The Year of the Ransom

11 May 2937 B.C.

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

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

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

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

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