been made prince of the city. When Roger, having subdued the rebels of Campania and Naples, crossed the Apennines, Manson rode to meet the army and offer his sword.

So might any footloose adventurer do. Manson, though, drew the royal notice by more than his size. He had much to tell, notably about the Eastern Empire. Half a century ago, Roger’s uncle Robert Guiscard had come near taking Constantinople; barely did the Greeks and their Venetian allies turn that tide. The house of Hauteville, like others in western Europe, still cherished ambitions yonder.

But there were certain curious gaps in what Manson related; and he bore an underlying bleakness, as though some hidden sin or sorrow forever gnawed him—

“No matter,” Roger decided. “Let’s to our harvest. Will you ride with me?”

“By your leave, sire, I think I could better serve under your son the Duke of Apulia,” said the wanderer.

“As you like. Dismissed.” The king’s attention went elsewhere.

Everard pushed through roaring swarms. Heedless of the papal ban, the host had said its prayers at dawn; now oaths ripped across commands, japes, yells in half a dozen languages. Standard-bearers waved their staffs to mark locations. Men-at-arms brawled their way into formation, pikes and axes bared aloft. Archers and slingers deferred to them; not yet was the bowman the master of infantry. Horses neighed, mail flashed, lances whipped on high like reeds in a storm. These were Normans, native Sicilians, Lombards and other Italians, Frenchmen, miscellaneous bullyboys from across half of Europe. In flowing white above their armor, silent but wildness aquiver in them, waited the dreaded Saracen corps.

Manson and his two attendants, hired in Bari, had set up camp in the open, until the king summoned him yesterday after returning from parley. In the city he had also purchased—or so everybody else believed—mounts, a pack horse, and a charger, the last a great barb that nickered, tossed head, stamped hoofs, ha, ha among the trumpets. “Quick, help me on with my outfit,” he ordered.

“Do you really have to go, sir?” asked Jack Hall. “Damn risky, I reckon. Worse’n fightin’ Injuns.” He looked upward. Invisibly high, riders poised on their cycles and scanned the field through instruments that could count the drops of sweat on a man’s face. “Can’t they take out that hombre you’re after—quiet-like, you know, with a stun beam from above?”

“Get cracking!” Everard snapped. “No, you idiot, we’re steering too bloody close to the wind as is.”

Hall reddened and Everard realized he had been unfair. You couldn’t expect an instant grasp of crisis theory from an ordinary agent in place, hastily co-opted. This man was a cowboy till 1875, when the Patrol recruited him. Like the large majority of personnel, he worked in his own milieu, maintaining his original persona among the people who knew him. His secret self was a contact for such time travelers as came by, informant, guide, policeman, whatever they needed. If anything really untoward happened, he was to send for qualified help. It simply chanced that he d been taking a vacation in the Pleistocene, hunting game and girls, when Everard had been, and that he was good with horses.

“Sorry,” Everard said, “but I am in a hurry. Action starts in less than half an hour.” Given the information he brought from Anagni, Patrolmen had “already” charted the fatally wrong course of the battle. Now he would seek to turn it back.

Jean-Louis Broussard got busy. Meanwhile he explained, “You see, my friend, what we do is dangerous enough. An open miracle, that men witnessed, that is not chronicled in either history, ours or this misbegotten one—it would be a new factor, warping events still worse.” He was a more scholarly sort, born in the twenty-fourth century but operating in France of the tenth, not as an enforcer but as an observer. So much information perished when nobody at the time recorded it, or recorded it wrong, or when books moldered, burned, were mislaid. If the Patrol was to guard the time-stream, it must know what it guarded. As vital to it as its police agents were its field scientists.

Like Wanda. “Hurry, God damn it!” Set her aside. Don’t remember her, don’t think about her, not now.

Hall occupied himself with the stallion. “Well, but I’d say you’re too valuable a guy to throw into that fracas, sir,” he persisted. “Like puttin’ Robert E. Lee in the front lines.”

Everard made no reply, save inside his skull. I demanded this. I pulled rank. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t quite tell you, but I’ve got to strike the blow myself.

“We have our part, you and I,” Broussard reminded Hall. “We are the reserves, here on the ground, if things go badly.” He left unspoken the fact that in that case the causality vortex would probably have grown unredeemably great.

Everard had slept in his shirt and pants. Over them went a quilted coat, plus a similar coif and spurred boots replacing shoes. The coat of mail slid smoothly down from head and shoulders to hang to his knees, divided from the crotch so he could ride. Supple, it felt less heavy than you might have expected; the weight was well distributed. A noseguarded spangenhelm was secured above. A sword belt, dagger on the right, completed the ensemble, which a Patrol workshop had produced to his specs. He hadn’t needed more than a little practice, for he’d long since made a point of acquiring as many combat techniques as possible.

He put foot in stirrup and mounted. Ideally a warhorse was raised to its master from colthood. This, though, was a Patrol animal, more intelligent than is natural among equines. Broussard reached him his shield. He slipped his left arm through its straps before taking the reins in that hand. Heraldry had not yet developed, but individuals sometimes used symbols, and in a fit of forlornness he had painted on his a fabulous bird—a turkey. Hall offered him his lance. It too handled easier than its length suggested. He gave the men a thumbs-up and trotted off.

Commotion was dwindling as squadrons formed. Borne by a squire, the banner of the younger Roger hung gaudy from a crossarm at the head of the army. He was to lead the first charge.

Everard drew nigh, reined in, and lifted his lance in a kind of salute. “Hail, my lord,” he called. “The king bade me join you in the vanguard. My thought is that I might best ride on the outside at the left.”

The duke nodded impatiently. Battle eagerness flamed in him, for his years numbered but nineteen though already he had won fame as a brilliant and gallant warrior. In the Patrol’s history, his death on another field, eleven years hence, without legitimate issue, would in the long run prove evil for the kingdom, because he was the ablest son of Roger II. But in this history, today was doomsday for the lithe and lively boy.

“As you will, Manson,” he said. With a laugh: “That should keep things quiet there!” Commanders of later military would have been appalled at such sloppiness, but so far nobody in western Europe was long on organization or doctrine. The Norman cavalry was the best you’d find this side of the Byzantine Empire or the two Caliphates.

As a matter of fact, it was the left flank that Lorenzo would hit. Everard cantered into position and studied his surroundings.

Beyond the road, the enemy had likewise marshalled. Iron glinted, color splashed a mass of horses and men. Rainulf’s knights were fewer, about fifteen hundred, but close on their tails pressed foot that brought the numbers up to Roger’s or a little more—townsmen and peasants of Apulia, pikes and bills a walking forest, come to defend their homes against this invader who had laid other lands waste.

Yeah, his own contemporaries think Roger’s too hard on rebels. But he’s only being like William the Conqueror, who tamed northern England by making a desert of it; and unlike William, when he’s at peace he governs justly,

tolerantly, you could almost say mercifully…. Never

mind fancy excuses. Magnanimous or monstrous, what he did in my history was establish the Regno, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and it outlived his dynasty and nation, in one form or another it lasted till the nineteenth century, when it became the core of the new Italian state, with everything that that was to mean to the world. I am at a pivotal point in time … But I’m glad I didn’t need to meet him before he’d crossed the mountains. I wouldn’t have slept well after watching him at work in Campania.

As ever on the verge of combat, Everard lost dread. It wasn’t that he didn’t know fear; he merely grew too busy for it. Sight turned knife-edge keen, he heard each least sound through the racket as though it breathed alone at dead of night, every sense drew taut, but the slugging of his heart and the stench of his sweat faded from an awareness grown almost mathematical.

“We’ll start in a minute,” he said low. The medallion under his armor, against his chest, picked up the Temporal and transmitted it aloft. Leaving it on continuously would soon exhaust the energy cell, but this day’s business wasn’t going to take long, whichever way it went. “Do you have Lorenzo in your optical?”

“Two of us do,” vibrated through a bone-transference module built into the crystal structure of his helmet.

“Keep locked onto him. I’ll want to know exactly where he is as we approach each other. Somebody warn me about anybody else, of course.”

“Of course. Good hunting, sir.”

Unspoken: May it indeed be good. May we save Roger the elder and the younger, and recall to reality all our loves and loyalties.

Folks. Friends. Country. Career. Sure. But not Wanda.

Duke Roger drew sword. The blade flared aloft. “Haro!” he shouted, and put spurs to horse.

His followers raised a cry of their own. Hoofs drummed, then thundered, as trot went to canter went to gallop. Lances swayed to the rhythm. The distance narrowed and the shafts came down, horns of a single dragon.

Wanda’s up in that future we mean to kill. She must be; she hasn’t come back. I couldn’t go search for her, none of us Could, our duty’s not to any single human being but to a universe of them. Maybe she died, maybe she got trapped, I’ll never know. When yonder future doesn’t exist, she won’t either. Her bravery and laughter will only be in the twentieth century when she grew up and the far past when she worked, and … I mustn’t go back to see her, ever again. From that last moment in the Ice Age, her world line will reach uptime and come to an end. It won’t unravel into the tracks of single atoms, this isn’t natural death and dissolution, it’s nothingness.

Everard rammed the knowledge into the far back of his mind. He couldn’t afford it. Later, later, when he was alone, he’d let himself grieve, and perhaps weep.

Dust clogged nostrils, stung eyes, blurred vision. He saw Rainulf’s ranks ahead as a blur. Muscles surged, saddle rocked.

“Lorenzo is detaching twenty men on the right,” said the flat voice in his helmet. “They circle around.”

Yes. The knight from Anagni and those few trusty comrades would hit Roger’s force on the left, punch through, cut down the duke, break up the assault as a hurled rock shatters glass. Dismay would fall on the Sicilians rearward. Regrouping, Lorenzo would take the lead in Rainulf’s countercharge, which would bring down the king.

And no time traveler, no human blunder or madness or vaunting ambition brought this about. The fluctuation was in space-time-energy itself, a quantum leap, a senseless randomness. There was nobody on whom to avenge Wanda.

She’s lost anyway. I have to believe that, if we’re to retrieve everybody else.

“Beware, Agent Everard. Your size makes you conspicuous…. A knight has turned from Lorenzo’s band. He seems to be targeting you.”

Damn! While I deal with that pest—

I’ll just have to deal with him fast.

“He is at ten-thirty o’clock from you.”

Everard spied him, horse and lance. “Okay, Blackie, this way, let’s get ’im,” he growled to his mount. The animal answered his knees and plunged ahead. Everard glanced back, waved and shouted at Roger’s riders, couched shaft and braced himself.

This wasn’t a tilting field, where gentlemen in plate rode at each other with a barrier between and intended nothing more than knocking the opposition to the ground. Tournaments like that lay centuries futureward. Here the aim was to kill.

I haven’t spent my lifetime practicing the art. But I’ve picked up enough, and I’ve got the weight and this superb creature under me—Here goes.

His horse veered ever so slightly. The point aimed for his throat shocked against his shield instead and glided off. Everard also missed a lethal strike but caught ring-mail and gave the impact all that was in his shoulders. The Italian went over, lost his right stirrup, fell. Foot caught in the left, he bounced behind his steed.

The encounter had yanked at the attention of those Sicilians who rode near Everard. They saw the enemy detachment on its way. As one, they left the main force and followed the Patrolman. Hoofs crunched over the fallen warrior.

Everard dropped his lance and drew sword. In a mixup at close quarters, he could do things he dared not in the open. He kept going, on into the dust toward the foe.

‘One o’clock,’ said the voice. He directed Blackie and after a moment made out Lorenzo’s pennon.

He ought to know it. He’d eaten that man’s salt, flown his falcons, chased his deer, he’d yarned and sung, laughed and gotten drunk, gone to church and gone to festival with Lorenzo, heard out his dreams, pretended to tell his own, day after day and night after night, a year in the future of this meeting. Lorenzo shed tears when they parted and called him brother.

The knights met.

Men hewed and battered, horses pushed and reared. Men yelled, horses screamed. Iron crashed and rattled. Blood welled and spouted. Bodies went to earth, threshed for a moment, got trampled to red mush and splinters of bone. The melee churned about in dust as thick as smoke. Everard crammed on through it. The watchers above warned him of danger on either side, in time for him to raise shield or parry with blade. Then he’d be past, deeper into the violence.

Lorenzo was before him. The young man had likewise abandoned his lance. He swept sword right and left. Blood drops whirled off the steel. “On, on!” he cried through the din. “St. George for Rainulf—for the Holy Father—”

He saw Everard loom out of clouds and chaos. He didn’t know the giant, of course, he’d never met him, but he grinned gamely and urged his mount around to meet this challenger.

Sportsmanship be damned. Everard pointed his weapon and squeezed in a finger-by-finger sequence. Invisibly, a stun beam sprang. Lorenzo’s jaw dropped. The sword left his grasp. He sagged forward.

Somehow he didn’t fall from the saddle. He sprawled along the neck of his horse, which whinnied and skittered aside. Were the rider’s reflexes so good as to keep him there, even unconscious? In that case, he’d soon wake up, none the worse. He’d guess somebody had dealt him a blow from behind, hard enough to knock him out through the mail and quilting on his neck.

Everard hoped so.

No time for sentiment. “C’mon, Blackie, let’s get our ass out of here. Also the rest of us.” The tongue that croaked it was dry as a block of wood.

The fight was breaking up anyhow. It had been a minor skirmish, unnoticed by most of Duke Roger’s and Rainulf’s troops. The Sicilians boomed onward, struck the enemy, scattered him, clove a path through the middle of his host.

Everard rode off across a field where corpses sprawled and gaped, wounded men moaned, mutilated horses thrashed and shrieked. Most likely no one paid him any particular heed. Glancing back, he saw how Duke Roger pursued hundreds down the road to Siponto. He also saw how Rainulf rallied and regrouped his army, while King Roger’s stayed immobile.

Mostly that vision was in his mind’s eye, from his knowledge of history—of how history was supposed to read. The actual sight was confusion, a mob scene, that ultimate absurdity which is war.

A little distance away rose a tree-grown hillock. Once behind it, he was hidden from view. “All right,” he ordered through his medallion. “Come fetch me.”

The sharpness still thrilled within him. While it lasted, he should go aloft and survey the battle as a whole, make sure that now events unrolled right.

A vehicle blinked into his presence, large enough for the horse as well as its crew. Quickly, they got the animal stalled inboard. Everard praised him, stroked the wet, dirt-streaked mane, patted the velvety nose. “He’d like a sugar cube better,” said a short blond woman—she looked Finnish—and offered him one. She trembled in glee barely controlled. This day, she could believe, she had helped restore the world from which she came.

The vehicle flicked into heaven. Sky surrounded it. Earth was dun land and quicksilver sea, far below. Everard sought an optical. He sat down before it, adjusted magnification, studied what happened. Seen thus, the death and pain, anger and glory became unreal, a puppet show, a chronicler’s paragraph.

Gifted in many ways, the Norman cloth of him dyed in Oriental subtleties, King Roger was nonetheless no tactical genius. He owed his victories mainly to crack troops, ruthless determination, and frequent disarray among his opponents. At Rignano he waited too long, he lost the advantage that his son’s charge had gained him. When he did attack, his wave broke as if on a sea-cliff. Thereupon Rainulf threw his entire force against the Sicilians. The prince’s return was of no avail. Panic seized them and they stampeded, each for himself. Rainulf’s people hunted them down by ones and twos, without quarter. At day’s end, three thousand lay dead on the field. The two Rogers gathered a few survivors, fought their way clear, and escaped into the mountains, back to Salerno.

But that was as it should be, as it had been in the Patrol’s world. The triumph would not long endure. Roger would collect fresh forces and win back what he had lost. Rainulf was to die of a fever in April 1139. The mourning was great and futile. In July 1139, the two Rogers bushwhacked a papal army at Galuccio, whose noble leaders fled while thousands drowned trying to flee across the River Garigliano; and Pope Innocent became a prisoner of war.

Oh, King Roger was very respectful. He knelt before the Holy Father and pledged allegiance. In return he received absolution and approval of all his claims. Little remained thereafter but mopping-up operations. In the end, even Abbot Bernard hailed the king as a righteous lord and relations grew downright affectionate. Further storms were to come, Roger’s conquests in Africa, the Second Crusade which he more or less sat out, his attempt on Constantinople, fresh conflicts with the Papacy and the Holy Roman Empire—but meanwhile he timbered strongly the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, as he nurtured the growth of that hybrid civilization which presaged the Renaissance.

Everard slumped in his seat. Weariness rose to overwhelm him. Victory tasted like the dust still in his mouth. Only let him sleep, let him for a little time forget what he had lost.

“Looks okay,” he said. “Proceed to base.”

1989 α A. D.

Beyond the Mississippi, the first signs of white occupation appeared. They were outposts, thinly strewn across wilderness, little more than wooden forts connected by roads that might better be called trails. Trading posts, Tamberly guessed. Or did they mainly support missionaries? No stockade failed to enclose a building with a tower or steeple, usually surmounted by a cross and often the largest. She didn’t pause for closer observation. The radio silence hounded her onward.

East of the Alleghenies she found real colonies. They took the form of walled towns surrounded by plowland and pasture laid out in long strips. Villages dotted the hinterlands, rows of cottages very like each other. A few boasted a sort of plaza that was probably a marketplace, centered on a tall crucifix or a structure somewhat like a Breton calvary. All had a chapel, and every town was dominated by its main church. Never did Tamberly see a farmstead by itself. The scenes reminded her of what she’d read and heard about the Middle Ages. Swallowing tears and terror, she leapfrogged on over the miles.

Settlement thickened as she neared the seaboard. A small city occupied lower Manhattan. Its cathedral (?) dwarfed the St. Patrick’s she remembered. The style was foreign to her, massive, many-tiered, brutally powerful. “Enough to scare off Billy Graham,” she quavered at her mute communicator.

Several ships lay in the harbor, and she got a good look from on high, through her magnifying optical, at one that was standing out the Narrows. A broad-beamed, three-masted square-rigger, it resembled a merchantman of about 1600, according to pictures she had seen, though even to her landlubber’s eye the differences of detail were countless. A flag of lilies on a blue field flew on the staff. At the mainmast top another, yellow and white, displayed crossed keys.

Blackness surged over her. She was well out to sea before she fought halfway clear of it.

Go ahead. Scream.

That steadied her more. The trick was not to let it go on and on, feeding hysteria, but to blow off emotion till you could think again. She loosened her painfully tight grip on the handlebars, worked her shoulder blades to free up those muscles, and was into reasoning about the situation before she noticed, with a harsh little laugh, that she’d forgotten to unclench her jaw.

The cycle flew itself ever farther. Ocean heaved immense, empty, a thousand shifting greens, grays, blues. Split air rumbled and whistled. Cold eddied past the force-screen and around her.

No doubt left. The terrible thing has happened. Something has changed the past, and the world I knew—my world, Manse’s, Uncle Steve’s, everybody’s and everything’s—is gone. The Time Patrol is gone. No, I’m thinking wrongly. They never were. I exist without parents, grandparents, country, history, without cause, a random thing tossed up by quantum chaos.

She couldn’t grasp it. Though she put it into Temporal, which had a grammar made to deal with the paradoxes of time travel, the concept wouldn’t come real to her in the way that something as abstract as evolutionary biology was nevertheless real, hand-graspable. This state of affairs set logic at naught and made reality a cloud-shadow.

Oh, sure, they explained the theory to us at the Academy, but as a sketch, like a freshman general science course required of an English major. My class of cadets wasn’t being prepared for police work or anything like that. We’d be field scientists, off in prehistory, when humans were few and it was practically impossible to cause any changes that the course of events wouldn’t soon compensate for. We’d go on our expeditions in the same straightforward way that Stanley went to explore darkest Africa.

What to do, what to do?

Leap back to the Pleistocene, I guess. It should be safely far downtime. Manse should be there still. (No, “still” is meaningless, isn’t it?) He’ll take charge. He’s hinted at having already (“already”) experienced something of this kind. Maybe now I can get him to tell me what it was. (Maybe I should tell him I know he’s in love with me, the dear sweet bear. I’ve been too bashful, or afraid, or unsure of my own feelings…. God damn it, woman, will you stop this woolgathering?)

A pod of whale passed below. One spyhopped, a leap right out of the waves, water fountaining and tumbling from the mighty flanks, white under the sun.

Tamberly’s blood quickened. “Yeah,” she scoffed aloud, “run right off to the big strong man and let him kiss the universe and make it well for itsy-bitsy sweeturns.” Here she was. The least she could do was get a better idea of this world, bring back a report on it rather than a sob story. Just a few hours’ scouting, nothing reckless. Manse had said more than once, “In our job there’s no such thing as too much information.” What she discovered might give him a clue to the source of the disaster.

“In short,” said Tamberly, “we fight back.” Resolution hardened; for a moment she imagined the Liberty Bell being cast, and herself ringing it. A minute longer she pondered, then set the space jump for London and touched its button.

The hour was late, local time, but this high latitude remained daylit. The city spread wide along both sides of the Thames, hazed by coal smoke. She guessed the population as about a million. The Tower was there, and Westminster Abbey might be the same though she wasn’t sure, and the spires of other ancient churches soared above roofs; but a giant squatted on the hill of St. Paul’s. The dreary sprawl of industry and suburbs was absent. Countryside pressed close around, glowing golden-green under the long light. She wished she were in a state to appreciate the beauty.

What next? Where to? Paris, I guess. She reset.

It was larger than yonder London, maybe twice as big. A spiderweb of paved roads radiated from it. Traffic upon them and the river went heavy, walkers, horsemen, carriages, wagons drawn by oxen or mules, barges, sailboats, oared galleys on whose decks cannon gleamed. Several turreted and battlemented stone forts, if that was what they were, reared among lesser buildings. More attractive were half a dozen palaces, not wholly unlike some she had seen in Venice. The île de la Cité held one, but also a temple dwarfing its English counterpart. Tamberly’s heart thudded. Here’s where more of the action is, much more. Let’s cruise a hit.

She flew in slow outward spirals, peering. Whoever glanced upward from those tangled lanes perhaps saw a speck of brightness in the deepening blue of the sunset sky. But she, she beheld no Arc de Triomphe, no Tuileries, no Bois de Boulogne, no cheery little sidewalk cafes….

Versailles. Or thereabouts. A village clustered beside a highway, more variegated and less constricted than the peasant communities, evidently serving the city, and yes, a great dwelling two miles off amidst a parkscape of woods, lawns, and gardens. Tamberly moved in its direction.

The core of it was once a castle, she judged, a strong-hold; and fieldpieces rested in the rear courtyard. Over centuries it had been remodeled and wings had been added, large-windowed, spacious and gracious, for modern habitation. However, sentries paced to and fro on every side. They wore scarlet uniforms striped with gold, beneath fancy helmets; but the rifles on their shoulders looked plenty businesslike. From a tall staff in front, a flag rippled on the evening breeze. She recognized the sign of the keys that she had noticed on the ship.

Somebody important lives here. …Hold on. From near the western horizon, rays streamed across grass where deer and peacocks strolled, and over a formal garden around which at intervals stood trellised rose bowers. What’s that blink from inside yonder one?

Tamberly descended. If somebody noticed, what the devil could they do about it? Well, careful; they’ve got those shootin’ irons. Fifty feet aloft, she could look slantwise into the arbors opposite. Set for optical amplification—Yes, in each, another soldier. Why do they keep watch, from hidey-holes, on a garden?

She space-jumped high, flitted to a position directly overhead, and turned her viewer downward. Vision sprang at her. She jerked back. “Can’t be!”

No, it was, it was. “Stop that shivering,” she rapped at herself, with scant effect. Alertness, though, grew doubly keen. Her mind sped in lightning chains of reason, guess, hope, horror.

The grounds near the palace were of the general kind she remembered from her Versailles, strictly patterned, with graveled walks among hedges, flower beds, pollarded trees, fountains, statuary. This was the smallest of the plots, about the size of a football field. It must formerly have been like the rest; the stonework was still there. But today the layout formed one big symbol, defined by colored tiles bordering its beds. It was a stylized hourglass on a heraldic shield. A circle surrounded it and a red line slashed across.

The emblem of the Time Patrol.

No. Not quite. That circle and line—Coincidence? Impossible. Here under my eyes is the signal I’ve strained my ears for.

Tamberly saw her hand positioned over the controls to push for descent. She pulled it back as if the bar had gone white-hot. No! You whoop and swoop and—why do you think those guards are waiting?

She shuddered. What’s a circled red stroke on top of a symbol mean? Why, in the twentieth century, at least, it means “Don’t.” Prohibited. Verboten. Danger. No parking. No smoking. No admittance. Get out. Stay out.

Only I can’t, can I? That’s the Patrol emblem.

Shadow flowed across the world. A gilt weather vane on the palace flashed once and went dark. Also at Tamberly’s altitude, the sun slipped from sight. Early stars trembled in dusk. The cold on high deepened. Wind had died and silence crowded inward.

Oh, Lordy, Lordy, I feel so alone. I’d better skite back to my nice Stone Age and report this. Manse can organize a rescue expedition.

She stiffened. “Nyet,” she said to the stars. Not till she’d used up all her options. If the world of the Patrol had been destroyed, then the remnants of the Patrol had more to do than bail out one marooned comrade. Or two. Should I bust in bawling and distract them from their real duty? Or should I do whatever I can on my own?

She swallowed hard I am … expendable, I guess.

And if she did bring Manse a victory—

Blood heat thrust the night chill from her. She crouched in the saddle and thought.

A time traveler, who might or might not be a Patrol agent, had replanted that garden, or gotten it replanted. That could only be as a signal to any other who might come by. The person wouldn’t have gone to the trouble if he or she were in possession of a vehicle; its communicator would serve so much better.

Therefore the person—Let’s dub him or her X, for the sake of originality, and use “heesh” for the pronoun—was stranded. Up the famous crick with no paddle. Damn it, stop these childish quips! If X were otherwise a free agent, the insigne alone would be the thing to use, and in fact heesh could have added more: for instance, an arrow pointing to a repository for a written account. Therefore, probably the bar meant, “Danger. Don’t land.” Those gunmen indicated the same; likewise the estate itself, isolated and defensible. X was a prisoner here. Apparently a prisoner with some freedom, some influence over hiser keepers, since heesh had talked them into planting and bordering those flower beds. Nevertheless, heesh was closely guarded, and any new arrivals would be taken into custody, for whatever use the lord of the manor wanted to make of them.

Will they? We’ll see about that.

Over and over, while the stars came forth, Tamberly counted her assets. They were pathetically few. She could fly, or she could spring instantaneously from one spot to another, into and out of the deepest dungeon or the strongest strongpoint—unless and until a bullet dropped her from the saddle—but she didn’t know her way around or where X might be or anything. She could knock a man out at short range with a squeeze on her stun pistol, but meanwhile the rest of them might be everywhere around. Maybe her advent would scare them off in a superstitious frenzy, but she doubted that—all those preparations, as well as whatever the big cheese had learned from X—and it was too long a chance to take, a worse bet than a state lottery. How about doubling around in time, getting a disguise somewhere, spying things out? No, that meant leaving her cycle, with the risks that that entailed. And she had no idea of local customs, manners, life. While her Spanish was fluent, her French had long since fallen down in a cloud of rust, and besides, she doubted Spanish or French or English was much like what she’d ever heard before.

No wonder X left a warning. Maybe heesh was telling every Patrolman, “Sheer off. Forget me. Save yourself.”

Tamberly pressed her lips together. I repeat, we’ll see about that.

As if the sun had suddenly risen: Yes! We’ll see.

The sun did rise, standing at noon one year earlier. Gardeners were at work around the message, raking, pruning, sweeping.

Ten years earlier, brightly clad men and darkly clad women promenaded among beds in a simple geometrical array.

Tamberly flung a laugh at the wind. “Okay, we’ve got you bracketed.”

The skipping, blink-blink-blink, sun and rain, actions and configurations of people, dizzied her. She ought to go slower. No, she was too wired. Of course, she needn’t check every month of every year. The emblem. The not-emblem. The emblem again. Okay, they tore out the old stuff in March 1984 and the new was doing well in June—

Toward the end, she proceeded day by day, and knew it would have to become hour by hour, at last minute by minute. Fatigue weighted bones and made eyeballs smolder. She withdrew, found a meadow on a forested Dordogne hillside where nobody else was near, ate and drank of her supplies, soaked up sunshine, finally slept.

Return to the job. She had grown quite steady, coolly watchful.

25 March 1984, 1337 hours. Gray weather, low clouds, wind noisy across fields and in trees not yet leafed, slight spatters of rain. (Had the weather been the same this day in the destroyed world? Probably not. There, humans had cut down the vast American forests, plowed the plains, filled skies and rivers with chemicals. They also invented liberty, eradicated smallpox, sent spacecraft aloft.) Two men paced over the stripped and trenched garden. One was in a gold-and-scarlet robe, with something halfway between a crown and a miter on his head. The other, at his side, wore the coat and baggy pants Tamberly had seen elsewhere. He was the taller, lean and gray-haired. Behind them stepped six of the liveried soldiers, rifles at port.

For minutes Tamberly watched, till the knowledge crystallized in her: Yes, they’re discussing the exact plan of the new arrangement.

Here goes. For broke.

She’d met danger before, sometimes purposely. Now was the same. Everything slowed down, the world became a dancing mosaic of details but she plucked forth those she needed, fear scuttled out of her way, she aimed herself and shot.

Cycle and rider appeared six feet before the pair. “Time Patrol!” Tamberly yelled, perhaps needlessly. “To me, quick!” She worked the stun pistol. The robed man crumpled. That gave her a clear field for the soldiers.

The lean man Stood stupefied. “Hurry!” she cried. He lurched forward. A guard brought rifle down, aimed, fired. The crack went flat through the wind. The lean man staggered.

Tamberly left her vehicle. He fell into her arms. She dragged him back. A buzz passed her head. She lowered him across the front saddle, vaulted into the buddy seat, leaned over his body to the controls. Now we skite after help. A third bullet spanged and whined off the metal.

18,244 B. C.

Everard left his hopper in the garage and started for his room. Some who had been at Rignano were appearing too. Most had gone elsewhere, housing being limited at any single post. All would stand by till success had been confirmed. Those who were staying at the Pleistocene lodge made for the common room, exuberant and loud, to celebrate. Everard wasn’t in that mood. He wanted merely a long hot shower, a long stiff drink, and sleep. A night’s forgetfulness. Tomorrow and its memories would arrive bloody soon enough.

Shouts and laughter pursued him down the hall. He turned a corner, and there she was.

They both jarred to a halt. “I thought I heard—” she began. She sped toward him. “Manse, oh, Manse!”

The collision nearly bowled him over, in his condition. They caught hold of each other. Mouth sought mouth. It was a while before they came up for air.

“I thought you were gone,” he groaned against her cheek. Her hair smelled like sunshine. “I thought you must have been trapped in the false world and you’d … go out … the light turned off … when it did.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as unevenly. “I didn’t stop to think you’d worry. Figured, instead, you w-would need time to find out things, get organized, without us underfoot. So I jumped to a m-month after I’d left here. Been waiting two days, so scared about you.”

“Like me about you.” Understanding broke upon him. Still holding her by the waist, he stepped back a pace and looked into the blue eyes. Slowly, he asked, “What do you mean, ‘us’?”

“Why, Keith Denison and me. He’s told me you’re friends. I hauled him clear and brought him—Manse, what’s wrong?”

His hands fell to his sides. “Are you telling me you found yourself in an obviously altered future and stayed?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“What they taught you at the Academy.” His voice rose. “Couldn’t you be bothered to remember? What every other agent and civilian traveler who arrived in the changed world had the elementary common sense to do, if conditions didn’t prevent. Hop straight back to the departure point, keep your mouth shut till you could report it to the nearest Patrol brass, and follow whatever orders you were given. You fluffhead,” he raged, “if you’d gotten stuck there, nobody would ever have come after you. That world doesn’t exist any more. You wouldn’t have! I assumed you’d had bad luck, not that you were an idiot.”

Whitening, she clenched her fists. “I m-m-meant to bring you a report. Information. It might have helped you, mightn’t it? And I, I did save Keith. Now you can go to hell.”

The defiance collapsed. She shivered, struggled against tears, and stammered, “No, I’m sorry, I guess it was a, a breach of discipline, but my training and experience didn’t cover anything like this—” Stiffening: “No. No excuses. Sir, I did wrong.”

His own wrath vanished. “Oh, God, Wanda. You’re in the right. I shouldn’t have barked at you. It’s just I’d taken you for lost and—” He managed a smile. “No officer worth his salt farts around about regs when breaking them’s led to success. You did save my old pal from becoming nothing? I’m going to put a commendation in your file, Specialist Tamberly, and suggest a raise in rank for you.”

“I—I—Let’s do something, Manse, before I bawl. Want to see Keith? He’s in bed. Took a wound, but it’s mending.”

“Suppose I get cleaned up first,” he said, as anxious as she to find firmer ground. “After that, you tell me what happened.”

“And you tell me, okay?” She cocked her head. “You know, we needn’t wait. We can talk while you—Manse, I believe you’re blushing.”

Exhaustion had steamed out of him. Temptation whistled. No, he decided. Better not push my luck. And Keith’d be hurt if I didn’t visit him right away. “If you want, sure.”

From people on hand, she had gotten an idea of the situation. Reveling under the water, he shouted through its rush and the open bathroom door that Operation Rignano had apparently gone well. “Details later.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she called back. “Boy, have we got gossip to swap.”

“Starting with your escapades, young lady.” While he toweled himself, he listened to her account. His skin prickled at the knowledge of what might easily have resulted.

“Keith was shot before I could snap us out of there,” Tamberly finished. “I went randomly, then set for here and now—two days ago, that is—and jumped again. The medic took charge of him immediately. Slug through the left lung. Patrol surgery and healing techniques are quite something, aren’t they? He’s supposed to stay mostly in bed for another week, but right away he got ornery. Maybe you’ll calm him down.”

“I’d certainly like to compare notes. You said he was four years in that world?”

“More like nine, originally. He emerged in 1980, I in ‘89. But I pulled him out in ‘84, so the rest of those years never happened to him and he has no recollection of them or anything.”

He donned the fresh clothes he’d taken into the bathroom. “Tsk-tsk. A time alteration. Violating the Prime Directive.”

“Foof! In that universe, who cares?”

“Good question. To be frank, and don’t spread this around, the Patrol does occasionally make, uh, adjustments. Keith and I were involved in one such case. Someday I’ll be free to give you the story.” The pain in it has left me. She doesn’t leave room for that kind of regret,

Everard emerged to find Tamberly cross-legged in his armchair, a small neat Scotch from his bottle for company. “You didn’t have to spare my modesty,” she remarked.

He grinned. “Impudent wench. Give me a shot of the same, and let’s go say hello to Keith.”

The man lay in his room, propped against the headboard, plucking at the pages of a book. His visage was pale and drawn. It kindled when the pair entered. “Manse!” he exclaimed huskily. “My God, it’s great to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

“About Cynthia, sure,” Everard said.

“Of course, but also—”

“I know. Felt the same way. Well, we can turn our fears out to pasture. The mission went like a hush puppy down a hound dog.” Not really. It was misery, danger, the death and maiming of brave men. But in this glow of mine, everything is wonderful.

“I heard a racket, and wondered—Thanks, Manse, thanks.”

Everard and Tamberly took chairs on opposite sides of the bed. “Thank Wanda,” Everard said.

Denison nodded. “Who more? She even lopped five years off my sentence, d’you know? Five years I can very well do without. The four were bad enough.”

“Were you mistreated?”

“Well, not exactly.” Denison described his capture.

“You have a knack for getting caught, don’t you?” Everard teased.

He wished he hadn’t when Denison’s face went bleak and the man whispered, “Yes. Has it been entirely coincidence? I’m no physicist, but I have read and heard something about quantum probability fields, temporal nexuses.”

“Don’t fret over it,” Everard said hastily. Don’t worry whether chance has made you a gun loaded with trouble, always cocked on a hair trigger. I’m not well up on the theory of that myself. “You came through both affairs smelling like a rose, which is more than I did. Ask Wanda; she met me before I’d showered. Go on.”

Encouraged, Denison smiled and obeyed. “The arch-cardinal was decent in his fashion, though his position didn’t give him a lot of scope in that regard. Besides being a prince of the Church, he was a top-drawer nobleman of France, which included the British Isles. He had to order both the burning of heretics and the massacre of peasants who got above themselves. Not that he minded, he considered it his duty, but he didn’t enjoy it either, like some characters I met. Anyway. The clerical title was more important than the secular one. Kings were—are—puppets in that Europe, or junior partners at best.

“Albin, the archcardinial, was an intelligent and educated chap. It took me a long while and a lot of sweat to convince him my visitor-from-Mars story might be true. He’d ask me the damnedest sharp questions. But, well, I had appeared from nowhere. I told him my chariot flew too fast to see, like a bullet. That was all right, because they didn’t know about sonic booms and stuff. They had telescopes and understood the planets are separate globes. Geocentric astronomy was still doctrine, though it was permissible to assume a heliocentric universe as a mathematical fiction, to help calculations…. Never mind. Later. There’s so much, so many strangenesses I met, even sequestered as I was.

“You see, not only didn’t Albin trust me, he wanted to squirrel me away from the zealous Inquisition types, who’d have interrogated me till any more torture would be fatal and then burned alive what was left. Albin realized that with patience he could learn a great deal more, and he didn’t share the common terror about sorcery. Yes, he accepted that magic worked, but looked on it as essentially another set of technologies, with its own limitations. So he put me on an estate of his outside Paris. It wasn’t too bad, except for—well, you can guess. I had comfortable quarters, good food, leave to walk around the palace and grounds though always under guard. Yes, and access to his library. He owned a lot of books. Printing had been invented. A monopoly of Church and state, death penalty for unlicensed possession of a press, but books were available to the upper classes. They saved my sanity.

“The archcardinal visited whenever he got a chance. We’d talk the sun down and back up again. He was a fascinating conversationalist. I did my best to keep him interested. Gradually I persuaded him to put a sign outside, in the form of a garden plot. I said an ethereal wind had crashed my chariot and swept it away. However, my friends on Mars would search for me. If one of them happened by, he’d see the symbol and land. Albin meant to bag that fellow and his vehicle. I can’t really blame him. He didn’t intend any harm, if the prisoner cooperated. Martian knowledge or maybe a Martian alliance would mean plenty. Western Europe was in a bad way.”

Denison stopped. His voice had gone raspy. “Don’t overdo,” Everard said. “We can finish tomorrow.”

Denison’s lips bent upward. “Now that’d be cruelty to dumb animals. You’re more curious than the Elephant’s Child. Wanda too. I wasn’t up to saying much till today. Your news is a tonic, man. If I could just have a glass of water?”

Tamberly went to fetch it. “I gather she read your intention correctly,” Everard said. “Your idea was to declare that a Patrolman was present, but whoever came along should be ultra-cautious, and not take risks on your account.” Denison nodded. “Well, we can both be glad she did, and not only sprang you free, but canceled those extra five years. I daresay they ground you pretty far down, or would have.”

Tamberly brought the water. Denison took it, his hands lingering noticeably over hers. “You’re recovering fast,” she laughed. He chuckled and drank.

“Wanda remarked you told her you studied a lot of history,” Everard said. “Anybody would, I suppose. Especially in hopes of finding where and when it went wrong. Did you?”

Denison shook his head on the pillows. “Not really. The medieval era isn’t my field. I know it as well as an average educated person should, but no better. The most I could deduce was that sometime during the later Middle Ages, the Catholic Church came decisively out on top in its rivalry with the kings, the state. Yesterday I did get some explanation about Roger of Sicily, and remembered that a couple of books mentioned him as a particular villain. Maybe you can fill me in on the initial course of might-have-been.”

“I’ll try. Meanwhile you rest.” Everard was mainly aware of Tamberly’s gaze upon him. “In the continuum we aborted, Roger and his oldest, ablest son died in battle at Rignano, 1137. The prince who succeeded couldn’t cope. Roger’s enemy, Pope Innocent’s ally, Rainulf took all their mainland possessions away from the Sicilians. Soon they also lost such African conquests as they’d made. Meanwhile anti-Pope Anacletus died and Innocent reigned with a strong hand. When Rainulf died too, the Papacy became the real power in southern Italy as well as in its own states. This encouraged the election of a series of aggressive Popes. Piecemeal they acquired the rest of Italy and, along the way, Sicily.

“Otherwise, for a spell, history proceeded roughly as before. Frederick Barbarossa restored order in the Holy Roman Empire but didn’t come off so well in his quarrels with the Curia. However, in the absence of papal schisms and the presence of papal states growing constantly stronger, imperial ambitions southward were checked. They turned west instead.

“Meanwhile, same as in our world, the Fourth Crusade dropped its original objective. It captured and sacked Constantinople, and installed a Latin king. The Orthodox Church was forcibly united with the Catholic.

“The Far East was little affected as yet, the Americas and the Pacific not at all. I don’t know what happened next. This—roughly 1250—was as far as we investigated, and that only sketchily. Too much else to do, too few people for the job.”

“And you itch for the rest of the story, both of you,” Denison said, more vigorously than before. “Okay, I’ll give you a synopsis. No more. In due course I may write a book or two.”

“We need that,” Tamberly replied soberly. “We’ll learn things about ourselves we never would otherwise.”

She does have her serious side, and a damn good mind to back it up, Everard thought. Still young. But am I really old?

Denison cleared his throat. “Here goes. Barbarossa didn’t conquer France, but he gave it enough trouble that its unification process was halted, and in the course of the Plantagenet-Capetian Wars—they must correspond roughly to our Hundred Years’ War—the English prevailed, till there was an Anglo-French state. In its shadow, Spain and Portugal never amounted to a lot. And early on, the Holy Roman Empire fell apart in a welter of civil wars.”

Everard nodded. “I’d’ve expected that,” he said. “Frederick II was never born.”

“Hm?”

“Barbarossa’s grandson. Remarkable character. Pulled his ramshackle Empire back together and gave the Popes a hell of a time. But his mother was a posthumous daughter of Roger II, who in our history died in 1154.”

“I see. That explains quite a bit…. In yonder world, the Welf faction, pro-papal, generally got the upper hand, so Germany became more and more another set of papal states, in fact if not in name. Meanwhile the Mongols penetrated far into Europe, I think farther than in our world, because their internal wars left the Germans in no shape to send help against them. When they withdrew, eastern Europe was a wreck, and German colonists gradually took it over. The Italians got control of the Balkans. The French tail wagged the English dog till there wasn’t much to show except a funny pronunciation—”

Denison sighed, “No matter details. As almighty as the Catholic Church became, it suppressed all dissent. The Renaissance never happened, the Reformation, the scientific revolution. As the secular states decayed, they fell more and more under the sway of the Church. That began when the Italian city-states started picking clergymen to head their republics. There was a period of religious wars, schismatic more than doctrinal, but Rome prevailed. In the end, the Pope was supreme over all kings in Europe. A sort of Christian Caliphate.

“They were technologically backward by our standards, but did reach America in the eighteenth century. Their spread over there was very slow. The old countries didn’t have the kind of society that would support explorers or entrepreneurs on an adequate scale, and they kept their colonists on a tight leash. Also, in the nineteenth century the whole system began breaking down, rebellions and wars and depressions and general misery. When I arrived, the Mexicans and Peruvians were holding out against conquest, though their leaders were half white and half Christian. Muslim adventurers were intervening. You see, Islam was enjoying a rebirth of energy and enterprise. So was Russia. After they got rid of the Mongols, the Tsars looked more west than east, because weakened Europe was such a tempting prize.

“At the time Wanda rescued me, the Russians were close to the Rhine and the Turk-Arab alliance was pushing into the eastern Alps. Men like Archcardinal Albin tried to play one off against another. I guess they had some success for a while, because she found my garden intact in 1989, but I doubt it lasted long beyond that. I’d say the Muslims and Russians overran Europe and afterward went for each other’s throats.”

Denison sank back, finally exhausted.

“Looks like we’ve restored what was better,” Everard said awkwardly.

Tamberly stared into a corner. Listening, she had grown sober, even somber. “But we’ve done away with billions of human beings, haven’t we?” she murmured. “And their songs and jokes, loves and dreams.”

Anger touched Everard. “Together with their serfdoms, diseases, ignorances, and superstitions,” he snapped. “That world never got the idea of science, checking logic against fact. Obviously not. So it went on and on in its wretchedness, till—Except it didn’t, We prevented. I refuse to feel guilty. We made our people real again.”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” Tamberly breathed. “I didn’t—”

The hall door opened. They looked about. A woman stood there, seven feet tall, gaunt, long-limbed, golden-skinned, eagle-faced. “Komozino!” Everard cried. He scrambled to his feet. “Unattached agent,” he told his friends, toppling or climbing from homely English to precise Temporal.

“Like you,” she said. Her stiff courtesy shattered. “Agent Everard, I have been searching for you. We have reports from our scouts uptime. The mission has failed.”

He stood numbed.

“True, King Roger continues his days,” Komozino went on unmercifully. “He secures the Regno, extends his holdings in Africa, draws to his court some of the greatest intellects of the age, dies in bed 1154, is succeeded by his son William, yes, everything as it should be. But we still have no contact with the farther future. There is still no Patrol post established later than about the mid-twelfth century. A quick reconnaissance uptime found a world still alien to everything we knew. What now has chaos done?”

1989 β A. D.

Three timecycles hung at eagle height over the Golden Gate. Morning fog whitened the coast, the great bay shone, earth rolled inland, summer-tawny. Beside the strait, rock masses traced where walls, towers, strongholds had been. Brush grew about them. It had almost wholly reclaimed the crumbled adobe of lesser buildings. A village occupied the site of Sausalito and a few fishing smacks were out on the water.

Tamberly’s radio voice came thin beneath the whittering wind: “My guess is that the city never recovered from the 1906 quake. Maybe enemies took advantage of the broken defenses and sacked what was left. And nobody since has had the means or the heart to restore it. Shall we go downtime and see?”

Everard shook his head. “No point in that, and we’ve no right to take extra risks. Where should we next look?”

“The Central Valley ought to give us clues. In our twentieth century it was one of the world’s richest agricultural areas.” He heard the slight quaver, like a shivering in the cold.

“Okay. Pick the coordinates,” he said.

She did. He and Karel Novak repeated them aloud before they made the jump. Everard saw light flash off the automatic rifle the Czech kept ready in his grasp. Well, his life, the life of all his forefathers, made wariness a reflex. We Americans were luckier, in the world where there was a United States of America.

Already Everard felt sure that, given reasonable caution, his scouting party would meet no danger. Even before they left, he’d expected as much. Else he might have refused Tamberly’s suggestion that she be the guide, overridden her insistence, and skipped ahead to Denison’s full recovery, despite the difficulties that would create.

Or would he have? The sensible thing in any case probably was to suppress his protective instincts and bring her. The idea was to compare this future with the future now averted. Denison had come to know the latter in depth, but vicariously. Tamberly had had an overview, which was all Everard wanted anyway. And Lord knows the girl has proved she can cope.

Small strung-out farms huddled along the rivers and what remained of a rather primitive canal network. Mostly, middle California had gone back to arid wilderness. Mud-walled fortresses stood guard at intervals. Afar, through his optical, Everard spied what seemed to be a band of wild horsemen.

Huge holdings occupied the Midwest. Many lay plundered and desolate, survivors or invaders eking out a squalid existence in sod huts on thinly worked fields. Others endured, ranching or raising a diversity of crops. At the middle of each clustered several large buildings, usually stockaded. Cities, which had never been of much size, were shrunk to towns or hamlets amidst abandoned ruins.

“Manorial economy,” Everard muttered. “Produce nearly everything you use at home, because damn little trade goes on any more.”

Fragments of a higher civilization clung in the East, though here too cities were dwindled and run-down, often laid waste. Everard noticed the gridiron pattern of nearly all streets and the formidable stone structures at every center. What prosperity anybody still enjoyed was evidently founded on slave labor; he saw coffles driven along the roads and field gangs toiling under armed supervision. He thought they included whites as well as blacks, though sunburn, grime, and distance made it hard to tell. He didn’t care for a closer view.

Cannon boomed in the Hudson Valley, cavalry charged, men hewed and perished. “I believe an empire has died, and these are its ghosts at war with each other,” Novak said.

Surprised, for he’d come to think of the man as dour and down-to-earth, Everard replied, “Yeah. A dark age. Well, let’s try the seaboard, and maybe mid-ocean, before Europe.”

It made sense thus to retrace Tamberly’s course, more or less. Europe must hold the wellspring of this time distortion, as it did of the last. Approach it from the periphery, always ready to skip out at the first sign of menace. Everard’s glance never quite left the array of detectors whose readings glimmered between his hands.

Did transatlantic commerce exist yet? Ships were few, but he saw two or three that were obviously capable of ocean crossings. In fact, they looked somewhat more advanced than those Tamberly had described, perhaps roughly equivalent to the Patrol world’s eighteenth century. However, like lesser craft, they were only sailing, well gunned, along the coasts; he found none on deep water.

London was a big version of the slums in the New World. Paris resembled it, astonishingly so. A leveling influence had been at work everywhere, to produce the same right-angle intersections and grim central complexes. Various medieval churches abided, but in poor shape; Notre Dame de Paris was half demolished. More recent ones were small, of humble design.

The smoke and thunder of another battle drifted from those grounds on which Versailles had never stood.

“London and Paris were a lot bigger in the other history.” Tamberly sounded quite subdued.

“I guess the power in this one, that’s now collapsed, lay farther south or east,” Everard sighed.

“Shall we go see?”

“No. No reason to, and we’ve plenty else ahead of us. We’ve confirmed what I suspected, which was the main purpose of this junket.”

Interest livened Tamberly’s tone. “What’s that?”

“You didn’t know? Sorry, I forgot to explain. It seemed obvious to me. But your field is natural history.” Everard drew breath. “Before we try again to correct matters, we have to make certain that this, too, hasn’t been due to any time travelers, whether by accident or on purpose. Our operatives pastward are working on that, of course, but I figured we could quickly pick up an important piece of the evidence by reconnoitering far uptime. If someone in the twelfth century did have some scheme, today the world would doubtless look very strange. Instead, what we’ve seen indicates a, uh, a hegemony over Western civilization, an empire that never had any Renaissance or scientific revolution either, and at last fell apart. So I think we can assume no conscious agency acted; and a blunder is extremely unlikely. Once again, what we’re up against is quantum chaos, randomness, events gone wild of their own accord.”

Novak spoke uneasily: “Sir, does that not make our task still more difficult and dangerous?”

Everard’s mouth tightened. “It sure does.”

“What can we do?” Tamberly asked low.

“Well,” Everard said, “by ‘randomness’ I don’t mean that things have taken this direction without any cause. In human terms, people have done whatever they did for their own reasons. It just happens that what they did was different from what they did in our history. We’ve got to find that turning point—or fulcrum point—and see if we can’t swing the lever back the way we want it to act. Okay, let’s return to base.”

Tamberly interrupted before he could read off destination coordinates. “What’ll we do then?”

“I’ll see what the investigators have found out, and on that basis try a little further detective work. You, well, probably you’d best proceed to your naturalist station.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you’ve done fine, but—”

Indignation flared. “But you mean that now I should sit twiddling my thumbs when I’m not chewing the nails off them. Well, you pull that self-satisfaction out of your ears, Manson Everard, and listen to me.”

He did. Never mind if Novak was disconcerted. She had a point or two to make, and they were valid. What knowledge she needed could readily be instilled. The more basic knowledge, of how to deal with people and danger, could not be; but she already had it, in her experience and her genes. Besides, the Patrol’s orphans needed every able campaigner they could find.

1137 A. D.

In his private chamber the silk merchant Geoffrey of Jovigny received two visitors. They were a huge man, well clad, and a tall, fair-haired young woman who, though decently quiet in public, looked about her with a boldness well-nigh brazen. The apprentices were astounded when they learned she would sleep with the children.

Otherwise these callers drew less heed than they would ordinarily have done, for Palermo seethed with tidings. Each newcomer brought a new story. At the end of October King Roger met disaster at Rignano and barely, by aid of the saints, escaped the battlefield. At once he rebounded, laid fresh siege to Naples, won back Benevento and Monte Cassino, forced his enemy Abbot Wibald out of Italy, and got a clerical friend elected to head the great abbey. Now only Apulia held out against him, and it seemed he might actually become arbitrator between the rival Popes. Sicily rejoiced.

In the paneled room upstairs, Everard, Tamberly, and Volstrup sat as bleak as the December day outside.

“We’ve come to you,” the Unattached agent said, “because what the databases know about you suggests you’re the best man available for a certain mission.”

Volstrup blinked above his winecup. “I? Sir, with respect, jokes are inappropriate when we have gone immediately from one crisis to a second, equally desperate one.” He alone in the city had experienced Everard’s previous visit; in the course of that salvage operation he had twice been brought downtime for consultation.

Everard grinned on the left side of his mouth. “No derring-do required, I hope. What I have in mind involves some travel under medieval conditions, but mainly we need a person quick-witted, tactful, and intimately acquainted with this milieu. Before explaining, though—because it may turn out my scheme is impractical—I want to pick your brains, ask a lot of questions, invite your ideas. You have done very well by the Patrol over the years, handling affairs day by day and laying the groundwork for the expansion of this post.”—when Sicily entered its golden age and drew many time travelers—out of a future that had again ceased to be. “You did better yet during the last crunch.”

“Thank you. Er, Mademoiselle … Tamberly?”

“I think I’ll mostly sit and listen,” the woman said. “I’m still trying to sort out the encyclopedia that’s been pumped into me.”

“We really have only a handful of people who know the period well,” Everard continued. “I mean this part of the Mediterranean world at just this time. Agents in China or Persia or even England don’t do us a lot of good, and they have their work cut out for them already, maintaining their stations under present conditions. Of our knowledgeable personnel, some are not qualified to conduct investigations in the field, where anything can happen. For instance, a man could be a fine, reliable traffic control officer but lack the, um, touch of Sherlock Holmes necessary.” Volstrup smiled the least bit, showing he caught the reference. “We have to take anyone we think may be suitable, whether formally rated for that kind of task or not. But first, as I said, I’d like to inquire of you.”

“By all means,” Volstrup replied, barely audible. In the gloom his nutcracker face showed pale. Outside, wind whooped and a dash of rain blew from wolf-gray heaven.

“When word went around about our failure, you got busy on your own initiative, communicating with other agents and making mnemonic arrangements for yourself,” Everard stated. “That gives reason to ask much more of you. I take it your aim was to assemble a detailed picture of events, hoping that might help to locate the new trouble point.”

Volstrup nodded. “Yes, sir. Not that I deluded myself I could solve the problem. Nor, I confess, was my motive really unselfish. I craved … orientation.” They saw him shudder beneath his robe. “This, this uprooting of reality, it leaves us so cold and alone.”

“It does that,” Tamberly whispered.

“Well, you were a medievalist to start with, before the Patrol recruited you,” Everard said. He kept his voice and manner methodical, downright stodgy. Nerves were strained thin enough as was. “You must have gotten the original history well into your head.”

“Rather well,” Volstrup answered. “But although countless snippets of fact had passed before my eyes, most had long since dropped from memory. What reason would there ordinarily be to stay aware that, oh, the battle of Rignano took place on the thirtieth of October 1137 or that the baptismal name of Pope Innocent III was Lotario de Conti di Segni? Yet any such tiny datum might prove crucial to us, when the databases we have left are limited. I requested a psychotechnician be sent here to give me total recollection.” He grimaced; neither the process nor the result were pleasant. It took a while afterward to return to normal. “And I compared notes with various colleagues, exchanging information and ideas. That is all. I was preparing a full report when you arrived.”

“We’ll take it from you in person,” Everard said. “We haven’t got lifespan to squander. What you’ve passed on indicates you’ve found a better clue than anybody else, but it isn’t clear what. Tell me.”

Volstrup’s hand trembled a little as he sipped from his cup. “It is surely clear to everyone,” he replied. “Pope Honorius III was succeeded directly by Celestine IV.”

Everard nodded. “That’s the big, blatant thing. But I gather you have a notion as to what may have brought it about.”

Tamberly stirred on her stool. “Excuse me,” she said. “I am still groping around in a jungle of names and dates. If I stop to think, I can put them in order, but what they signify isn’t necessarily plain. Would you mind briefing me?”

Everard reached to squeeze her hand—maybe that encouraged him more than her—and himself took a throat-warming drink. “You can do it better,” he said to Volstrup.

As he talked, the dry little man gained confidence, vigor. This history was his love, after all.

“Let me begin at the present moment. Events seem to proceed much as they ought, perhaps identically, for decades to come. The Holy Roman Emperor Henry VI acquires Sicily through marriage, the claim being enforced by his army, in 1194. That same year his son and heir Frederick II is born. Innocent III becomes Pope in 1198. He is one of the strongest men ever to sit on the throne of St. Peter—and in many respects, although it isn’t entirely his fault, one of the most sinister. It will be written of him that his was the distinction of presiding over the destruction of three distinct civilizations. In his reign, the Fourth Crusade captures Constantinople; and although the Eastern Empire eventually gets back a Greek ruler of Orthodox faith, it is thereafter a shell. He proclaims the Albigensian Crusade, which will put an end to the brilliant culture that has arisen in Provence. His long contest with Frederick II, Church against state, fatally undermines this diverse, tolerant Norman Sicilian society in which we sit talking today.

“He dies in 1216. Honorius III follows, also an energetic and determined man. He prosecutes the war on the Albigenses and plays a role in much politics elsewhere, but does seem to reach a settlement with Frederick. However, that agreement is breaking down when Honorius dies in 1227.

“Gregory IX should have succeeded him, reigning till 1241. Celestine IV should then be elected but die the same year, before he can be consecrated. Innocent IV should thereupon become the next Pope, who carries on the struggle against Frederick.

“Instead, we have no Gregory. Celestine follows Honorius directly. He is weak, leadership falters among the anti-Imperialists, and at last Frederick triumphs. The following Pope is his puppet.”

Volstrup moistened his gullet again. The wind sobbed.

“I see,” Tamberly murmured. “Yes, that gives me a little perspective on what I’ve learned. So Pope Gregory is the missing element?”

“Evidently,” Everard said. “He didn’t finish the feud with Frederick, in our history; but he waged it for fourteen years, never letting up, and that made the difference. A hard old son of a bitch. He founded the Inquisition.”

“Regularized it, at least,” Volstrup added in his professorish fashion. Habit took over; he likewise fell into the past tense. “The thirteenth century was the century in which medieval society lost its earlier measures of freedom, tolerance, and social mobility. Heretics were burned, Jews were herded into ghettos when they were not massacred or expelled, peasants who dared to claim some rights suffered a similar fate. And yet … that is our history.”

“Which led to the Renaissance,” Everard interjected brusquely. “I doubt we’d prefer the world that’s now ahead of us. But you—you’ve tracked down what’s happened—what will happen—to Pope Gregory?”

“I have only some hints and some thoughts,” Volstrup demurred.

“Well, spit ‘em out!”

Volstrup looked toward Tamberly. She’s a lot more ornamental than I am, Everard reflected. As much to her as to the man, Volstrup said:

“The chronicles tell us little about his origins. They describe him as already old when he assumed the tiara, and living on to a great age, active until the end. But they give no birth date. Later authorities made estimates differing by some twenty-five years. Hitherto, with all else it had to do, the Patrol saw no reason to ascertain the facts. It probably never occurred to anyone—myself included, of course.

“We have known merely that he was christened Ugolino Conti de Segni and was a nobleman in the city of Anagni, probably a kinsman of Innocent III.”

Conti! speared through Everard. Anagni!

“What is it, Manse?” asked Tamberly.

“A notion,” the Patrolman mumbled. “Go on, please.”

Volstrup shrugged. “Well,” he said, “my idea was that we might begin by finding his origins, and for that purpose I instituted inquiries. Nobody could identify any such birth. Therefore, in this world, it most likely never took place. I did turn up a fact, buried in an incidental memory of something that one of our agents happened once to have heard. This agent is to be active during Gregory’s reign. He chanced to be taking a holiday in the farther past and—At any rate, with the help of mnemotechnics, he retrieved the year of Gregory’s birth, and the parentage. It was as far downtime as certain historians later assigned it, in 1147 in Anagni. Therefore this Pope lived well into his nineties. His father’s name was Bartolommeo and his mother was Ilaria, of the Gaetano family.” He paused. “That is what I have to offer. I fear you have come to me for very little gain.”

Everard stared before him, into shadows. Rain hissed down the walls. Chill sneaked beneath clothing. “No,” he breathed, “you may have hit on the exact thing we need.”

He shook himself. “We have to learn more. Just what went on. That needs an operative or two who can work themselves into the scene. I expected this, and thought of you, though I didn’t know till now exactly where and when we’d want to send our scouts. They should be able to carry it off without getting into trouble. They should. I think”—I’m afraid, Wanda—“the pair of you are the logical choice.”

“I beg your pardon?” choked Volstrup.

Tamberly sprang to her feet. “Manse, you mean it, you really do!” she jubilated.

He rose also, heavily. “I figure two will have a better chance of learning something than one, especially if they go at it from both the male and the female sides.”

“But what about you?”

“With luck, you’ll find us some necessary evidence, but it won’t be sufficient. A negative can’t be. Gregory was never born, or he died young, or whatever it was. That’s for you to discover. To understand what came of that—whether it was the unique factor—I aim to work uptime of you, when Frederick’s breaking the Church to his will.”

1146 A. D.

To Anagni came a hired courier from Rome early in September. He bore a letter for Cencio de Conti or, if the gentleman be deceased or absent, whoever now headed that noble house in those parts. Albeit age was telling somewhat upon him, Cencio was there for a cleric to read the message aloud. He followed the Latin readily enough: It was not so very remote from his native dialect; and, besides religious services, men of his family rather frequently listened to recitals of the warlike or lyrical classics.

A Flemish gentleman and his lady, homebound from pilgrimage to the Holy Land, sent respects. They were kinfolk. True, the relationship was distant. Some fifty years ago a knight visiting Rome had become acquainted, asked for the hand of a daughter of the Conti, wedded her and taken her home to Flanders. (The profit was small but mutual. She was a younger child who might well otherwise have gone into a convent, thus her dowry need not be large. On either side there was some prestige in having a connection across a great distance, and there might prove to be some advantage, now when politics and commerce were beginning to move in earnest across Europe. The story went that it had, moreover, been a love match.) Little if any word had since crossed the Alps in either direction. Chancing to get this opportunity, the travelers felt it behooved them to offer to bring what scanty news they could. They prayed pardon in advance for their unimpressiveness, should they be invited. All their attendants had been lost along the way, to disease, affray, and at last desertion; belike tales of libertine Sicily had lured that rogue from them. Perhaps the Conti could, of their kindness, help them engage reliable servants for the rest of the journey.

Cencio dictated an immediate reply—in vernacular, which the priest Latinized. The strangers would be welcome indeed. They must for their part forgive a certain uproar. His son, Sir Lorenzo, was soon to marry Ilaria di Gaetani, and preparations for the festivities were especially chaotic in these difficult times. Nevertheless he urged them to come at once and remain for the wedding. He dispatched the letter with several lackeys and two men-at-arms, in order that his guests might fare in such style as would shame neither them nor him.

It was quite a natural thing for him to do. About his Flemish cousins, or whatever they were, his curiosity was, at best, idle. However, these persons had just been in the Holy Land. They should have much to tell of the troubles there. Lorenzo, especially, was eager to hear. He would be going on crusade.

And so, a few days later, the strangers appeared at the great house.

Ushered into a brightly frescoed room, Wanda Tamberly forgot surroundings whose foreignness had amazed and bewildered her. Suddenly everything focused on a single face. It did not belong to the elderly man but to the one beside him. I’d pay attention to looks like that anytime in the universe, flashed through her—Apollo lineaments, dark-amber eyes—and this is hung on Lorenzo. Got to be Lorenzo, who’d have changed history nine years ago at Rignano if Manse hadn’t—Hey, quite a bod, too.

Dazedly she heard the majordomo intone: “Signor Cencio, may I present Signor Emilius”—a stumble over the Germanic pronunciations—“van Waterloo?”

Volstrup bowed. The host courteously did likewise. He wasn’t really ancient, Tamberly decided. Maybe sixty. The loss of most teeth aged his appearance more than did white hair and beard. The younger man still had a full set of choppers, and his locks and well-trimmed whiskers were crow’s-wing black. He’d be in his mid-thirties. “Welcome, sir,” Cencio said. “Let me introduce my son Lorenzo, of whom my letter spoke. He has been ardent to meet you.”

“When I saw the party coming, I hastened to join my father,” said the young man. “But pray pardon our forgetfulness. In latine—”

“No need, gracious sir,” Volstrup told him. “My wife and I know your language. We hope you will bear with ours.” The Lombard version he used was not incomprehensibly different from the local Umbrian.

Both Conti registered relief. Doubtless they spoke Latin less well than they understood it. Lorenzo bowed again, to Tamberly. “Doubly welcome is a lady so fair,” he purred. His glance upon her made plain that he meant it. Evidently Italians today had the same weakness for blondes as in the Renaissance and afterward.

“My wife, Walburga,” Volstrup said. Everard had supplied the names. She had already noticed that when the going got tough, his sense of humor got extra quirky.

Lorenzo took her hand. She felt as though an electric shock went through her. Stop that! Yes, this is weird, history once more turning on the same man, but he’s mortal … He’d better be.

She told herself that her emotion was no more than an echo of the explosion in her head when first she read Cencio’s letter. Manse had briefed her and Volstrup as thoroughly as possible, but with no idea that Lorenzo was involved. For all he knew, the warrior never left that battlefield. The information the Patrol had was bare-bones. Ilaria di Gaetani should have married Bartolommeo Conti de Segni, nobleman of this papal state and kinsman of Innocent III. In 1147 she should have given birth to that Ugolino who became Gregory IX. Volstrup and Tamberly were supposed to discover what had gone wrong.

Everard laid a plan for them that called for approaching the Conti first. They’d need some kind of entry into aristocratic society, and he knew a lot about that family from his stay with Lorenzo in 1138—a visit that, now, had never occurred, but nonetheless was engraved on the Patrolman’s memory. The two had grown quite friendly and talk had ranged every which way. Thus Everard heard about the tenuous link to Flanders. It seemed to provide an excellent opening. In addition, his claim to being lately from Jerusalem had worked fine the first time, so why not repeat?

Could there be another Ilaria di Gaetani in town? Emil and I discussed that possibility. No, too improbable. We’ll find out for sure, but I know there isn’t. Nor can I believe Lorenzo is again the man on whom everything turns, by sheer coincidence. Touch hands with destiny, my girl.

He released hers, in a sliding slowness that she could interpret however she liked except that it wasn’t offensive. Not in the least. “A joyful occasion,” he said. “I look forward to much pleasure of your company.”

Do I feel my cheeks growing hot? This is ridiculous! Tamberly mustered what she had learned of contemporary manners. That was limited, but a certain awkwardness on the part of a Fleming should not surprise anyone. “Come, come, sir,” she replied. Smiling at him proved unexpectedly easy. “You have better anticipations, whose nuptial day draws nigh.”

“Of course I long for my bride,” Lorenzo said. He sounded dutiful. “However—” He shrugged shoulders, spread hands, rolled eyes upward.

“Ever does the poor bridegroom-to-be find himself mostly underfoot,” Cencio laughed. “And I, a widower, must do the work of two, striving to make such arrangements for the celebration as will not disgrace us.” He paused. “You know that is a labor for Hercules, under circumstances today. Indeed, I must now reluctantly return to it. We are having trouble about the delivery of sufficient flesh of worthwhile quality. I leave you in my son’s hands, hoping that at eventide I can share a cup and converse with you.” In a flurry of mutual courtesies, he went out.

Lorenzo raised a brow. “Speaking of cups,” he said, “is it too early, or are you too wearied? The servants will bring your baggage to your bedchamber and make all ready for you in a few minutes. You can take a rest if you so desire.”

This is too good a chance to pass up. “Oh, no, thank you, sir,” Tamberly answered. “We overnighted at an inn and slept well. Refreshment and talk would be delightful.”

Was he a little taken aback at her forwardness? Tactfully, he directed attention to Volstrup, who told him, “True, if we don’t presume on your patience.”

“On the contrary,” Lorenzo said. “Come, let me show you around. Not that you will see wonders. This is only our rural house. In Rome—” Mercurially, he scowled. “But you have seen Rome.”

Volstrup fielded the ball. “We have. Terrible. They actually levy a tax on pilgrims.”

Last year, led by the puritanical monk Arnold of Brescia, the city had declared itself a republic, free of all outside authority, Church or Empire. Newly elected Pope Eugenius III had fled, come back briefly to proclaim a new crusade, then been forced out again. Most aristocrats had likewise withdrawn. The republic wouldn’t fall, and Arnold burn at the stake, till 1155. (Unless in the mutant history—). “You landed at Ostia, then?”

“Yes, and proceeded to Rome, where we visited the sacred shrines.” And other sights. It was creepy seeing beggars, shacks, kitchen gardens, cattle paddocks among the relics of greatness. They might as well play tourist; those days established their identity, after the Patrol vehicle let them off in the seaport town.

Tamberly’s bosom sensed the medallion that doubled as a radio. It gave confidence, knowing that an agent waited hidden and alert. Of course, he didn’t listen in; continuous transmission would soon have drained the power. And if they yelled for help he wouldn’t pop up at that instant. On no account could he risk affecting events that maybe, maybe had not yet taken their bad turning. But he could probably figure some dodge for springing them loose.

We should be okay, though. These are nice folks. Fascinating. Yes, we are on a vital mission, but why not relax for a while and enjoy?

Lorenzo pointed out the wall paintings. They were naive but vivid representations of Olympian deities, and he showed his appreciation despite adding an assurance that this was acceptable to Christians. Too bad he wasn’t born in the Renaissance. That’s when he really belongs. Murals were a rather new fashion. “In the North we hang tapestries,” Volstrup remarked, “but then, we need them against our winters.”

“I have heard. Would that I might someday go see for myself—see this whole wonderful world, everything God has created.” Lorenzo sighed. “How did you and your lady come to learn an Italian tongue?”

Well, it was like this. The Time Patrol has a gadget—

“For my part, I have had business with Lombards over the years,” Volstrup said. “Although my house is knightly and I certainly not a tradesman, I am a younger son who must earn his keep as best he can; and you see I am ill suited to a military career, while also too restless for the Church. Thus I oversee certain holdings of the family, which include an estate in the Rhaetian highlands.” The locale was safely obscure. “As for my wife, on this pilgrimage we traveled overland as far as Bari.” Bad and hazardous though roads were, shipboard in this era was worse. “She not desiring to be mute among commoners, with whom we must generally deal, I engaged a Lombard tutor to accompany us; and when abroad, knowing we would return through Italy, we practiced on each other.”

“How rare and admirable to find such wit in a woman. Rare, too, that she make a long and arduous journey, the more so when at home doubtless all the youths faint for lovesickness and all the poets sing her praises.”

“Alas, we have no children to keep me home; and I am a terrible sinner,” Tamberly couldn’t refrain from blurting.

Do I catch a glint of hope in his eye? “I cannot believe you are, my lady,” Lorenzo said. “Humility is a virtue of yours, among many higher ones.” He must realize he was proceeding faster than was discreet, for he turned to Volstrup and let the smile drop from his lips. “A younger son. How well I understand you, sir. I too. Though I did take the sword, and won scant fortune thereby.”

“On the way hither, your father’s men often spoke of how valiantly you have fought,” the Patrolman replied. It was true. “We would fain hear more.”

“Ah, in the end it was bootless. Two years ago Roger of Sicily won everything he wanted, under a seven years’ truce that I expect will continue longer—as long as yon devil befouls this earth—and now he sits in peace and wealth.” Almost physically, Lorenzo thrust bitterness from him. “Well, a greater cause calls, a holy cause. Why should you care to hear stale stories of the wars against Roger? Tell me how matters are this day in Jerusalem!”

They had been strolling as they talked and come to a room where small kegs rested on shelves and several beakers on a table. Lorenzo beamed. “Here we are. Pray be seated, my friends.” He made a production of guiding Tamberly to a bench before he stuck his head out the rear door and shouted for a servant. When the boy appeared, he ordered bread, cheese, olives, fruits. Himself he tapped wine into the cups.

“You are too kind, good sir,” Tamberly said. Too kind by half. I know what he has in mind, and him soon to be married.

“No, it is you who bless me,” he insisted. “Two years have I yawned in idleness. You and your tidings arrive like a breeze off the sea “

“Yes, I can imagine that, after as adventurous a life as you had led,” Volstrup agreed. “Er, we heard tell of your valor at Rignano, when Duke Rainulf sent the Sicilians in flight. Did not a very miracle save your life that day?”

Lorenzo frowned anew. “The victory proved meaningless, for we failed to lay Roger by the heels. Why wake the memory?”

“Oh, but I have so wished to hear the true story, not mere rumors, and from the champion in person,” Tamberly crooned.

Lorenzo brightened. “Indeed? Well, truth to tell, my part was less than glorious. When the enemy first charged, I led a flank attack on his van. Someone must have smitten me from behind in the combat, for the next thing I knew, I was draped across my horse, and our attempt had failed. The most curious matter is that I kept my seat; but a lifetime of riding teaches the body how to take care of itself. Nor can the blow have been severe, for I awakened clear of mind, with no headache, and could immediately re-enter the fray. Now do you gratify me with some account of your travels.”

“I daresay you are most interested in the military situation,” Volstrup said, “but as I told you, I am not a fighting man. Alas, what I did hear and see was unhappy.”

Lorenzo listened intently. His frequent questions showed he was quite well-informed. Meanwhile Tamberly reviewed what she had been taught.

By 1099 the First Crusade had gained its objectives, with a massacre of civilians that would have done Genghis Khan proud, and the conquerors settled in. They founded a string of realms from Palestine up into what she knew as southern Turkey—the Kingdom of Jerusalem, County of Tripoli, Principality of Antioch, County of Edessa. Gradually they came more and more under the cultural influence of their subjects. It wasn’t really like the Normans in Sicily, learning from the more civilized Arabs; it was as though the Crusaders and their children took on the unhealthiest aspects of Muslim society. Weakness followed, until in 1144 the Amir of Mosul captured Edessa and his son Nur-ed-Din advanced upon Jerusalem. That Christian king appealed for help. Bernard of Clairvaux—St. Bernard to be—preached a new crusade and Pope Eugenius proclaimed it. This Easter, 1146, King Louis VII of France had “taken the cross,” vowing to lead an expedition.

“I wished from the first to go,” Lorenzo explained, “but we Italians have been sluggish in these enterprises and remain thus, to our eternal shame. What use was a single sword, among Frenchmen who distrust us, likely to be? Besides, father arranged my betrothal to the lady Ilaria. It is a good match, better than a well-nigh penniless soldier could reasonably hope for. I cannot leave him without this added prop for his house and one more grandchild, legitimate, to gladden his old age.”

But I see the longing in those hawk eyes, Tamberly thought. He’s a kindly man in his way, and honorable about his obligations. And brave, and a gifted tactician, it seems. Uh-huh, I guess his war record persuaded Ilaria’s dad to agree, It’d give hope he might win some real booty for himself, off in Palestine. And if Lorenzo’d like to get in a little tomcatting first, well it is a marriage of convenience and I suspect Ilaria is no raving beauty. Besides, my Patrol education tells me that people may be devoutly religious hereabouts, but their sexual mores are pretty free and easy. For women too, if they don’t parade it. Even gays, no matter the law says they should be hanged or burned. Sound familiar, California gal?

“But now the abbot is preaching among the Germans,” Lorenzo went on. His voice rang. “I hear that King Conrad hearkens to him. That was a valiant warrior, when he came down with the Emperor Lothair ten years ago to help us against Roger. I feel sure he too will take the cross.”

He would, about the end of this year. And, besides its transalpine possessions, the Empire had close ties throughout Italy. (What with the trouble his turbulent nobles gave him, Conrad never would get around to having himself consecrated emperor, but that was a detail.) Lorenzo could find plenty of comrades behind his banner, and probably get put in charge of a unit. Conrad would march south through Hungary in the autumn of 1147. That gave ample time for Lorenzo first to beget a child on Ilaria, a child who would not become Pope Gregory IX….

“Therefore I abide as patiently as I am able to,” Lorenzo finished. “In all circumstances, I will go. I have fought for the right and for Holy Church too long to let my blade rust now. But best if I fare with Conrad.”

No, not best. Dreadful. The Second Crusade would prove a grisly farce. Disease would take as heavy a toll of the Europeans as fighting did, until, beaten, frustrated, the survivors slunk home. In 1187 Saladin would enter Jerusalem.

But these Crusades, First, Second, et cetera through the Seventh, as well as those against heretics and pagans in Europe itself, they were an artifact of later historians anyway. Sometimes a Pope, or somebody, called for a special effort, and sometimes, not always, this evoked a serious response. Mainly, though, it was a question of whether you—idealist, warlord, freebooter, or oftenest blend of all three—could get yourself dubbed a crusader. It conferred special rights and privileges in this world, remission of sins in the next. That was the legalism. Reality was men who marched, rode, sailed, hungered, thirsted, roistered, fought, raped, burned, looted, slaughtered, tortured, fell sick, took wounds, died nasty deaths or got rich or became captive slaves or eked out a living in a foreign land or perhaps returned, to and fro for centuries. Meanwhile the wily Sicilians, Venetians, Genoese, Pisans raked large profits off the traffic; and Asian rats stowed away in ships bound for Europe, they and their fleas carrying the Black Plague….

Volstrup and Tamberly had had sufficient knowledge implanted that they could handle Lorenzo’s questions about the Kingdom of Jerusalem. They had gotten a quick tour of it, too. Yes, belonging to the Patrol has its rewards. Though golly, how fast you need to case-harden yourself.

“But I presume on you!” Lorenzo abruptly exclaimed. “Forgive me. I quite forgot the time. You rode for hours today. My lady must certainly be wearied. Come, let me show you to your lodging, that you may rest, cleanse yourselves, and don good clothes before we sup. There will be a number of fellow guests for you to meet, kinfolk arriving from half of Italy, it seems.”

As he bowed his way out of the chamber, he made eye contact with Tamberly. She let it continue for several heartbeats. Manse was right, a woman who knows her way around can be very helpful. She can learn quite a lot about the situation and what we might do. Only … do I qualify? Me, a vamp?

A deferential manservant revealed where things had been stowed, asked if that was all right, and said that hot water could be brought for a copper mini-tub whenever milord and milady desired. People were rather cleanly in this era, and mixed use of public baths was common. They wouldn’t start habitually stinking for centuries yet, when deforestation made fuel expensive.

And yonder stood a double bed. The Roman inn and the one along the road to here had separate quarters for men and women, where you slept beside strangers, naked.

Volstrup looked away. He wet his lips. After two or three attempts, he said, “Ah, Mademoiselle Tamberly, I failed to anticipate—Of course I shall take the floor, and when either of us bathes—”

Laughter whooped from her. “Sorry, Emil, old dear,” she replied to his bewilderment. “Have no fears for your honor. I’ll turn my back if you want. That mattress tick is plenty wide. We’ll rest peaceful.” A small inward chill: Will I, when Manse is working in an uncharted world a hundred years uptime? And then, warmer: Also, I’d better give Lorenzo a lot of thought.

1245 β A. D.

Westward lay hills rising toward the Apennine Mountains, but everywhere around reached the Apulian plain. Farmlands white-speckled with villages covered most of it, orchards darkly green, fields goldening for harvest. There were, however, broad stretches of meadow, prairie-like with their tall summer-brown grass, and frequent woods. They were used as commons, where children kept watch over herds of cattle and flocks of geese, but their main purpose was to provide space and wildlife for the emperor’s hawking.

His party rode through such a preserve toward Foggia, his most beloved city. At their backs the sun cast long yellow beams and blue shadows through air still warm, still full of earth odors. Ahead of them gleamed the walls, turrets, towers, spires of the city; glass and gilt flung light at their eyes. Loud from yonder, faint from chapels strewn across the countryside, bells pealed for vespers.

The peacefulness struck at Everard as he remembered another scene not very far from here. But the dead of Rignano lay a hundred and eight years in the past. None but he and Karel Novak were alive to remember the pain, and they had overleaped the generations between.

He pulled his mind back to the business on hand. Neither Frederick (Friedrich, Fridericus, Federigo … depending on where you were in his vast domains) nor his followers were paying the call to prayer any heed. The nobles among them chatted blithely with each other, they and their horses little tired after outdoor hours. Their garb was a rainbow medley. Tiny bells jingled as if in cheerful mockery on the jesses of the falcons that, hooded, perched on their wrists. Masked, too, to preserve fair complexions, were the ladies; it lent itself to an especially piquant style of flirtatiousness. Behind trailed the attendants. Game dangled at saddlebows, partridge, woodcock, heron, hare. Slung across rumps were the hampers and the costly glass bottles that had carried refreshment.

“Well, Munan,” said the emperor, “what think you of the sport in Sicily?” Courteous as well as jovial, he spoke in German—Low Franconian, at that—which his guest knew. Otherwise they had only Latin in common, except for what scraps of Italian an Icelander might have acquired along the way.

Everard reminded himself that “Sicily” meant not just the island but the Regno, the southern part of the mainland, which Roger II defined by the sword in the previous century. “It is most impressive, your Grace,” he replied with care. That was the current form of address for the mightiest man this side of China. “Of course, as everybody saw today, though they were too well-bred to laugh aloud, we have few chances to fly birds in my unhappy motherland. What little chase I hitherto witnessed on the Continent was after deer.”

“Ah, let those for whom it is good enough practice their venery,” gibed Frederick. He used the Latinate word so he could add a pun: “I mean the kind where one pursues beasts with horns. The other kind is too good for them, albeit horns are also often seen in that pastime.”

Turning earnest: “But falconry, now, it is more than amusement, it is high art and science.”

“I have heard of your Grace’s book on the subject, and hope to read it.”

“I will order a copy given you.” Frederick glanced at the Greenland falcon he himself bore. “If you could bring me this over sea and land in prime condition, then you have an inborn gift, and such should never be let lie fallow. You shall practice.”

“Your Grace honors me beyond my worth. I fear the bird didn’t perform as well as some.”

“He needs further training, yes. It shall be my pleasure, if time allows.” Everard noted that Frederick did not say “God” as a medieval man ordinarily would.

Actually the bird was from the Patrol’s ranch in pre-Indian North America. Falcons were an excellent, ice-breaking gift in a number of milieus, provided you didn’t present one to somebody whose rank didn’t entitle him to that particular kind. Everard had merely needed to nurse it along from that point in the hills where the time-cycle let him and Novak off.

Involuntarily, he looked back west. Jack Hall waited yonder, in a dell to which it seemed people rarely strayed. A radioed word would fetch him on the instant. No matter if his appearance was public. This was no longer the history the Patrol sought to guard, it was one to overthrow.

If that could be done…. Yes, certainly it could, easily, by a few revelations and actions; but what would come of them was unforeseeable. Better to stay as cautious as possible. Stick with the devil you somewhat knew, till you found out whence he sprang.

Thus Everard made his reconnaissance in 1245. The choice was not entirely arbitrary. It was five years before Frederick’s death—in the lost world. In this one, the emperor, less stressed, would not succumb untimely to a gastrointestinal ailment, and thereby bring all Hohenstaufen hopes to the ground. A quick preliminary scouting revealed that he was in Foggia most of that summer and that things were going smoothly for him, his grand designs advancing almost without hindrance.

You could anticipate that he would welcome Munan Eyvindsson. Frederick’s curiosity was universal; it had led him to experiments on animals and, rumor said, human vivisection. Icelanders, no matter how remote, obscure, and miserable, possessed a unique heritage. (Everard had gained familiarity with it on a mission to the viking era. Today Scandinavians were long since Christianized, but Iceland preserved lore elsewhere forgotten.) Admittedly, Munan was an outlaw. However, that meant simply that his enemies had maneuvered the Althing into passing sentence on him: for five years anybody who could manage it was free to kill him without legal penalty. The republic was going under in a maelstrom of feuds between its great families; soon it would submit to the Norwegian crown.

Like others in his position who could afford to, Munan went abroad for the term of his outlawry. Landing in Denmark, he bought horses and hired a manservant cum bodyguard—Karel, a Bohemian mercenary on the beach. They fared south leisurely and safely. Frederick’s peace lay heavy upon the Empire. Munan’s first goal was Rome, but the pilgrimage was not his first interest, and afterward he sought his real dream, to meet the man called stupor mundi, “the amazement of the world.”

Not just the gift he brought caught the emperor’s fancy. Still more did the sagas he could relate, the Eddic and skaldic poems. “You open another whole universe!” Frederick exulted. It was no small compliment from a lord to whose court came scholars of Spain and Damascus, as diverse as the astrologer Michael Scot and the mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci of Pisa, he who introduced Arabic numerals into Europe. “You must abide for a time with us.” That was ten days ago.

Spite cut through drifting memories. “Does the bold Sir Munan fear pursuit, this far from home? He must truly have wronged someone if he does.”

Piero della Vigna said it, at Frederick’s right side. He was middle-aged, defiant of fashion in his grizzled beard and plain garb; but the eyes were luminous with an intellect equal to that of his master. Humanist, Latin stylist, jurist, counselor, lately chancellor, he was more than the emperor’s man Friday, he was his most intimate friend in a court aswarm with sycophants.

Startled, Everard lied, “I thought I heard a noise.” Inwardly: I’ve noticed this guy glower. What’s bugging him? He can’t be afraid I’ll shove him aside in the imperial favor.

Piero pounced. “Ha, you understand me remarkably well.”

Everard swore at himself. That bastard used Italian. I forgot I’m a newly arrived foreigner. He forced a smile. “Why, naturally I’ve gained some knowledge of the tongues I’ve heard. That doesn’t mean I’d offend his Grace’s ears by trying to speak them in his presence.” Maliciously: “I pray the signor’s pardon. Let me put that into Latin for you.”

Piero made a dismissing gesture. “I followed.” Of course so active a mind would learn German, hog-language though he doubtless considered it. Vernaculars were steadily gaining both political and cultural importance. “You gave a different impression erenow.”

“I am sorry if I was misunderstood.”

Piero looked elsewhere and fell silent, brooding. Does he think I may be a spy? For whom? As far as we’ve been able to find out, Frederick doesn’t have any enemies left worth fussing over. Oh, the French king is surely concerned—

The emperor laughed. “Do you suppose our visitor means to disarm us, Piero?” he gibed. He could be a little cruel, or more than a little, even to those who stood him closest. “Set your heart at ease. I cannot see how good Munan could be in anyone’s pay, yea, not though that anyone be Giacomo de Mora.”

Realization sank into Everard. That’s it. Piero’s worried sick about Sir Giacomo, who has in fact taken more interest in me than would have been expected. If Giacomo has not actually planted me here, Piero fears, then maybe he’s thought of some way to make a tool of me against his rival Somebody in Piero’s position is apt to see shadows in every corner.

Pity followed. What was this man’s fate in this history? Would he “once more” fall a few years hence, accused of conspiracy against his lord, and be blinded, and dash his brains out against a stone wall? Would the future forget him and instead remember Giacomo de Mora, whose name was not in any chronicle known to the Patrol?

Yeah, these intrigues are like dancing on nitroglycerine. Maybe I ought to shy clear of Giacomo, too. And yet … how better might I pick up a clue to what went wrong, than from Frederick’s brilliant military leader and diplomat? Who’s got a wider and shrewder knowledge of this world? If he’s chosen to cultivate me when he’s not busy and the emperor is, I should accept the honor with due fulsomeness.

Odd that he made some excuse and didn’t come along today—

Hoofs clopped. The party had reached a main road. Frederick spurred his horse and, for a moment, drew well ahead of the rest. His hair tossed auburn-gold from beneath a feathered cap. The low sunlight made a halo of it. Yes, he was getting bald, and the trim, medium-sized frame was putting on weight, and lines were deep in the clean-shaven face. (It was a Germanic face, taking more after his grandfather Frederick Barbarossa than his grandfather Roger II.) Nevertheless, for that instant, he looked somewhat like a god.

Peasants still at work in a nearby field bowed clumsily to him. So did a monk trudging toward the city. It was more than awe before power. There had always, also in Everard’s history, been an aura of the supernatural about this ruler. Despite his struggle with the Church, many folk—no few Franciscans, especially—saw him as a mystic figure, a redeemer and reformer of the mundane world, Heaven-sent. Many others saw in him the Antichrist. But that seemed past. In this world, the war between him and the Popes was over, and he had prevailed.

At a ringing canter, the falconers neared the city. Its main gate stood open yet, to be closed an hour after sundown. There was no need for that, no threat, but so the emperor commanded, here and throughout his lands. Traffic must move at certain times, commerce proceed according to regulation. The gate had little about it of the grace and exuberance of Palermo, where Frederick spent his boyhood. Like buildings he had ordered raised elsewhere, strongholds and administrative centers, it was massive, starkly foursquare. Above it a banner rippled in the evening breeze, an eagle on a golden field, the emblem of the Hohenstaufen dynasty.

Not for the first time since he came here, Everard wondered how much of this his history had known. Little remained in the twentieth century, his twentieth century, and the survivors of the Patrol had an overwhelming task already without studying architectural developments. Maybe this wasn’t very different from the “original” medieval Foggia. Or maybe it was. A lot would depend on how soon events had veered off track.

Strictly speaking, that happened about a hundred years ago, when Pope Gregory IX failed to be born—unless it was later, when he died young or did not take holy orders or whatever went amiss. But changes in time don’t spread outward on any simple wave front. They’re an infinitely complicated interplay of quantum functions, way over this poor head of mine.

The tiniest alteration could conceivably annul an entire future, if the event concerned was crucial. There should theoretically be countless such; but hardly ever were they felt. It was as if the time-flow protected itself, passed around them without losing its proper direction and shape. Sometimes you did get odd little eddies—and here one of them had grown to monstrousness—

Yet change must needs spread in chains of cause and effect. Who outside the immediate vicinity would ever even hear what went on, or did not go on, in a couple of families of Anagni? It would take a long time for the consequences of that to reach far. Meanwhile the rest of the world moved onward untouched.

So Constance, daughter of King Roger II, was born after her father’s death. She was over thirty when she married Barbarossa’s younger son, and nine more years went by before she bore to him Frederick, in 1194. Her husband became the Emperor Henry VI, who had gotten the crown of Sicily through the marriage, and who died soon after this birth. Frederick inherited that glamorous hybrid kingdom. He grew up among its plots and tumults, the ward of Pope Innocent III, who arranged his first marriage and maneuvered for a German coalition to hail him supreme king in 1211, because Otto VI had been giving the Church intolerable trouble. By 1220 Frederick was everywhere triumphant and the new Pope, Honorius III, consecrated him Holy Roman Emperor.

Nevertheless, relations with him had long been worsening. He neglected or disowned promise after promise; only in his persecution of heretics did he seem to proceed with any regard to Mother Church. Most conspicuously, time after time he postponed fulfillment of his vow to go on crusade, while he put down revolts and secured his own power. Honorius died in 1227—Yeah. As far as we can find out, with what skimpy resources we’ve got left, things went pretty much the same up till then. Frederick, a widower, married Iolande in 1225, daughter of the titular King of Jerusalem, uh-huh, just as he was supposed to. A smart bit of groundwork for the recovery of that real estate from the paynim. Except that he kept putting the job off, he tried instead to assert his authority over Lombardy by force. And then in 1227 Honorius died.

And the next Pope was not Gregory IX, he was Celestine IV, and after that the world became less and less what it ought to have been.

“Hail!” roared the sentries. They lifted their pikes on high. For a moment the bright hues of the falconers dimmed in the tunnellike gateway. Echoes rolled off stone. They came forth onto the lists, the broad, smoothly paved open space under the wall, beyond which reared the buildings of the city. Above roofs Everard glimpsed cathedral towers. Somehow, against the eastern sky, they looked somber, as if night were already drawing down over them.

A well-clad man with an attendant waited beyond the gate. Judging by the restlessness of their horses, they had been there for a considerable time. Everard recognized the courtier, who brought his mount close and made salutation.

“Your Grace, forgive my intrusion,” he said. “I believed you would desire to know at once. This day did word come. The ambassador from Baghdad landed yesterday at Bari. He and his train were to start hither at dawn.”

“Hellfire!” exclaimed Frederick. “Then they’ll arrive tomorrow. I know how Arabs ride.” He glanced about. “I regret the festivity planned for eventide must be stricken,” he told the party. “I will be too occupied making ready.”

Piero della Vigna raised his brows. “Indeed, sire?” he wondered. “Need we show them great honor? Yon Caliphate is but a wretched husk of ancient greatness.”

“The more need for me to nurse it back to strength, an ally on that flank,” the emperor replied. “Come!” He, his chancellor, and the courtier clattered off.

The disappointed revelers went their separate ways by ones and twos and threes, chattering about what this might portend. Some lived at the palace and followed their sovereign more slowly. Everard would too. However, he dawdled and went roundabout, preferring to ride alone so he could think.

The significance—Hm. Maybe Fred, or his successor, really will get the Near East bulwarked and stop the Mongols when they invade there. Wouldn’t that be a sockdolager?

The past ran on through the Patrolman’s head, but now it was not his world’s, it was the course of this world that ought not to be, as inadequately charted by him and his few helpers.

Mild, in frail health, Pope Celestine was no Gregory, to excommunicate the emperor when the crusade was postponed yet again. In Everard’s world, Frederick had, at last, sailed regardless, and proceeded actually to regain Jerusalem, not by fighting but by shrewd bargaining. In this present history, he had not then needed to crown himself its king; the Church anointed him, which gave immense leverage that he well knew how to apply. He suppressed and supplanted such enemies as John Ibelin of Cyprus and cemented firm agreements with the Muslim rulers of Egypt, Damascus, and Iconium. Given that network throughout the region, the Byzantines had no prospect of overthrowing their hated Latin overlords—who must more and more fit themselves to the wishes of the Holy Roman Emperor.

Meanwhile, in Germany, Frederick’s heir apparent Henry revolted; in this world, too, the father put down the rebellion and confined the son for the rest of a short life. Likewise, in this world poor little Queen Iolande died young, of neglect and heartbreak. However, without a temporarily conciliated Pope Gregory to arrange it, Frederick’s third marriage was not to Isabella of England but to a daughter of the Aragonese royal house.

His breach with Celestine occurred when he, freed from other tasks, took his armies into Lombardy and ruthlessly brought it under himself. Thereupon, in contempt of all pledges, he seized Sardinia and married his son Enzio to its queen. Seeing the papal states thus caught in a vise, even Celestine had then no choice but to excommunicate him. Frederick and his merry men ignored the ban. In the course of the next several years they overran central Italy.

Thus he was able to send a mighty force against the Mongols when they struck into Europe, and in 1241 inflict resounding defeats on them. When Celestine died that same year, the “savior of Christendom” easily got a puppet of his elected Pope as Lucius IV.

He had annexed those parts of Poland where his armies met the Mongols. Aided by him, whose tool they had become, the Teutonic Knights were in process of conquering Lithuania. Negotiations for a dynastic marriage were under way in Hungary—What’s next? Who is?

“I beg your pardon!” Everard reined in his horse, hard. Lost in thought, passing through a narrow lane where gloom gathered thick, he had almost ridden down a man afoot. “I didn’t see you. Are you all right?” Here he dared be fluent in the local Italian. He must, for decency’s sake.

“It is nothing, sir, nothing.” The man pulled his muck-spattered gown close about him and backed meekly off. Everard made out the beard, broad cap, yellow emblem. Yes, a Jew. Frederick had decreed that Jews wear distinct dress, with no man to shave, and a long list of other restrictions.

Since no real harm had been done, Everard could swallow his conscience and ride on, keeping in character. The alley gave on a marketplace. Dusking, it was nearly deserted. People in medieval cities mostly stayed indoors after dark, whether because of a curfew or from choice. Here they needn’t fear crime—the emperor’s patrols and hangmen kept that well down—but it was no fun stumbling through unlighted streets full of manure and dumped garbage. A charred stake rose at the middle of the square, not yet removed, the ash and debris only roughly cleaned up. Everard had heard about a woman convicted of Manichaeanism. Apparently this had been the day they burned her.

He clenched his teeth and continued riding. It isn’t that Frederick’s really malignant, like Hitler. Nor is he some kind of twisted idealist, nor a politician trying to curry favor with the Church. He burns heretics in the same spirit as he burns defiant cities and butchers their inhabitants—the same spirit as he restricts not only Jews and Muslims, but strolling players, whores, every kind of independent operator—they simply are not subservient. He sees to the welfare of those who are.

Studying up for this mission, more than once I read historians who said he founded the first modern state (in western Europe, at least; since the fall of Rome, anyhow), bureaucracy, regulation, thought police, all authority concentrated at the top. Damn if I’ll ever feel sorry that it went to pieces after his death, in my world!

On this time line, obviously, it did not. Everard had seen what lay seven centuries ahead. (Hey, Wanda, how’re you doing, gal, a hundred years ago?) The Empire would expand, generation by generation, till it embraced and remade Europe, and surely had profound impact on the Orient. Just how didn’t matter. Everard guessed at an Anglo-Imperial alliance that partitioned France, whereafter the Empire ingested the British Isles, the Iberian peninsula, perhaps everything clear to Russia and maybe a part of that too. Its mariners would reach America, though surely much later than 1492; this history also lacked a Renaissance and a scientific revolution. Its colonies would spread vigorously westward. But all the while, the dry rot that arises in every imperium would be eating the heart out of it.

As for the Church, well, it wouldn’t die, nor even break up in a Reformation, but it would become a creature of the state, and probably share the death agonies.

Unless a crippled Patrol could uproot this destiny, without sowing something worse.

At the palace stables Everard dismounted and turned his horse over to a groom. Like a walled city within the city, the compound loomed hard by. The mews were inside but he, self-acknowledged (falsely) as inexperienced, had no hawk to care for. The forecourt seemed full of bustle. To avoid it, he walked around to the rear gate. Steel dimly ashine in the waning light, its guards recognized him and let him by with a genial greeting. They were good joes, whatever they’d done in the past. War was war, throughout the ages. Everard had been a soldier too.

The gravel of a path scrunched softly beneath his boots. A formal garden stretched fragrant to right and left. He heard a fountain splash. As clear sounded the strings of a lute. Hidden from Everard by hedges and bowers, a man lifted his voice in song. Most likely a young lady listened, for the words were amorous. The language was southern German. The troubadours were gone with the Provençal civilization that the Albigensian Crusade destroyed; but no few minnesingers crossed the Alps to seek Frederick’s court.

The palace sprawled ahead. Medieval heaviness was a bit relieved by wings added more recently. Many windows shone. They hadn’t the brightness of electric lamps behind plate glass—this world might well never know that—but a dull yet warm flame-glow seeped through small leaded panes. When Everard entered, he came into a hallway illuminated down its length by bracketed lamps.

Nobody else was in view. The servants were taking a light supper in their quarters, prior to making things ready for the night. (The main meal was early in the afternoon. Frederick himself, and therefore his entourage, ate once a day.) Everard mounted a staircase. Although the emperor honored him by giving him a room here, naturally it lay offside and he shared it with his man.

He opened the door and went in. The space was small, its furniture hardly more than a double bed, a couple of stools, a clothes chest, and a chamber pot. Novak rose and snapped to attention. “At ease,” Everard said in American English. “How often must I tell you, your Middle European Ordnungsliebe isn’t necessary around me?”

The Czech’s stocky frame quivered. “Sir—”

“One moment.” Each of them called Jack Hall sometime during every twenty-four hours, so the man at the timecycle would know they were okay. This was Everard’s first chance today to do it privately. Novak had mentioned being noticed a couple of times when he believed himself alone, and getting odd glances, though nobody braced him. It should seem a religious observance, of which there were countless sorts. Everard pulled out the medallion that hung from a chain under his tunic, brought it to his mouth, thumbed the switch. “Reporting,” he said. “Back in the palace. No developments yet, worse luck. Hang on, old boy.” It must be dull, simply waiting yonder, but cowboy life had schooled Hall in patience.

How so small a device could generate a radio wave reaching so far, Everard didn’t know. Some quantum effect, he supposed. He turned it off, to save the power cell, and restored it to his bosom. “All right,” he said. “If you want to be of service, fix me a sandwich and pour me a drink. I know you keep a stash.”

“Yes, sir.” Novak was clearly curbing ants in his pants. From the chest he produced a loaf of bread, a cheese, a sausage, and a clay bottle. Thirsty, Everard reached for that, unstoppered it, and swigged.

“Vino rozzo indeed,” he snorted. “Haven’t you any beer?”

“I thought you had found out for yourself, sir,” replied Novak. “In this era, too, Italians cannot brew a drinkable beer. Especially since we lack refrigeration.” He drew his knife and started slicing, using the chest lid for a table. “How was your day?”

“Fun, in a strained fashion, and educational.” Everard scowled. “Except, blast it, I didn’t get a single useful hint. More reminiscences, but none of them old enough to suggest where or when the turning point was. I give us one more week, then we’ll say to hell with it and hop back to base.” He sat down. “I hope you haven’t been too bored.”

“On the contrary, sir.” Novak looked up. The broad face tensed, the voice hoarsened. “I believe I have gotten some important information.”

“What? Say on!”

“I spent more than an hour talking with Sir Giacomo de Mora.”

Everard whistled. “You—a hireling, damn near a masterless man?”

Novak seemed glad to keep his hands occupied. “I was astounded myself, sir. After all, one of the emperor’s chief counselors, his general against the Mongols, his personal ambassador to the king of England, and—Well, he sent for me, received me alone, and was really quite friendly, considering the difference in our ranks. He said he wants to learn everything he can about foreign lands. What you had told, sir, was most interesting, but humble men also see and hear things, often things their superiors don’t notice, and since he happened to have today idle—”

Everard gnawed his lip. He felt his pulse accelerate. “I’m not sure I like this.”

“Nor I, sir.” Savagely, Novak finished his cutting and slapped a sandwich together. “But what could I do? Play simpleminded, as best I was able. I’m afraid playacting isn’t a talent of mine.” He straightened. Slowly: “I managed to slip in a few questions of my own. I tried to make them sound like normal curiosity. He obliged. He told me something about himself and … his ancestry.”

He handed the sandwich over. Everard took it automatically. “Go on,” he mumbled, while iciness crawled over his scalp.

Again Novak stood at attention. “I had what you call a hunch, sir. I led him to speak of his family. You know how conscious of their backgrounds these aristocrats are. His father was from—Well, but his mother was a Conto of Anagni. When I heard that, I am afraid I lost my stupid mask for a minute. I said I had heard tell of a famous knight, Lorenzo de Conti, about a hundred years ago. Was that any kin of his? And, yes, sir,” Novak exploded, “Giacomo is a great-grandson of that man. Lorenzo had one legitimate child. Soon after, he went off on the Second Crusade, fell sick, and died.”

Everard stared before him. “Lorenzo again,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand this. Like some magical spell, isn’t it?” Novak shivered. “I don’t want that to be so.”

“No,” Everard answered tonelessly. “It isn’t. Nor a coincidence, I think. Blind chance, always underneath that skin we call reality—” He swallowed. “The Patrol’s dealt with nexuses, points in space-time where it’s all too easy to change the course of the world. But can’t a nexus be, not an event that does or does not happen, but a person? Lorenzo was, is, some kind of a, a lightning rod; and the lightning strikes through him onward beyond his death—what Giacomo’s meant to Frederick’s career—”

He climbed to his feet. “There’s our clue, Karel. You found it for us. Lorenzo can’t have died at Rignano. He must be active yet in that same crisis year to which we’ve sent Wanda.”

“Then we must go to her,” Novak said unsteadily. Only now, it seemed, did he see the full meaning of the fact he had unearthed.

“Of course—”

The door flew open. Everard’s heart banged. Breath hissed between Novak’s teeth.

The man who confronted them was in his forties, leanfaced, dark hair graying at the temples. His athletic body was clad for action, leather doublet over the shirt, close-fitting hose, sword naked in hand. Behind him, four men-at-arms grasped falchions and halberds.

Oh, oh, sounded in Everard’s head. School’s out. “Why, Sir Giacomo.” He remembered, barely in time, to use German. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Hold!” commanded the knight. He was fluent in the language. His blade slanted forward, ready for thrust or slash. “Stir not, either of you, or you’re dead.”

We naturally left our weapons with the palace armorer. We have our table steel And wits? “What is this, sir?” Everard blustered. “We’re guests of his Grace. Have you forgotten?”

“Quiet. Keep your hands before you. Come out in the corridor.”

It gave room for shaft weapons. The point of a halberd hovered close to Everard’s throat. A jab would kill him as effectively as a pistol shot, and much less noisily. Giacomo stepped back a few paces. “Sinibaldo, Hermann.” His voice held soft, nonetheless carried down the stone space. “Go behind them, each taking one. Remove those medallions they wear around their necks, beneath their clothes.” To the prisoners: “Resist, and you die.”

“Our communicators,” Novak whispered in Temporal. “Hall won’t know where we are or, or anything.”

“None of your secret tongues,” Giacomo snapped. With a grin whose stiffness might bespeak tightly controlled fear: “We’ll be hearing secrets aplenty from you erelong.”

“Those are reliquaries,” Everard said desperately. “Would you rob us of our sacred things? Beware God’s wrath, sir.”

“Sacred to a heresy, or to witchcraft?” Giacomo retorted. “I’ve had you watched closer than you know. You’ve been seen muttering at them, not in any way a man would pray to a saint. What were you invoking?”

“It’s an Icelandic custom.” Everard felt a hand at his neck. He felt the object slide upward across his chest, the chain pass over his head. The guardsman took his knife as well and immediately withdrew.

“We’ll find out. Come along, now. Quietly.”

“By what right do you violate the emperor’s hospitality toward us?” Everard demanded.

“You are spies, belike sorcerers. You lie about whence you came.” Giacomo lifted his free hand. “No, silence, I say.” He must, though, want to try breaking down resistance at once, by a showdown. “I had my suspicions from the first. Your tale did not quite ring true. I know somewhat about those parts you claim to be from, you who call yourself Munan. You are sly, clever enough to hoodwink Piero della Vigna, unless you are in his pay. So I called your companion to me, and from him coaxed what he knows.” A low, triumphant laugh. “What he claims he knows. You landed in Denmark, you say, Munan, and found him there, where he had been for some time. Yet he spoke of strife between the king and his brother, the king and the bishops.”

“Oh, God, sir,” Novak moaned in Temporal, “I didn’t know any better, and I tried to play ignorant, but—” Before Giacomo could tell him to shut up, he steadied himself and said in German: “Sir, I’m a plain soldier. What do I know of these things?”

“You would know whether or not there was war in the air.”

We’re so few left in the Patrol, tumbled through Everard. We couldn’t think of everything. Karel was given a rough knowledge of Danish history in this period, but it was our history, where the sons of Valdemar II fell out with each other, and the king antagonized the bishops by wanting to tax the churches to raise money for the fight. In this world, yeah, I guess Frederick, making Germany into more than an unwieldy, unstable coalition, scared the Danes so they’re hanging together.

Tears stood in Novak’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

“Not your fault,” Everard answered. You couldn’t help it that a smart, knowledgeable man trapped you. You were never recruited or trained for intelligence-type work.

“I arrest you at once, lest you work your evil,” Giacomo said. “His Grace is busied, I hear, but he shall be informed at the first opportunity, and will surely himself wish to know whom you serve and why … and if that be a foreigner.”

Piero della Vigna, Everard realized. This guy’s bitter rival. Sure, Giacomo would love to get something incriminating on Piero. And maybe his notions aren’t altogether paranoid. In the end, in my world, Frederick did decide that Piero had betrayed him.

A knowledge more chilling struck home: Giacomo, Lorenzo’s descendant. It’s as if this warped continuum were defending its existence—reaching through Lorenzo, who begot it, beyond his grave to us. He looked into Giacomo’s eyes and saw death.

“You’ve delayed overmuch,” the nobleman said. “Move!”

Everard’s shoulders slumped. “We’re innocent, sir. Let me speak with the emperor.” Fat lot of use that’ll be, except to bring on another round of torture. Where’ll we go afterward, to the gallows, the block, or the stake?

Giacomo turned and started for the stairs. Everard shambled behind, next to a more resolutely walking Novak. The two men with falchions flanked them, the halberdiers took the rear.

Everard swung his arm up. He brought the edge of that palm down in a karate chop on his right-hand guard’s neck.

At once he whirled. The halberdier at his back shouted and lowered his Weapon. Everard’s arm parried the shaft. It cost him a bruise, but then he was at close quarters. He drove the heel of his hand under the man’s nose. He felt bone splinter, driven into the brain.

Surprise, and martial arts that wouldn’t be known even in Asia for a long time to come. They weren’t sufficient by themselves. Two men-at-arms sprawled dead, dying, knocked out, whatever. The other two, and Giacomo, had bounded clear. Novak grabbed the dropped falchion. Everard went for the halberd. The second pole arm chopped. It could have taken his hand off. He jerked clear. Sparks flashed where steel hit stone.

“Help!” Giacomo shouted. “Murder! Treason! Help!” Never mind confidentiality any more. These were outlanders, commoners, who had stricken two of the emperor’s men. His remaining followers took up the cry.

Everard and Novak pelted toward the landing. Giacomo slipped aside. Along the corridor in either direction, people were emerging from rooms. “We’ll never make it like this,” Everard got out between breaths.

“You go on,” Novak rasped. “I’ll keep them busy.”

They were at the head of the stairs. He stopped, turned about, brandished his blade. “You’ll be killed,” Everard protested.

“We’ll both be if you don’t run while you have the chance, you fool. You know how to end this damned world. I don’t.” Sweat runneled over Novak’s cheeks and made his hair lank, but he grinned.

“Then it’ll never have been. You won’t exist anymore.”

“How’s that different from the usual death? Run, I tell you!” Novak crouched where he stood. His sword flickered to and fro. Giacomo harangued the men who were appearing. Others must also hear a little, on the lower level. They’d hesitate, uncertain, for a minute or two, no longer.

“God bless,” Everard choked, and sprang down the stairs. I’m not abandoning him, he pleaded before his heart. He’s right, we’ve each of us a special duty, me to bring this knowledge to the Patrol and make use of it

Knowledge smote: No! We should’ve thought of this right away, but the hurry—Once I’ve gotten to Jack, we should be able to rescue Karel. If he stays alive for the next five minutes or so. I can’t reappear any sooner, or I’d risk upsetting my own escape, and God damn it, I do have this duty.

Hang in there, Karel.

Out the rear door, into the garden. Uproar loudened behind him. He passed a young man and woman in the twilight, maybe the minnesinger and his sweetie. “Call the guards,” he told them in Italian as he pounded by. “A riot yonder. I’m off for help.” Multiply the confusion.

Approaching the gate, he slowed to a halt. The sentries there had not heard anything yet. He hoped they wouldn’t notice how he smelled. “Good evening,” he said casually and sauntered on, as if bound for a party or an assignation.

When beyond their view, he took to the byways. Dusk deepened. He could reach a city portal before closing time and, if questioned, talk his way through. He wasn’t glib by nature, but he’d learned assorted fox-tricks, as Karel never did. By morning the hunt for him would be ranging across the countryside. He’d need his woodcraft, and probably two or three days, to stay free till he reached the dell where Jack Hall waited—by then, worried half loco. After that, he thought, things will really get hairy.

1146 A. D.

I

“Tamberly checking in. Volstrup isn’t here, he’s with some of the men guests, but I’m alone in our room and taking this chance to call. We’re both okay.”

“Hi, Wanda.”

“Manse! Is that you? How are you? How’ve you been? Oh, it’s good to hear your voice!”

“And yours, honey. I’m here with Agop Mikelian, your contact. Will you have a few uninterrupted minutes?”

“Should. Wait, I’ll bar the door to make certain…. Manse, listen, we’ve found out that Lorenzo de Conti is alive and getting set to marry—”

“I know. And I’ve confirmed uptime that he’s the figure on whom everything turns, has been turning and will be, unless we put a stop to it. The information damn near cost Karel Novak his life.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, he covered my retreat. Once I’d reached the hopper, Jack and I doubled back downtime and snatched him out of the fracas he was in. That isn’t a history we care about preserving.”

“Your tone of voice—It was a near thing for you, wasn’t it, Manse?”

“Never mind. I’m unhurt, if that’s what’s fretting you. Tell you all about it later. Have you anything new to report?”

“Well, uh, yesterday Bartolommeo Conti de Segni arrived, as per invitation.”

“Huh?”

“You remember, don’t you? You’re the one who told me about him. He’s a cousin or something. Young, bachelor. Seems in a pretty sour mood. My impression is, he’d hoped to marry Ilaria. It’d be a useful alliance for his family.”

“That figures. He’s got to be the man who did marry her, in our history, and fathered Pope Gregory. What we have to do is clear Lorenzo out of the way. Fast. I hear the wedding’s set for next week.—Wanda? Wanda?”

“Yes. I—Manse, you aren’t thinking … you can’t be—to off him?”

“I hate the notion too. Have we any choice, though? It can be instant, painless, not a mark on the body; neural projector, stop his heart, like switching off a light. Everybody will suppose it was natural. They’ll grieve, but life will go on. Our people’s life, Wanda.”

“No. Prevent this marriage of his, sure. We must be able to finagle that somehow. But murder him? I, I can’t believe that’s you talking.”

“I wish to God it weren’t.”

“Then talk different, damn you.”

“Wanda, listen. He’s too dangerous. It isn’t his fault, but I discovered at Frederick’s court he’s the focus of, of chaos. So many world lines come together with his that—even his great-grandson nearly ruined our mission; would have, except for Karel. Lorenzo’s got to go.”

“You listen, Manson Everard. Kidnap him or what-lever, fine—”

“What kind of trouble might his sudden disappearance bring on? I tell you, the entire future is balanced in Anagni this month. On him. I didn’t know any better, so I didn’t make sure of him at Rignano, and look what’s come of that. We’ve no right to take any more unnecessary chances. Don’t forget, I like him. This hurts like cancer.”

“Shut up. Let me finish. I’m in a position to help you pull off a smooth operation. I don’t think you can do it without me. And you better not think I’ll make myself a party to murder. He—we can’t—”

“Hey, Wanda, don’t cry.”

“I’m not! I, I—Okay, Ev-Ev-Everard. Take it or leave it. Haul me up for insubordination if you want. Whatever they do to me, I ought to have a lot of years left to spend despising you.”

“Manse? Are … you there yet?”

“Yeah. Been thinking. Look, I’m not so weak or selfish I can’t shoulder guilt if necessary. But will you believe me when I say it’d have been easier to die there with Karel? If we really can find some other way that doesn’t spawn still a third monster, why, Wanda, I’ll be in your debt to the bounds of infinity and the end of eternity.”

“Manse, Manse! I knew you’d agree!”

“Easy, gal. No promises, except to try my damnedest. We’ll see what we can figure out. Suggestions?”

“I’ll have to think. It, uh, it’s a question of what will work on him, isn’t it? His psychology. Intuitive stuff. But I have gotten to know him pretty well.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s been giving me quite a play. I’ve never had my virtue more delightfully threatened.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you see, that’s why I can’t go along with—If he were just a charming rascal, I might. But he’s for real. Honest, brave, loyal, no matter how wrongheaded his causes may be; not well educated by our standards, but with as much life between his ears as any man I’ve ever met.”

“Well, let’s both consider how we might use these many qualities of his, and get back to each other tomorrow.”

“Why, Manse! Did I catch a note of jealousy?”

II

Master Emilius van Waterloo explained that he was indisposed and had best take to his bed. He wished to make certain he would be in condition to attend the wedding mass and feast three days hence. Sir Lorenzo found goodwife Walburga moping in the solarium. “Wherefore so disconsolate, my lady?” he asked. “Surely it’s but a slight malady your man suffers.”

“God willing.” She sighed. “But—forgive my worldliness—I looked forward more than you know to that outing you spoke of.”

“I understand.” His gaze ranged over her. Flowing garb did not hide litheness and fullness. From beneath the headcovering peeped a lock or two of golden hair. “One such as you, youthful, far-traveled, must come to feel penned between these walls amidst the clucking of lesser women. I too, Walburga, often and often.”

She regarded him wistfully. “You see deeper and kindlier than I would ever have thought a great warrior could.”

He smiled. “Well, later I’ll take you forth, I swear.”

“Alas, make no promises you cannot keep. You shall be wedded, with better duties, while we—we must not presume longer on your father. Straightaway after the joyous day, we start homeward.” Tamberly dropped her glance. “I will always remember.”

“Uhm, uhm!” He cleared his throat. “My lady, if this is improper, tell me, but … perhaps you might grant me the pleasure of escorting you, at least, tomorrow?”

“Oh, you—You overwhelm me, sir.” Am I laying it on too thick? How should I know? He doesn’t seem to mind. “Surely your time is more valuable than—No, but I’ve come to know you somewhat. You say what you mean. Yes, I’ll ask my husband, and believe he will be pleased and honored. Though not as much as me.”

Lorenzo flourished a bow. “Threefold are the pleasure and honor mine.”

They talked on, merrily, till evening. Conversation with him was easy to maintain, despite his curiosity about the lands she claimed to have come from and to have seen. Like practically every man, he could be steered onto discoursing of himself. Unlike most, he made it interesting.

When at length she returned to her quarters, she found Volstrup staring at the ceiling by the light of a single candle. “How goes it?” she asked in Temporal.

“Incredibly tediously,” he answered. “I never before appreciated what a blessing printing, an abundance of books, is.” Wryly: “Well, needs must. I have thoughts for company.” He sat up. Excitement trembled: “What have you to tell?”

She laughed. “Exactly what we hoped. He’ll take me out to the woods in the morning. If you give permission, of course.”

“I doubt he expects me to object. It’s obvious that I’ve gained a reputation for, m-m, complaisance.” The little man wrinkled his brows. “But you, aren’t you afraid at all? Do be careful. Matters can too quickly get out of hand.”

“No, I am not afraid, unless afraid that they won’t.”

Did he blush? The light was too dim to be sure. Shameless hussy, he must be thinking. Poor guy. Suddenly I wonder how easy this sleep-naked-beside-but don’t-touch business has been for him. Well, one way or another, by tomorrow we should be about at the end of it.

Tamberly’s skin tingled. Taking forth her communicator, she called Everard. They spoke fast and to the point.

Odd, how readily she fell asleep. It was a light sleep, alive with dreams, but at dawn she woke refreshed. “Loaded for bear!” she exclaimed.

“Pardon me?” asked Volstrup.

“Nothing. Wish me luck.” When she was prepared to leave, impulse took hold. She leaned over and brushed lips across his. “Take care, old dear.”

Lorenzo waited downstairs, at a table whereon was set the usual meager, coffeeless breakfast. “We will eat better at midday,” he promised. Blitheness danced in his voice. Every gesture was full of the Italian extravagance and grace. “A shame, that no eyes but mine shall savor the feast you spread for them; yet am I selfishly glad of it.”

“Please, sir, you grow bold.” Would a medieval Flemish woman really talk like a Victorian novel? Well, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Bold in the cause of truth, my lady.”

As a matter of fact, Tamberly had taken some trouble with her riding habit, lacing the bodice tighter than was quite comfortable, arranging the drape of sleeves and skirts just so; and blue was her best color. She didn’t look as dashing as Lorenzo—elbow-length red cape over richly embroidered gold-and-green tunic halfway to the knees, sword at bronze-buckled belt of chased leather, russet hose (matching his eyes) cut to bring out the shapeliness of thigh and calf, curly-toed red shoes—but she was no drab little hen to his rooster, either.

A stab of pity: Poor Ilaria. Quiet, shy, sort of homely, meant for a pledge of alliance, a mother, a chatelaine; and here I come along and take up most of her betrothed’s attention. … But it’s nothing remarkable in this day and age; and maybe I’m kidding myself, but I’ve gotten a body-language impression that Bartolommeo does care about her as a person, at least a little bit; and—and whatever happens, I am not conniving at an assassination.

Horses were ready in the street outside. Lorenzo had spoken imprecisely when he implied lunch would be tête-á-tête. Even here, that would occasion some scandal. Two attendants, man and wife, were in charge of supplies and of service in general. Sometime during the day, Tamberly needed to be alone with the knight. If he didn’t take the initiative about that, she must, and wasn’t sure how. Preferring her relationships straightforward, she had never gone in for seductiveness. But she didn’t believe it would be required.

Still, when she mounted and settled herself—no prissiness about sidesaddles—it didn’t hurt to show a little snugly stockinged leg, did it?

Hoofs clattered on cobbles. As they left the city gates and city smells behind, Tamberly caught her breath. Sunlight torrented from the east. Downhill the land tumbled away in heights and hollows, brightness and shadow, valley where streams threaded with silver a patchwork quilt of fields, orchards, vineyards. Villages nestled white. She glimpsed two distant castles. Above and beyond the farms, wild brown pasture mingled with remnants of forest, among whose greens lay the first faint tints of autumn. Birds winged and cried multitudinous overhead. The air was cool but rapidly warming, overwhelmingly pure.

“How beautiful,” Tamberly said. “We have nothing like this in our flat Flanders.” We do in my California.

“I will show you a glen where a waterfall sings and little fishes play beneath like shooting stars,” Lorenzo replied. “The trees are pillars and arches whereunder you will think you spy wood nymphs aflit. Who knows? Perhaps they linger in that place.”

Tamberly recalled Everard remarking that people in the Dark Ages had little appreciation of nature. By the high Middle Ages, it was tamed enough for them to enjoy. Maybe Lorenzo was a bit ahead of his time…. Everard—She thrust guilt from her. Tension, too. Be Zen. Take this pleasure you’ve got around you while it lasts. Let the duty lying ahead do no more than sharpen it After all, what a challenge!

Lorenzo whooped. He touched heels to his mount and started off at a reckless canter. Tamberly kept up. She was a pretty good rider herself. Soon they must have mercy on the servants bouncing behind and slow down. They looked at each other and laughed.

Time went, along winding trails, in rhythms of muscle and deep-drawn breath, creak and jingle, tang from leather and sweat and woodland, vistas intimate or enormous, brief words and, from him, longer snatches of song. “In green and in joy did we lie. ‘Tilirra!’ the nightingale—”

She judged that about two hours had passed when he reined in. The forest path they were following passed a meadow where a brook tinkled. “Here shall we take our repast,” he said.

Tamberly’s pulse briefly wavered. “But it’s early yet.”

“I meant not to ride us saddlesore. Rather, I would fain give you close memories of our land to take home.”

With a conscious effort, Tamberly fluttered her lashes. “As my guide wishes. You have never chosen ill, sir.”

“If I do well, it is because the company inspires me.” He swung from his seat and reached a hand to help her dismount. The clasp lingered. “Marco, Bianca,” he directed, “prepare things, but you may take your ease about it. I mean first to show my lady the Apollo bower. She may well desire to stay a while.”

“Master commands,” the man sáid impassively. The woman bobbed and couldn’t quite suppress a giggle. Yes, they knew what Sir Lorenzo intended, and that they’d better keep mouths shut afterward.

He offered Tamberly his arm. They strolled away. She put hesitancy into her tone. “The bower of Apollo, sir? Isn’t that … heathen?”

“Oh, no doubt it was sacred to some god in olden times, and if that wasn’t Apollo it should have been,” her companion replied. “Thus young folk name it these days, for the sun and life, beauty and happiness there. We, though, should have it to ourselves. Surely the next who come will find a new magic.”

He continued stringing out his line as they walked. She’d heard much worse. He also had the wit to fall silent now and then, letting her savor the unquestionable charm of the path. Narrow, so that they must go close together, it followed the streambed uphill. Trunks soared to a ceiling of yellow and gold. Sunbeams flecked shade. This late in the year, birdsong was ended, but she heard calls, while squirrels darted fiery and once a deer bolted. The morning grew steadily warmer; the trail steepened. He helped her doff her mantle and folded it over his left arm.

A clear, rushing sound grew louder. They came into another opening. Tamberly clapped palms together and cried out in genuine delight. Beyond, the water tumbled and sparkled down a bluff. Woods ringed and partly roofed the glade through which it ran onward. Turf on either side remained green and soft, richly edged with moss. “Well,” Lorenzo asked, “have I redeemed my promise?”

“A thousand times over.”

“To hear you say that pleases me more than a battlefield victory. Come, drink if you are thirsty, sit down”—Lorenzo spread her cloak on the ground—“and we will thank God for His bounty by taking our pleasure in it.”

I think he means that, flitted through her. He does have his very serious side; yes, real depths in him, which it would be … interesting to explore. She chuckled inwardly, dryly. However, the observance he has in mind today is not religious, and that cloth isn’t laid for purposes of sitting on.

Tension seized her. This is the time!

Lorenzo gave her a close regard. “My lady, are you faint? You’ve turned pale.” He took her hand. “Rest yourself. We need not go back for hours.”

Tamberly shook her head. “No, I thank you, I am quite well.” She realized she was muttering and raised her voice. “Bear with me a moment. I’ve vowed a daily devotion to my patron saint while on this journey.” Sending a slow look his way: “If I perform it not at once, I fear I might forget later.”

“Why, of course.” He stood aside and took his plumed cap off.

For this occasion she had been wearing her communicator out in the open. She raised the disc to her lips and thumbed the switch. “Wanda here,” she said in American English; Temporal sounded too alien. She heard her heartbeat louder than the words. “I think the situation is set up, just about how we hoped. He and I are alone in the hills and, well, if he isn’t pawing the ground it’s because his tactics are smoother than that. Get a fix on my location and give me, m-m, let’s say fifteen minutes for things to get lively. Okay?” Not that Everard could respond without derailing the plan. “Out.” She switched off, lowered the medallion, bowed her head, crossed herself. “Amen.”

Lorenzo made the sign likewise. “Was that your native tongue wherein you prayed?” he asked.

Tamberly nodded. “The dialect of my childhood. It feels more, more comfortable thus. Mine is a motherly saint.” She laughed. “I feel purified enough to be ready for mischief.”

He frowned. “Beware. That edges the Catharist heresy.”

“I did but jest, my lord.”

He put his doctrines aside and smiled like the sunshine on the water. “Yon’s an unusual badge. Has it a relic inside? May I see?”

Taking consent for granted, he laid hold of the chain, his fingers brushing across her breasts, and lifted it over her head. The case bore in low relief a cross on one side, a crozier and flask on the other. “Exquisite work,” he murmured. “Almost worthy of the wearer.” He hung it from a nearby twig.

Unease touched her. “If you please, sir.” She moved to retrieve the thing.

He moved into her way. “You don’t want it back immediately, do you?” he purred. “No, you’re overdressed for this air, I see perspiration on that white skin; let me help you to freshness.”

His palms cradled her cheeks, slid along them, displaced the cloth that covered her head. “What gold blazes forth,” he breathed, and drew her to him.

“My lord,” she gasped as a proper woman ought, “what is this? Bethink you—” She kept back the martial arts, and strained only slightly against his strength. His body was hard and supple. The musk on his breath, the springiness of mustache and beard, made awareness whirl. He knew how to kiss, he did.

“No,” she protested weakly when his mouth strayed down her throat, “this is wrong, it’s mortal sin. Let me go, I pray you.”

“It is right, natural, my fate and yours,” he insisted. “Walburga, Walburga, your beauty has raised me to the gates of Heaven. Cast me not thence into hell.”

“But I, I must depart erelong—”

“Cherishing forever the same memories that shall bear me onward through the crusade and the rest of my days on earth. Deny not Cupid, here in his own abode.”

How often has he said the same? He’s practiced in it, all right. Does he mean it? Well, a little, I suppose. And, and I’ve got to keep him on the hook till Manse arrives with the gaff. Whatever that takes. I thought fifteen minutes was safe, but golly, this is like shooting rapids.

Before long—though time was a tumult—she didn’t beg him to stop. She did try to keep his hands from going quite everywhere. That effort faded fast. Suddenly she noticed they were down on the cloak and he was ruffling her skirts past her knees and well, if this is how it is, I could make a lot worse sacrifices for the cause.

Air banged. “Sinner, beware!” roared Everard. “Hell gapes for you!”

Lorenzo rolled clear of Tamberly and bounded to his feet. Her first, confused thought was, Oh, damn. She sat up, too shaky and pulse-pounding to rise immediately.

Everard brought his timecycle to earth, got off, and loomed. A white robe covered his burliness. Great wings rose iridescent-feathered from his shoulders. Radiance framed his head. He was almighty homely for an angel, she confessed; but maybe that gave a convincing force to the illusions that a Patrol photon twister generated.

The crucifix in his right hand was solid. Within it, she knew, was embedded a stun gun. He’d told her he probably wouldn’t need the weapon. Their badger game ought to work. He and Keith Denison had pulled a similar stunt in ancient Iran, and thereby straightened out a lesser historical mess than this.

“Lorenzo de Conti, most wicked among men,” he intoned in Umbrian, “would you besmirch the honor of your guests on the very eve of your wedding to a pure and trusting maiden? Know that you damn far more than your wretched self.”

The knight lurched back, aghast. “I meant no harm!” he wailed. “The woman tempted me!”

Tamberly decided that disappointment was an inappropriate reaction.

Lorenzo forced his gaze to Everard’s countenance. He had never seen it before, though the Patrolman knew his well, from a time line annulled. He doubled his fists, squared his shoulders, drew a sobbing breath. “No,” he said. “I spoke falsely. The fault is none of hers. I lured her here intending sin. Let the punishment be mine alone.”

Tears stung Tamberly’s eyes. I’m twice as glad we’re letting him live.

“Well spoken,” Everard declared, poker-faced. “It shall be remembered when judgment is passed.”

Lorenzo wet his lips. “But, but why us—me?” he croaked. “The thing must happen a thousand times daily around the world. Why does Heaven care so much? Is she—is she a saint?”

“That is a question for God,” Everard answered.

“You, Lorenzo, have transgressed greatly because His intentions for you were great. The Holy Land is falling to the paynim and in danger of being altogether lost because those Christians who have held it under Him have fallen from righteousness, until their presence profanes the sacred shrines. How can a sinner redeem them?”

The knight staggered where he stood. “Do you mean that I—”

“You are called to the crusade. You could have waited, preparing your soul within the peace of matrimony, until the German king marches. Now your penance is that you renounce this bridal and go to him at once.”

“Oh, no—”

A terrible disruption and fuss, especially if he dares not explain why to anybody but his priest. Poor, spurned Il-aria. Poor old Cencio. I wish we could’ve done this different. Tamberly had proposed taking Lorenzo back in time and making him decline the proffered marriage at the outset. Everard had responded, “Don’t you understand yet how precarious the balance of events is? You’ve talked me into the biggest gamble I can possibly square with my conscience.”

To Lorenzo: “You have your orders, soldier. Obey them, and thank God for His mercy.”

The man stood still an instant. Something cold stirred along Tamberly’s nerves. He was a child of his era, but tough and smart and not naive about human things. “On your knees!” she urged, and rose to hers, hands clasped before her.

“Yes. Yes.” He stumbled toward the angelic form. “God show me what is right. Christ strengthen my will and my sword arm.”

He knelt before Everard, clasped the Patrolman’s legs, laid his head against the shining robe.

“Enough,” said Everard awkwardly. “Go and sin no more.”

Lorenzo released him, lifted his arms as if to implore. Then in an instant he brought his left hand down, a vicious chop, across Everard’s right knuckles. The crucifix spun free of that grasp. Lorenzo well-nigh flew erect, leaped back. His blade hissed from the sheath. Sunlight burned along the steel.

“Angel?” he shouted. “Or demon?”

“What the hell?” Everard moved to regain his stunner.

Lorenzo pounced, blocked the way. “Hold where you are, or I hew,” rattled from him. “Say forth … your true nature … and be gone to your rightful place.”

Everard braced himself. “Dare you defy Heaven’s messenger?”

“No. If that is what you are. God help me, I must know.”

It whirled through Tamberly: He’s alerted. How? I do recall, yes, Manse said there are stories about devils disguising themselves to entrap people, yes, even taking on the appearance of Jesus. If Lorenzo got a suspicion—

“Merely behold me,” Everard said.

“I have felt you,” Lorenzo snarled.

Uh-huh, Tamberly realized. Angels aren’t supposed to have genitals, are they? Oh, we’re dealing with somebody brilliant as well as fearless. No wonder the whole future turns on him.

She went to all fours. The stunner lay about ten feet from her. If Everard could hold Lorenzo’s attention while she sneaked across to it, maybe they could still save their plan.

“Why should Satan want you to go on crusade?” the Patrolman argued.

“Lest I be of service here? If Roger the wolf decides to rob us of more than Sicily?” Lorenzo looked skyward. “Lord,” he appealed, “am I in error? Grant me a sign.”

Manse can’t so much as flap those wings.

Everard darted for his vehicle. On it he’d be in control of everything. Lorenzo yelled, sprang at him, slashed. Everard barely dodged. Blood welled over the torn robe, from a cut deep in his right shoulder and down the chest.

“There’s my sign!” Lorenzo howled. “No demon, you, nor angel. Die, wizard!”

His rush sent Everard in retreat from the cycle, with not a second free to take out his communicator and summon help. Tamberly scrambled for the stunner. She laid hands around it, jumped to her feet, found that she didn’t know how to work it in its disguise.

“You too?” screamed Lorenzo. “Witch!”

He bounded at her. The sword flamed on high. Fury writhed inhuman over the face.

Everard attacked. His right arm lamed, he had only time before the blade fell to hit with his left fist. The blow smote under the angle of the jaw, all his muscle and desperation behind it. A crack resounded.

The sword arced loose, glittering like water flung down the fall. Lorenzo went a yard, bonelessly tossed, before he crashed.

“Are you okay, Wanda?” jerked out of Everard’s throat.

“Yes, I, I’m not hurt, but—him?”

They went to see. Lorenzo lay crumpled, unstirring, eyes wide to the sky. The mouth hung horribly open, tongue protruding above a displaced chin. His head was cocked at a nasty angle.

Everard hunkered down, examined him, rose. “Dead,” he told her slowly. “Broken neck. I didn’t intend that. But he’d’ve killed you.”

“And you. Oh, Manse.” She laid her head on his bloody breast. His left arm embraced her.

After a while he said, “I’ve got to return to base and have them patch me up before I pass out.”

“Can you … take him along?”

“And get him revived and repaired? No. Too dangerous in every way. This surprise we’ve had—it should never have happened. Hardly made sense, did it? But … the tide was carrying him … trying to preserve its twisted future—Let’s hope we’ve broken the spell at last.”

He moved unsteadily toward the cycle. His words came ever more harsh and faint, through lips turning grayish. “If it’ll help you any, Wanda—I didn’t tell you before, but in … the Frederick world … when he went crusading, he died of sickness. I suspect … he would’ve … again. Fever, vomiting, diarrhea, helplessness. He deserved this way, no?”

Everard let Tamberly assist him into the saddle. A little strength returned to his voice. “You’ve got to play the game out. Run back screaming. Tell how you were set upon by robbers. The blood—He’ll’ve wounded one or two. Since you escaped, they decided they’d better scram. People will honor his memory in Anagni. He died like a knight, defending a lady.”

“Uh-huh.” And Bartolommeo will press his suit, and before long marry the hero’s sorrowing bride. “Just a minute.” She scampered to the sword, brought it back, rubbed it over his red-drenched garment. “Bandit blood.”

He smiled a bit. “Bright girl,” he whispered.

“On your way, boy. Quick.” She gave him a hasty kiss and moved backward. Vehicle and man vanished.

She stood alone with the corpse and the sun, the sword yet in her clasp. I’m sort of gory myself, she thought in a remote fashion. Setting her teeth, she made a pair of superficial cuts above her left ribs. Nobody would examine or question her closely. Detective methods belonged to the distant morrow, her tomorrow, if it existed. In Cencio’s house grief would overwhelm thought, until pride brought its stern consolations.

She knelt, closed Lorenzo’s fingers around the hilt, wanted to shut the eyes but decided better not. “Goodbye,” she said under her breath. “If there is a God, I hope He makes this up to you.”

Rising, she started back toward the meadow and the tasks that still awaited her.

1990 A. D.

He phoned her at her parents’ house, where she was spending her furlough. She didn’t want him to call for her there. It already hurt, lying as much as she must. They met downtown next morning, in the anachronistic opulence of the St. Francis Hotel lobby. For a moment they stood, hands joined, looking.

“I think you want to get away,” he finally said.

“Yes,” she admitted. “If we could be somewhere in the open?”

“Good idea.” He smiled. “I see you’re wearing warm clothes and brought a jacket. Me too.”

He had a car in the Union Square garage. They spoke little while they bucked through traffic and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge “You’re fully recovered?” she asked once.

“Yes, yes,” he assured her. “Long since. It took me several weeks of lifespan before things were reorganized enough that I could take this leave.”

“History is back as it ought to be? Everywhere and everywhen?”

“So I am told, and what I’ve seen for myself bears it out.” Everard glanced from the steering wheel to her. Sharply: “Have you noticed any difference?”

“No, none, and I came here … watchful, afraid.”

“Like maybe you’d find your father an alcoholic or your sister never born or something? You needn’t have worried. The continuum doesn’t take long to regain its form, right down to the finest details.’ That didn’t really make sense in English, but by tacit agreement they were avoiding Temporal. “And the crux of what happened—what we kept from happening—lies eight hundred years behind us.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound overjoyed.”

“I am—I’m glad, grateful, you’ve come to me this soon on my own lifeline.”

“Well, you told me the date you’d arrive. I figured I should allow you a couple of days to be with your folks and unwind. Doesn’t seem you have.”

“Could we talk later?” Tamberly switched the radio on and tuned in to KDFC. Mozart lilted around them.

Today was a midweek early in January, overcast and chill. When they reached Highway One, theirs was almost the sole car winding north upon it. In Olema they bought a takeout lunch of sandwiches and beer. At Point Reyes Station he turned into the national seashore. Beyond Inverness they had the great sweep of land practically to themselves. He parked at the coast. They made their way down to the beach and walked along it. Her hand found his.

“What’s haunting you?” he asked after a while.

“You know, Manse,” she said, “you observe a lot more and a lot closer than you let on.”

The wind nearly stole her words from him, as low as they were. It shrilled and boomed above rumbling surf, sheathed faces in cold, laid salt on lips, ruffled hair. Gulls took off, soared, mewed. The tide was flowing but had not yet come far in and they walked on the darkened solidity of the wet sand. Occasionally underfoot a shell crunched, a kelp bladder popped. On their right, and immensely ahead and behind, dry dunes lapped the cliffs. On their left the maned waves marched inward from the edge of sight. A single ship yonder looked very alone. The world was all whites and silvery grays.

“Naw, I’m just an old roughneck,” Everard said. “You’re the sensitive one.” He hesitated. “Lorenzo—is that the trouble? The first violent death, maybe the first death of any kind, of a human, that you ever saw?”

She nodded. Her neck felt stiff.

“I thought so,” he said. “It’s always hideous. You know, that’s what’s obscene about the violence on the screens these days. They gloat over the messiness, like Romans watching gladiators, but they ignore—maybe the producers are too stupid to imagine, maybe they haven’t the balls to imagine—the real meaning. Which is a life, a mind, a whole world of awareness, stamped out, forever.”

Tamberly shivered.

“Nevertheless,” Everard went on, “I’ve killed before, and probably I will again. I wish to Christ things were otherwise, but they aren’t, and I can’t afford to brood over it. Nor can you. Sure, you’d grown fond of Lorenzo. So had I. We wanted to spare his life. We believed we could. Things got away from us. And our first duty was, is, to everybody and everything we really love. Right? Okay, Wanda, you’ve had a horrible experience, but you came through like a trouper, and you’re too healthy not to start putting it behind you.”

She stared down the empty miles before her. “I know,” she answered. “I’m doing that much.”

“But?”

“But we didn’t only kill a man—cause his death—get ourselves involved in his death. We destroyed how many hundreds of billions?”

“And restored how many? Wanda, those worlds we saw never existed. We and some others in the Patrol carry memories; a few of us carry scars; a few lost their own lives. Regardless, what we remember has not happened. We didn’t actually abort the different futures. That’s the wrong word. We kept them from ever being conceived.”

She clung to his hand. “That’s the horror that won’t leave me,” she said thinly. “At first it was theory, something they taught at the Academy along with a lot else that was much more understandable. Now I’ve felt it. If everything is random and causeless—if there is nothing out there, no firm reality, only a mathematical shadow show that for all we can tell keeps changing and changing and changing, with us not even dreams within it—”

Her voice had been rising into the wind. She snapped it off, gulped air, strode hard.

Everard bit his lip. “Not easy,” he agreed. “You’ll have to learn to accept how little we know and how much less we can ever be sure of.”

They jarred to a halt. Where had the stranger been? They should have seen him from the first, he too walking by the shore, slowly, hands folded, gazing out to sea and then down to the small relics of life strewn on the beach.

“Good day,” he said.

The greeting was soft, melodious, its English bearing an accent they couldn’t identify. Nor were they certain, at second glance, that this was a man. A robe, cowled like a Christian monk’s, dull yellow like a Buddhist’s, enveloped a medium-sized frame. The face was not epicene—strong-boned, full-lipped, slightly aged—but it might be either male or female, as might the voice. Nor was the race clear; he, if he it was, seemed to blend white, black, Oriental, and more in harmony.

Everard drew a long breath. He let go of Tamberly’s hand. For an instant his fists doubled. He opened them and stood not quite at attention. “How do you do,” he said tonelessly.

Did the stranger address the woman more than him? “Your pardon.” How mild was the smile. “I overheard your conversation. May I suggest a few thoughts?”

“You’re of the Patrol,” she whispered. “You’ve got to be, or you wouldn’t have heard, nor known what it meant.”

A barely perceptible shrug. Quiet, calm: “In these times, as in many elsewhen, moral relativism is the sin that besets folk of goodwill. They should realize, taking an example familiar today, that the death, maiming, and destruction of the Second World War were evil; so were the new tyrannies it seeded; and yet the breaking of Hitler and his allies was necessary. Humans being what they are, there is always more evil than good, more sorrow than joy; but that makes it the more needful to protect and nourish whatever gives worth to our lives.

“Some evolutions are, on balance, better than others. This is simply a fact, like the fact that some stars shine brighter than others. You have seen a Western civilization in which the Church engulfed the state, and one in which the state engulfed the Church. What you have rescued is that fruitful tension between Church and state out of which, despite every pettiness, blunder, corruption, farce, and tragedy—out of which grew the first real knowledge of the universe and the first strong ideal of liberty. For what you did, be neither arrogant nor guilt-laden; be glad.”

The wind cried, the sea growled nearer.

Tamberly had never seen Everard so shaken. Somehow the word he used was right: “Rabbi, was this, this thing we went through, was it truly an accident, a quirk in the flux, that we, we had to straighten out?”

“It was. Komozino explained matters to you correctly, as far as you and she are capable of comprehension.” More toward Tamberly: “Think, if you wish, of diffraction, waves reinforcing here and canceling there to make rainbow rings. It is incessant, but normally on the human level it is imperceptible. When it chanced to converge powerfully on Lorenzo de Conti, yes, then that became like a kind of fate. Do not let it overawe you that you, exercising your free will, have overcome doom itself.”

She, with her background, though she knew not what she confronted, begged, “Sensei, tell me. Is that the meaning?”

A smile, a gentleness beneath which lay steel and lightning: “Yes. In a reality forever liable to chaos, the Patrol is the stabilizing element, holding time to a single course. Perhaps it is not the best course, but we are no gods to impose anything different when we know that it does at last take us beyond what our animal selves could have imagined. In truth, left untended, events would inevitably move toward the worse. A cosmos of random changes must be senseless, ultimately self-destructive. In it could be no freedom.

“Has the universe therefore brought forth sentience, in order to protect and give purpose to its own existence? That is not an answerable question.

“But take heart. Reality is. You are among those who guard it.”

A hand lifted. “Blessing.”

Everard and Tamberly stood alone.

They knew not whether she crept into his arms or he into hers. For a long time while they were in the salt wind and the warmth of each other. Finally she dared ask, “Was that?” and he answered, “Yes, surely. A Danellian. I’ve only met one a single time before, and that was only for a minute. You’ve been honored, Wanda. Never forget.”

“I shan’t. I have back—what I need to live by and live for.”

They separated and were another while silent, moveless, beside the ocean. Then she tossed her head, laughed aloud, and cried, “Hey, boy, let’s get down off this high horse. We are mere humans, aren’t we? How about we enjoy it?”

His mirth, a little defensive still but not wholly, joined hers. “Yes, right, I’m hungry as a bear.” All at once shy: “What’d you like to do after lunch?”

Quite steadily, she told him: “Phone home to say I’ll be gone a few days. Buy toothbrushes and stuff. Winter or no, this is a lovely coast, Manse. Let me show you.”

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Also by Poul Anderson

SCIENCE FICTION

The Psychotechnic League

1. Star Ways (also known as The Peregrine) (1956)

2. The Snows of Ganymede (1958)

3. Virgin Planet (1959)

4. Cold Victory (1982)

5. Starship (1982)

Polesotechnic League

1. Trader to the Stars (1964)

2. The Trouble Twisters (features David Falkayn, not Van Rijn) (1966)

3. Satan’s World (1969)

4. The Earth Book of Stormgate (1978)

5. The Man Who Counts (revised and edited version of War of the Wing-Men) (1958)

6. Mirkheim (1977)

7. The People of the Wind

Terran Empire period of Dominic Flandry

1. Ensign Flandry (1966)

2. A Circus of Hells (1970)

3. The Rebel Worlds (1969)

4. The Day of Their Return (1973)

5. Agent of the Terran Empire (1965

6. Flandry of Terra (1965)

7. A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows (1974)

8. A Stone in Heaven (1979)

9. The Game of Empire (1985)

10. The Long Night

11. Let the Spacemen Beware (1963)

Time Patrol

1. The Shield of Time (1990)

2. Time Patrol (2006).

History of Rustum

1. Orbit Unlimited (1961)

2. New America (1982)]

Maurai

1. Maurai and Kith (1982

2. Orion Shall Rise (1983)

Kith

Starfarers (1998)

Harvest of Stars

1. Harvest of Stars (1993)

2. The Stars Are Also Fire (1994)

3. Harvest the Fire (1995)

4. The Fleet of Stars (1997)

Hoka (with Gordon R. Dickson)

1. Earthman’s Burden (1957)

2. Star Prince Charlie (1975)

3. Hoka! (1983)

Operation Otherworld

1. Operation Chaos (1971)

2. Operation Luna (1999)

Other SF

Vault of the Ages (1952)

Brain Wave (1954)

Question and Answer (also known as Planet of No Return) (1954)

No World of Their Own (1955)

The Long Way Home (1958)

War of Two Worlds (1959)

The Enemy Stars (1959)

The High Crusade (1960)

Twilight World (1961)

After Doomsday (1962)

The Makeshift Rocket (1962)

Shield (1962)

Three Worlds to Conquer (1964)

The Corridors of Time (1965)

The Star Fox (1965)

World Without Stars (1966)

Tau Zero (1970)

The Byworlder (1971)

The Dancer from Atlantis (1971)

There Will Be Time (1972)

Fire Time (1974)

The Winter of the World (1975)

The Avatar (1978)

The Boat of a Million Years (1989)

The Saturn Game (1989)

The Longest Voyage (1991)

Genesis (2000)

For Love and Glory (2003)

FANTASY

King of Ys (with Karen Anderson)

1. Roma Mater (1986)

2. Gallicenae (1987)

3. Dahut (1987)

4. The Dog and the Wolf (1988)

Other Fantasy

Three Hearts and Three Lions (1953)

The Broken Sword (1954, revised in 1971)

Hrolf Kraki’s Saga (1973)

A Midsummer Tempest (1974)

The Merman’s Children (1979)

The Devil’s Game (1980)

War of the Gods (1997)

Mother of Kings (2001)

Dedication

TO FELICE AND BLAKE

Poul Anderson

Poul William Anderson (1926 – 2001) was born in Pennsylvania to Scandinavian parents. His family lived for a time in Denmark but moved back to the United States after the outbreak of the Second World War. They settled in Minnesota, where Anderson received a degree in physics from the University of Minnesota.

Anderson began writing while still an undergraduate and published his first story in 1947. He was active throughout the second half of the twentieth century, producing such classic works as the Dominic Flandry books and The High Crusade, and winning multiple Hugo and Nebula awards. He has served as President of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and was a founding member of the Society for Creative Anachronism. In 1998 he was named an SFWA Grand Master. He collaborated regularly with wife, Karen, and their daughter is married to noted SF writer Greg Bear. Poul Anderson died in July 2001.

Copyright

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright © Trigonier Trust 1990

All rights reserved.

The right of Poul Anderson to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2011 by

Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 10892 9

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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