Time, the eternal enemy, was sharpening its sword—he could hear the grating of the file as it moved down the blade. Soon a veiled arm would swing and the end would come. He would have failed.
Roland Thompson shivered and clutched his fur cape a little tighter. But the perpetual cold groped around this cloth obstacle and stroked him with its deadly, icy fingers. He would have exchanged without hesitation all his Twenty First Century possessions for one good arctic parka now.
Eight days were left. He had already squandered half of his allotted time. It was difficult to believe, as he sat here in these mountains, that the fate of a country three thousand miles and fourteen thousand years away might depend upon his success… or failure.
Thompson- stared westward, where the sun was still clinging to the horizon, then turned his gaze to the south and shivered again. Gray peaks scratched the sky as far as his vision would take him. His imagination descried the glaciers that he knew were distantly there, somewhere to the south of him, but his eyes couldn't see them. He estimated his latitude to be between ten and fifteen degrees south, and he wondered if those frozen mountains had ever come this close to the equator. He wanted to ask someone, but his companions wouldn't understand a word he said. Thompson was fluent in English, French, Chinese and Russian, and comprehended half a dozen other languages, but none would serve him, here, for no one else in the world spoke any of them. Except Wisnovsky. And he didn't remember.
But Thompson realized that he could worry about the glaciers later. There were more immediate matters to attend to now. He had ten numb toes to save.
Before Thompson completed the painful task of staggering to his feet, a man appeared in front of him, spear in hand, and indicated that in his opinion Thompson should remain seated. Roland answered with an outstretched right hand, but instead of receiving a handshake, he almost got a spearpoint through his palm. He sighed. To a Twenty First Century American the act of shaking hands would be almost instinctive; unfortunately, a man whose conscious mind and memories functioned as if they were native to the Twelfth Millennium bc would have a fear of strangers which would overwhelm any lingering instinct for handshaking. Thompson really hadn't expected the ploy to succeed.
"OK, Judas, I won't make any sudden moves again. I just want to sit a little nearer to the fire." As he spoke, Thompson clutched his cape around him, exaggerated his shivering, then pointed to the fire around which the rest of the small band was sitting. The man looked puzzled and scared so Thompson repeated his gesture. Still Judas did not understand.
"Well, Judas," Thompson said, "I have two choices. Either I sit out here and freeze to death, or I walk closer to the fire and hope you don't give me that spear in my gut. I think I'll take my chances with the latter." He abruptly strode toward the fire. The native stumbled backward in a hasty retreat until Thompson was within ten yards of the fire. Then Judas made his stand. The quivering glow in the man's eyes told Roland that perhaps this wouldn't be such a bad place to sit down. He did so. If the band let him stay here all night he probably wouldn't freeze, though he wouldn't be any too comfortable, especially since this night was without a doubt going to be the coldest yet. Not a reassuring thought, because a polar bear would have had trouble adjusting to the weather so far.
The fire burned in the hearthway of the band's large mountain cave, and only the seven men in the band sat on the outside of the fire where Thompson could see them clearly. The women and children were shadow creatures on the far side of the fire, buried by the darkness within the cave that even the light from the fire could not penetrate.
The band consisted of seven men, six women, and three children, and even the adults were young, probably not more than nineteen or twenty, though they appeared much older in many ways. This climate and the hardness of their way of life ingrained the years upon their bodies. The leader, however, was older, perhaps thirty-five or even forty—it was impossible to determine his exact age, since in other circumstances, other times, he could have passed for sixty. Possibly he was the father of some or all of the others. He was an old man by their standards; few, if any, of the younger ones would count as many winters as he had lived.
Six of the men had women, with a strictly monogamous relationship as far as Thompson could tell, but then he couldn't see what went on inside the cave at night. Two of the children belonged to one of the women, the mate of the man whom Thompson called Judas. Roland had names for three of the other men, too, primarily for the purpose of organizing his thoughts.
Thompson looked over the men once more. Which one was Wisnovsky?
One of the men was about five feet, ten inches tall, weighing perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds. He was too big. A second man was six inches shorter and could have barely pushed the needle of a scale over the hundred mark. He was too little. Since the chief was missing three fingers on his right hand, no doubt the result of some almost forgotten hunt, he too could be eliminated. Thompson did not believe the Eurasians would go quite that far to disguise Wisnovsky.
That left four men. All were about Wisnovsky's height, five feet, five inches tall, and all appeared to be about Wisnovsky's weight, a hundred and forty pounds. All had dark brown skin over wiry frames, dark brown eyes, large mouths and nostrils, and short foreheads which sloped back more rapidly than a Twenty First Century man's. And any one of them could be Wisnovsky: Judas, Thompson's present guard and the father of two of the children: Ugolino, the spearpoint-maker; Brutus, the father of the third and oldest child, a boy about " seven; and Cassius, the wifeless one.
The names were the names of traitors because Wisnovsky was a traitor. At least General Foster thought so. Thompson wasn't so sure, but he had accepted the general's opinion temporarily.
Four men. They all looked alike, yet one was different. Thompson frowned. What mark does civilization leave on a man's mind? Three of his four suspects were primitive cave dwellers, the fourth was born in the Twenty First Century ad. But the latter was living among and acting like the former— indeed, he believed he was one of them—how could he be distinguished? For eight days the problem had tormented Thompson's brain, and still the answer was as far away as the time from which he had come.
Thompson never did get to sleep that night.
The band retired into the cave, leaving only one man, Cassius, behind to watch Thompson and the darkness. Roland studied him as Cassius tended the fire and stared into the gloom. He wondered why the guard was necessary, since he couldn't think of any animals which would threaten the band. Obviously, however, there were dangers.
Or… and the thought bothered Thompson… was he the danger they were worried about? He had tried to prove to them that his intentions were peaceful and harmless, but perhaps the information had not crossed the fourteen-thousand-year culture gap. There was certainly no rush of people to befriend him. For the most part, everyone attempted to ignore him and pretend he didn't exist. As he put together the facts, he realized that they must think he was either an apparition, or an evil shaman.
After observing Cassius for a few minutes, it became evident that the man was afraid of him, and that this fear was wrestling with his sense of duty. At length Cassius retreated into the cave with the rest of the band, fear having been the victor in the struggle.
Now Thompson was alone. His body ached, and his muscles desperately needed rest, but his mind would not cooperate. His eyes drifted out of focus—the fire danced and blurred—his eyelids drooped, blinked… sagged. Light left his world.
And still his mind refused to surrender. There was too little time and too much to think about.
One little test—that's all he needed. Just a simple test to separate one Twenty First Century man from his primitive companions.
Two different cultures, two different times. And all he needed was one basic difference. Just one.
Though his mind was alert, his tired body almost betrayed him. Only a misstep by his assailant saved his life.
A pebble clattered across the cave floor. He forced his eyelids open. His eyes did not adjust instantly but he saw the shadow in the hearthway, the arm held high.
He rolled to his right, and the arm jerked; the spear smashed into the ground near his feet.
Now he was fully awake and standing. But the figure was gone.
He stood for a long time staring into the cave, breathing hard. It didn't make sense. The band was afraid of him. If they viewed him as an evil shaman, as he suspected they did, they would not dare try to kill him. They would be afraid his evil spirit might linger to torment them.
There was another thing. Without a doubt, the spear toss had been very inaccurate. The attacker had stood not more than forty feet from Thompson, yet the spear had landed at his feet, not in the dirt where his chest had been. That didn't make sense. These people lived by the spear—died by their failures. It was inconceivable that one of them could miss his target at a distance as close as forty feet.
Of course, even virtuosos made mistakes. The native had not expected Thompson to roll when he did. The throw had been hurried. Maybe that accounted for the error.
Thompson breathed a sigh of relief and accumulated tensions dissolved. One thing was certain: another few seconds and another few steps and the assailant would never have missed, no matter how poor a spearthrower he was.
The thought disturbed Thompson. There should be no poor spearthrowers in the band. All the men, even Wisnovsky, because of his psychotransformation, should be excellent shots.
All Thompson's feelings of fatigue had vanished by now, and the remainder of the night brought no rest, no sleep, no escape from the questions which haunted him.
The band considered him a shaman because he had appeared out of the air before their astonished eyes. But an hour before that, his time, there had been a corridor a mile beneath the Arizona desert where he walked as just a man, with no pretensions of being anything other than a man.
"Why not send someone who knows Wisnovsky?" Thompson asked.
General Abrams Foster shrugged and twitched his nose. "Naturally, that was our desire. Unfortunately, this someone had to meet several other qualifications. He had to be intelligent, he had to be a top agent, and most important of all, he had to be available within an hour. I am not completely sure whether it was a stroke of good fortune or a cruel joke of fate that you were here."
"If you have doubts about me, I will—"
"Most of my agents are a blood-lusting lot," the general continued, ignoring Thompson. "Not you. You would walk fifty miles out of your way to avoid fighting with some obnoxious little creep that you could destroy without losing a drop of sweat. On this mission, I would have preferred to send someone who would not hesitate to kill every suspect if Wisnovsky could not be identified."
"You would kill Wisnovsky?"
"Yes. The Eurasians must not have him."
"You know I wouldn't do that," Thompson said. He stared over at the general.
The general sighed deeply. "That is not your only fault. When you arrive, you will no doubt scare what few wits these people have completely out of them. Why couldn't you be smaller?"
Thompson drew himself up to his full six and a half feet. "Some faults I can change; my height I cannot."
"If you lost a hundred pounds, you would still outweigh most of them."
Thompson grinned. "It's all muscle."
"They will probably mistake you for a mountain," General Foster commented. He sighed again. "I suppose you'll have to do, however."
"Why were you limited to an hour to locate your agent?"
"It is a matter of power. We have a lock on Wisnovsky's position, but it is a tenuous one. To hold it requires draining power from the base's warp-screens. Even at full strength, the screens can barely repel a cobalt blast; to weaken them very much would be suicide. The base might survive, but most of the remainder of the US—which depends on us for defense—would not."
"Can't we find Wisnovsky again if we lose him?"
"No. We know only that he is somewhere in the Andes twelve thousand to fourteen thousand years ago. That is as much accuracy as our equipment will give us.
It is like being on a ship at sea looking through a pair of cheap field-glasses at a beacon on the shore. As long as it is burning, you can easily follow that beacon in to land, but from a hundred miles out there is no way to precisely determine the coordinates of the beacon with your crude instrument. If the beacon goes out, you probably would never be able to land at that exact point on the shore.
"Similarly, to find Wisnovsky again we need his exact position in time and space. We have neither."
The morning brought warmth of a kind. By midmoming the temperature had risen to almost fifty by Thompson's estimate. The natives hardly seemed to notice. They looked as content at twenty as at fifty, though they wore virtually no clothing, merely skins wrapped around their waists. Thompson understood how the Eurasians could change Wisnovsky's face and mind, teach him the native language and customs, and prepare him with the necessary skills to survive, but it was difficult to comprehend how the physicist had adapted to the cold so quickly.
A noise beehind him made Thompson turn toward the cave where the band lived. The fire still burned in the hearthway, slightly smaller now that daylight had come. It was never allowed to go out. No doubt it was far easier to keep it burning than to start it again. Matches would be scarce for a few thousand years.
Again the shuffling of feet sounded in the entrance of the cave, and this time one of the women stepped out of the darkness into the sunlight carrying a piece of meat and a crude clay bowl full of water. She walked over and placed them in front of Thompson, then sat down.
"Thank you," Thompson said. She cocked her head to one side and stared at him. Except for her exceptionally broad face, she was almost attractive. Certainly she was nature's only attempt at pulchritude in this band. But that was only his opinion. The men in the band no doubt had a differing conception of beauty, since they showed her no particular favor. She was Ugolino's woman and no other man paid any attention to her. She appeared to be younger than the rest of the women, having fewer wrinkles and a smoother skin.
"Qunoiy?" she suddenly asked, pointing to his fur cape.
"You like it? It's from a very exclusive shop in Manhattan." Thompson smiled and took another bite of meat. It was cold, greasy and cooked somewhere between rare and raw, but he was hungry enough to eat anything. It could have been anything, too, though it was probably part of that giant sloth the men had dragged home yesterday. At least it was far better than the berries they fed him at first. He didn't eat any of them for two days because he was afraid they were poisonous. Even if the sloth did taste like greasy, unsolidified plaster of pans, he could be sure it wasn't a threat to his life.
"Qunoiy?" she repeated, moving close to him, then reaching out to stroke the fur. General Foster had lacked the time to prepare clothing more suitable to this period, and Thompson's fur was much softer and prettier than anything the band had. The general had sacrificed a great deal in hopes of accomplishing this mission—his time, his energy, his sleep—and three-quarters of a beautiful bearskin rug.
The moment the woman touched the fur, Judas, who was still watching Thompson, galloped over and yanked her away. A verbal battle immediately followed, and it was apparent that the man was hopelessly outclassed. Finally, in disgust and desperation, he slapped her and dragged her over to her husband, Ugolino, who frowned and then led her into the cave. Thompson could not see what happened inside, but he heard several loud female voices, then Ugolino reappeared with his head erect and a smug look on his face. He returned to his seat by the fire.
Over a week had passed and still Roland was no closer to identifying Wisnovsky. None of his four suspects bore the slightest resemblance to the picture Thompson carried in his mind—except in weight and height, where all fit the description. The Eurasians had been thorough. The plastic surgeons had done a superb job, erasing every possible distinctive feature, even managing to slope Wisnovsky's forehead back more sharply than was normal for his race, in order to match his silhouette to that of his primitive companions. Then the psychotransformation had shoved every memory of Twenty First Century civilization below the reaches of his consciousness, to be buried there until needed. Or—was this true?
Until last night he had assumed Wisnovsky was oblivious to his other existence. But now, doubts floated everywhere. Was it possible what Wisnovsky was aware of his identity and location? If not, who was the attacker last night? Thompson studied his four suspects again. Cassius was the obvious choice of the four. He had no mate, and was the loner of the band. Any imperfections of the psychotransformation would be noticed less readily in him. Ugolino was the spearpoint-maker, and seemed very adjusted to life in the band, which was a mark against him. However, because he was the spearpoint-maker, he encountered the least danger of the four, since he went on the fewest hunts. That would be an advantage. Judas was the most belligerent of the four, but it was a belligerence born out of fear, so it might have no significance. On the other hand a psychotransformation couldn't erase all traces of a man's previous personality; therefore, since Wisnovsky was known to be a very docile man, perhaps Judas' hostility was an important negative clue. Brutus was the last suspect, and the one Thompson knew the least about. He spent most of his time with his son, teaching him the band's way of life. Could mind-shaping build such a strong bond?
Thompson knew that he had made no progress by simply observing the four men. Maybe if he had a year or two he could sort out Wisnovsky using this method, but time was running out and something else had to be tried. He had to find some way of breaking through the barrier imposed by the psychotransformation. Again and again the question crept into his thoughts: what memory of civilization is most imbedded in a man's mind?
He had drawn pictures in the sand: airplanes, the Solar System, a mushroom cloud, a triangle, anything that he thought might trigger a response in Wisnovsky's brain, even one of Wisnovsky's own equations. The sole result was that he was now watched even more closely.
The temperature was still rising but it would never reach the point where he could say that he was warm. He was somehow reminded of an old book he'd once read, where traitors were punished in a frozen hell for all eternity. If Wisnovsky was indeed a traitor, it was only fitting that the Eurasians should choose to send him here, to this quasi-eternal winter a mile in the sky.
Wisnovsky had come because he'd had no choice, but whatever had possessed the ancestors of these natives to leave the warm northlands?
Then Thompson remembered. Less than three thousand years ago, there had been no glaciers, no winter. Perhaps man had come then. Or perhaps he had come even earlier, during another interstadial period.
Whenever he had come, he was here to stay. A great civilization would rise in these mountains. Great pyramids and temples would be built, and though this civilization would be conquered by Pizarro and his small force of two hundred Spaniards, it was in many ways superior to Europe of the same age: there would be no unemployed, no debtors' prisons, little crime, no destitute aged…
The day was still quiet and Thompson found himself staring up at the sun, a round yellow splash in a sullen blue sea. Wisnovsky had become one of these men, body and mind; their thoughts were his thoughts, their beliefs were his beliefs. It was a tragic descent for one of the most brilliant intellects in the history of the human race.
As he stared upward, an idea bobbed somewhere in his brain, but he couldn't quite catch it.
"Aren't there other physicists who can work with Wisnovsky's equations?" Thompson interrupted.
General Foster almost smiled. "Do you think that we haven't made that attempt? A hundred of the best minds in the Western world are struggling with the problem, but without success. Only Wisnovsky's associate, Dr. Eddis, has been able to accomplish anything at all. But he is no Wisnovsky. No one is. Wisnovsky's mind is unique. Someone once said that mathematics is a means by which we mortals translate reality, which we cannot hope to understand, into symbols which we can. Wisnovsky is far beyond us. He comprehends the reality. He merely transcribed the mathematical equations for idiots such as ourselves and the remainder of the human race."
"He is a genius," Thompson remarked.
"Wisnovsky," General Foster answered, "would be a genius in a race of Einsteins."
Thompson raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the dossier.
Raymond Leonard Wisnovsky, b. June 27, 2013, Albany, New York. BS, Physics, with High Honors, Fineman Institute of Physics, New York, 2027; PhD, California Institute of Technology, 2029. Dissertation: "Theoretical Considerations of the Energy Sources of Quasi-Stellar Objects." Published in Astrophysical Review, June, 2030. Other publications: American Journal of Physics, March, 2041: "A Derivation of the Temporal Equations from Non-Einsteinium Relativity"; Am. J. Physics, Dec. 2041; "Possible Applications of the Temporal Equations." Awarded Nobel Prize in Physics, 2043. Employment: Cal. Tech., 2029 to 2042; US Govern., 2042 to 2045 (Ponce de Leon Project). Captured by Eurasians, Nov. 19, 2045. Marital Status: single. Personality profile: reserved, docile person, easily influenced and naive in some areas, but has strong opinions about those things he believes in. Dedicated pacifist.
"Wisnovsky has only published three papers?" Thompson asked.
"You would not call them ordinary papers, would you?"
"But between '29 and '43-what did he do?"
"Teach, for one thing. And dabble in his research," the general added, dryly. "Even Wisnovsky is mortal. It took him fourteen years to do what no one else could have done in the next century."
Thompson did not reply at first. Then he said: "Why is the time project so important?" "Because if Wisnovsky is rights whoever first controls time will win the war."
"Did he say that?"
"His equations did."
"I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"His equations show that history can be changed, that it is not an immutable continuum. One man from 2046 loose in 2025 could end this war before it started. Neither side has developed the capability of hitting a target so close to the present, but the side that accomplishes that feat first—" Foster turned toward Thompson, his eyes narrowed and fixed, his breathing hard and irregular. "You must find Wisnovsky. The East and West have been fighting for over twenty years now. The war, as you are aware, is a stalemate. We can tolerate a stalemate, but we cannot afford to lose. The Eurasians will destroy our culture. There will be no mercy, no—" Foster abruptly stopped as they came to a large steel door. He pressed his right hand in the middle and the door opened, sliding away into the wall.
"Welcome to the portals of time," he said.
All the men except Ugolino and Brutus left the next morning at sunrise on a hunting trip. Thompson had trouble deciding whether to stay or go with them, but ultimately settled on the former course. There would be other hunting trips, and today he wanted to observe Ugolino and Brutus, especially Brutus.
Brutus spent most of the day showing his son how to throw a spear, which was interesting, but proved only one thing: Brutus was too good a marksman to have missed if he had been the attacker two nights ago.
Thompson spent most of his time watching Ugolino, whose quick hands turned out spearpoints at a prodigious rate. Every man in the band was of course capable of producing a spearpoint, but Ugolino was the master craftsman. His points were thinner and sharper, and very seldom did Roland see a point made by someone else at the tip of a spear.
When he finished a point, Ugolino would select a long branch from a pile that a couple of the women had gathered from the valley below. Though he picked up many, few branches met his approval, and after about two hours he had to send the women back down to find some more. When he discovered one he liked, he would lash the point to the branch with strips of hide and then give the product to Brutus to test-throw. His concentration wandered at times, and with every scream from the valley he would glance away from his work in the direction that the hunting party had gone. Thompson received the distinct impression that Ugolino would rather have gone with them, but there was a job to do and he was the person most qualified to do it.
The rest of the men returned from their hunting expedition about an hour before sunset, carrying a small deerlike creature, which was taken inside, bloodily skinned and hung over the fire for supper.
For Thompson, however, supper had much in common with breakfast: water in a dried clay bowl and another piece of the sloth from the day before. The sole difference was that the water was much clearer than it had been at breakfast.
The same girl brought Thompson his food. He wondered why the band even bothered to feed him. Finally he decided that it must be due to their opinion of him. They fed him to appease him, to protect themselves from his wrath in case he did have some evil magical powers. And yet, they weren't completely convinced he had them, because they did not feed him the best food available, they gave him only leftovers.
The girl seated herself in front of him and watched him eat, but this time made no attempt to touch his fur. Judas, or perhaps someone more persuasive, had taught her a lesson she had not forgotten.
When he finished, Roland took a stone and drew on the ground a picture of a sloth surrounded by a circle of men with spears. The girl frowned at first, evidently puzzled, then she began to laugh. A sharp word from the chief silenced her but still she grinned, revealing several gaps where teeth had once been.
Noting his success, Thompson drew another animal, intending to produce a deer but ending up with what looked more like a long-legged pig. Again he added the circle of men with spears. He pointed to himself and drew another man considerably larger than the rest, but without a spear.
Once more she broke into laughter. This time Ugolino jumped up and strode over, and with a kick of his foot, eliminated the drawings, then jerked the girl away and pulled her over to where the women were seated. There he dropped her. The chief nodded his approval at the way Ugolino had handled his mate.
Thompson's eyes followed Ugolino back to the group of men. There was tension in the air. He had sensed it the moment the men returned from their hunt. And whatever they planned and were still planning pertained to him, for occasionally one of them, usually the chief, would gesture in his direction.
Perhaps he should leave the cave tonight. Thompson knew he could hide somewhere on the mountain-side until his time was up, then return to the Twenty First Century and tell General Foster that he had not been able to find Wisnovsky. No one would be able to disprove.
But Thompson quickly dismissed the idea, and admonished himself for even considering it. He had come here for a purpose, and even though he wasn't sure he believed in that purpose, he wasn't going until he accomplished it, unless his time expired first. After all, the ceramic lump implanted under his arm provided an immediate escape should he stumble into any danger. The only thing he really had to worry about was being killed in his sleep. There had been one attempt; there might well be another. He would just have to sleep more lightly, or farther from the cave.
With that thought in mind, he moved out to where the fire was only a bright splotch in the distance. But it was cold out here, not as cold as it had been two nights ago, but cold enough to prevent him from getting comfortable. Not until long after the men had retired for the night did he begin to dream. It was not just the cold which kept him awake, however, and neither was it the fear of death. Rather it was the fear that he would not be able to identify Wisnovsky.
He needed something to unlock the memories in Wisnovsky's mind. But so far, he had thought of nothing.
As he finally fell asleep the moon rose, rolling over the mountains to the east, a round yellow skull in the open grave of the sky, leering down at him with a toothless, frozen grin. Suddenly the moon was gone, replaced by another object in his mind's eye, but little consciousness remained, and by the time he recognized it and awoke, there was only the moon once more.
Thompson walked through the doorway with General Foster feeling somewhat uneasy, for he knew that he would not be leaving via the same exit.
Inside, the entire left wall was a maze of instruments and controls, while in the center of the room four men were giving their attention to a wire loop about three, feet in diameter suspended from a cubical steel frame. Several wires ran from the loop across the floor to the control panel, but otherwise the room was empty, though Thompson could see another door in the right wall leading to a room full of what looked like transformers and power supplies. There wasn't a single "Keep Out" sign anywhere in sight. Obviously, anyone who made it this far was considered to be authorized.
"There's one thing you haven't explained," Thompson said. "How did you get a fix on Wisnovsky in the first place?"
"One of our agents managed to infiltrate the Eurasian project and was able to trace Wisnovsky. He tried to follow the physicist through the loop."
"And he died?"
"Yes. The machine was not set for him and most of him was not reassembled at the other end. But what did get through was enough to enable us to get a fix."
"Did he know what was going to happen to him?"
"No."
"And you didn't warn him?"
"There wasn't enough time. Besides, we didn't know either."
Thompson glared at the general, but Foster avoided his gaze.
"Do you know how it works?" Foster asked at length.
"Only vaguely."
"When you step through the field-loop, your atoms are disassembled and then reassembled in the past. However, this transfer from the present to the past requires us to increase the temporal energy of your atoms. You see, Wisnovsky's equations show that temporal energy is inversely related to entropy. As time proceeds, and the universe runs down, entropy increases and temporal energy decreases. Thus, atoms from the present have less inherent temporal energy than atoms in this past. Even though we increase this energy to force them backward in time, the atoms gradually lose this energy and slip back across the temporal junction to our period. As each one does that, the body replaces it with one from the other period, so that after about six months every atom in the transported body is native to the time period it was transported to."
"And then there is no way to bring the person back?"
"No. All we have to do at first is simply cut the power and the atoms from this period automatically snap back to here. But we have yet to develop the technology to transport a body made of atoms native to another time-period to the present. We can push an object through time but we cannot pull. And that brings up another point. When you bring back Wisnovsky, make sure you are holding on to him when you push the return button. That way your field will envelop him and he should snap back here with you."
"How long do I have to bring Wisnovsky back?"
"About fifteen days. After that there would be too much replacement by atoms from the native period, and the abrupt loss of these atoms when the time-traveler returned would cause death." He paused. "Remember, you are kept in the past by maintaining a constant temporal energy balance on you. Therefore, when fifteen days have passed for you, fifteen days will also have passed here. We will bring you back at that time. If Wisnovsky is not with you, mankind will have lost its first supergenius."
The sun was directly overhead, but had little success in its attempts to dispel the chill of the mountains. Thompson surveyed his companions and wondered why they had brought him along on their trip.
Eight men, seven spears. Thompson felt naked without a weapon. Once while no one was watching, he stooped over and picked up a rock the size of an orange and hid it under his cape. Now he wished he had dug up the blaster. It lay buried near the cave, along with everything else he had brought back in time with him.
The band's cave was nestled in the side of a mountain about three thousand feet above the floor of the valley and five hundred feet below the top of the peak. Thorny shrubs dotted the mountain around the cave, but by now the men had descended into the forest of the valley. The chief led the way and seemed to be following something, or at least the tracks of something. Thompson kept looking down but could see nothing.
They were deep within the forest now and only splatterings of sunlight broke through the canopy of leaves high above. Little grew here beneath the trees and the way was easy. And quiet. It was completely silent except for the rattle of their footsteps. Nothing else moved. Nothing uttered a sound.
Thompson was unnerved by the silence. He had not expected it. Neither could he believe it was normal. Something was hunting besides these natives.
A scream not more than a mile away shattered the quiet, and the pieces of silence fell around him like broken glass. The chief nodded to the others and the men began to move softly in the direction of the scream. The scream was not repeated, but soon afterward Thompson heard the first roar. His ears told him instantly it was a cat. And his mind told him what kind of cat it had to be.
No one had ever been able to say for certain whether or not the saber-toothed tiger existed in this time period, in this place, but several anthropologists had found bones in the Andes which they claimed were the remnants of it. Now there was no doubt; Thompson knew for certain.
For an hour they followed the roars ahead of them, slowly closing the distance. A second weak scream was heard as they moved closer. They were downwind of the cat and it did not become aware of them until they were almost upon it. Even after it noticed them, it must have decided it had nothing to fear, for it continued to eat the small animal it had just killed. Intermittently it raised its head and let out another indifferent roar.
Thompson stopped in awe. The evil face finished its meal and stared over at him, its two large fangs curling down over its lower lip. Thompson couldn't believe that this was the natives' quarry. They were too timid. Except for one of them—the one that had tried to kill him.
A spear in the back prodded him and he stumbled forward. Suddenly he realized their plan but it was already too late. Behind him was a semicircle of spears pointing at his back. Blocking off his escape ahead was the saber-toothed tiger.
He was irritated that he had allowed himself to be trapped in this way. He had definitely underestimated their intelligence. Or had he? Somehow the plan seemed too intricate for their minds. But it wouldn't be too intricate for a mind like Wisnovsky's.
Thompson tossed the idea aside for the moment and considered the present situation, remembering the ceramic button beneath his arm, but knowing he could only use it as a last resort. He had been sent here to bring back Wisnovsky, and that was what he was going to do.
Step by step the men advanced, driving Thompson toward the waiting cat. Its eyes burned into his. There was no sign of fear.
The cat was stationed on the slope of a small grass-covered knoll. There were only two or three small trees nearby. This was near the outskirts of the valley and the forest had thinned out. If he could somehow get by the cat and over the knoll, he might have a chance. One thing was for sure—if he got by the cat, none of the men would attempt to follow him.
He had no chance against the spears, he had to face the cat. One spear could be fatal. He might get mauled by the cat but he thought he could survive long enough to press the recall button under his arm if necessity demanded such action. The cat wouldn't go back with him because its atoms were native to this time-period. It could have made an interesting situation, though. Thompson could imagine the expression on General Foster's face if this little feline monster arrived in the laboratory.
The thought made him want to laugh. So he did. This seemed to bewilder both the tiger and the men so Thompson continued. If a tiger could look puzzled,, this one did.
Thompson took another step forward, then stopped. Maybe what edge the cat had in strength and agility could be overcome by bravado.
He took a deep breath, then let out the loudest, most undulating scream his lungs and vocal cords could conjure up. And charged, rock in hand.
The cat was disconcerted by these tactics. It was not accustomed to being attacked in this manner. In fact, it was not accustomed to a being attacked at all, especially by a creature half its size; it was used to getting things pretty much its own way. So it did the only thing that occurred to its somewhat minuscule brain—it hurriedly retreated several steps to ponder the situation further, almost tripping over its own tail in the process. It thought briefly, then did the next thing that occurred to it—it prepared to pounce.
Now was the time for the rock. Thompson hurled it and rolled to the right.
The rock hit its target dead center, striking the cat squarely in the face as it was pouncing, and completely destroying what was left of its timing and composure. Blinking to clear the blood from its eyes, the cat missed Thompson by several feet. Losing sight of Roland, and not wishing to admit defeat, the tiger in its rage galloped toward Thompson's herders, who, though better armed than Thompson, gave the matter all the consideration it was due—about a millisecond—then broke ranks and fled. Three did not even bother to take their spears.
The cat could only pursue one man, but still half-blinded by blood and fury, it was not willing to let everyone escape. The tiger picked its victim and gave chase.
With no conscious intentions of doing so, Thompson struggled to his feet, retrieved one of the dropped spears and charged the cat while it was still cursorily disemboweling the chosen man.
The cat never saw Thompson until it was too late. The spear was not very sharp, but Thompson's strength drove it through the back toward where he thought the heart should be. The resulting scream immobilized the jungle. Everything gave its undivided attention to this prince of death.
The tiger ignored Thompson and clawed at the spear. Thompson lifted a large rock and brought it down to rendezvous with the cat's head. The tiger looked at him blankly and died, its skull split open. The face of the cat's victim was so mutilated that Thompson could not identify him, but the man was still alive. His eyes opened and stared up at Thompson in delirious fear and Thompson wondered what the man saw. The native put his arms in front of his face as if to answer that question, and continued to moan. The man needed medical skills that would not be perfected for millennia. All Thompson could do was stand and watch the man slowly die.
What if this man was Wisnovsky? Thompson had not come fourteen thousand years into the past to watch his quarry die.
But what could he do?
When the rest of the band saw that the tiger was dead, they returned. A spear thudding into the ground beside him made Thompson realize that he had outstayed his welcome. The men knew their companion was dying and wanted no evil magic around when he finally succumbed. Nevertheless, Thompson noticed that not one of the men ventured closer to him than fifty feet.
It was the fact that three of the men still had spears that ultimately convinced him that he should leave. The natives were too accurate to continue to miss at their present distance.
As he walked over the knoll and out of spear range he realized that his relationship with the tribe had changed. Yesterday, he had elicited wariness and suspicion. But that was before he killed the tiger. Now there was frank fear, and what was worse, it appeared to be unanimous among the men of the band.
These men—it was difficult to believe that their descendants would build a civilization in these mountains, a civilization that would succeed in many areas where other civilizations had failed.
The thought made him stop abruptly. The Incas had risen high to glory, but then they had fallen. They were falling when Pizarro came, and they were too weak to resist him. The question was why? Why did the Incan civilization fail?
Why did it fail while Europe flourished?
And suddenly an answer appeared to him. It wasn't the only answer, or perhaps even the best answer, but it was an answer that Wisnovsky, deep within the crevices of his mind, could not possibly have forgotten.
"If the Eurasians operate under the same restrictions that we do, how will Wisnovsky be able to help them?" Thompson asked. "After fifteen days have passed, they won't be able to return him to this century."
The general's jaw tightened. "They can send another physicist back to consult with him any time they want. Progress would be faster if Wisnovsky was doing the work himself, but there would be more danger."
"Why would Wisnovsky cooperate with them?"
"Wisnovsky is a man to whom nothing matters but his work, and he knows that if he dies, there is no one capable of completing what he has started. He also knows that the Eurasians will kill him if he refuses to work for them. Therefore, in his mind, there is no choice."
"I've been told," Thompson said, "that Wisnovsky is a man who values peace above all. He only wants this war to end; he doesn't really care who wins it. Both sides are the same to him."
"We would never do to him what the Eurasians did—exile him to the past!" The general snorted.
"No," Thompson replied slowly. We would just kill him."
General Foster whirled and glared at him. "You are only one step from treason; If I had anyone else to send—"
"You don't," Thompson interrupted. "However, I will withdraw Voluntarily if you so wish."
"That would mean no one would go"
Thompson said nothing. "It would be the same as surrendering to the Eurasians!"
"Yes."
A thin balding man who walked with the crouch of a chimpanzee bounced over to Foster and bobbed his head, gave the general a small brown box, then returned to the control panel.
General Foster eyed Thompson. "You have never disobeyed an order of mine yet."
"I won't now," Thompson said. "If you send me after Wisnovsky, I will find him."
"And bring him back."
"I will do my best to ensure that he is no longer any use to the Eurasian war effort."
The answer seemed to satisfy Foster. The furrows of concern disappeared from his forehead. He handed the box to Thompson.
"There are a few tools in here—a saw, a hammer, a knife, some nails… and a blaster. Don't use the gun unless your life—or Wisnovsky's—depends upon it. But if you get into trouble, don't hesitate." He motioned for Thompson to step inside the metal loop. "I hope the surgeons did a good job putting in that return control. No doubt it is uncomfortable, but we had to put it in a place where it was easily accessible, yet somewhat safe from ordinary blows that might accidentally trigger it. In addition, the surgeons had only thirty minutes to put it in—they didn't have too much choice."
Thompson felt under his arm for the ceramic button that was implanted there. "I can live with it," he said.
"Then you're ready?" the general asked.
Thompson glanced down at his fur cape, leather foot-wrappings, and the deerskin loincloth that constituted his traveling wardrobe. "I guess so."
"We'll, try to put you right in the middle of them," the general said.
Thompson staggered up and gazed at his creation. It was clumsy and there was a good chance that it wouldn't stay together very long, but considering his limited carpentering experience and his meager supply of tools, it had few peers in the annals of technology. Of course, that was his opinion and it might be said that he was biased.
He rubbed his eyes, as if to rub away some of his weariness. He had slept little since the fight with the tiger several days ago—how long exactly? he wondered. Exhaustion was a visitor he continually had to drive away from the door of his mind. He looked at the sky and saw that sunset was approaching. Or was it? The sun was glimmering palely over the mountains, but was it in the east or the west? His orientation was gone.
After a moment he remembered that he had been working all day, so that it must be almost sunset. Almost night, almost time to sleep… but he couldn't sleep, not yet. There would be time for that later. It wouldn't be wise to remain in the forest any longer than absolutely necessary. Luck was a capricious companion, and though it had been with him so far, there was no point in deliberately testing its friendship. He had met all the saber-toothed tigers he ever cared to meet.
Controlled by some part of his brain that still retained the power of reason, he seized his creation and started pulling it toward the cave, three thousand feet above. The tools and the blaster he left scattered on the ground. The blaster's power supply was dead; he had exhausted it using the gun to cut the wood.
The band—was it still there? His memory skipped—had anyone been at the cave when he went back to pick up the tool kit he had buried near the entrance? He tried to think, but only unrelated images flickered in his mind, one blazing for a second, to be replaced by another, then another. The face of the dying victim of the tiger, the shadow in the mouth of the cave, the spear so poorly thrown, the tiger again, the tiger… that gaping pit of a mouth smiling at him, its teeth the size of spears…
Jagged rocks sliced into his feet as he climbed and fought for mental control, their merciless points claiming blood as their toll for passing this way. What had happened to the leather wrappings that had covered his feet?
Rest… he needed rest. How far had he come? He could not stop yet. He knew somehow that he must go on.
The face—that dying face. What if it had been Wisnovsky? He would be too late. He would have failed.
Oh yes, now something focused. He saw the face again. Only it was far away and lying with its body on a rock in front of the cave, a new fire burning nearby. Not close to the cave at all.
Another man appeared by the rock. A tall blond. He knew it was himself. He uncovered the tools and slid away, down toward the forest. The band had still been there—was it still there now?
He had to rest. Each muscle screamed with pain as he moved it. He could hear the sound as it contracted. His lungs ached from the cold, thin mountain air that taunted him by giving him just enough oxygen to keep him alive, but not enough to allow him to catch his breath.
But he dared not pause, for he knew he'd never find the will to lift his feet again and start them moving. The landscape blurred. What if the band had gone? He had no strength to follow them. Or time.
How long did he have left? Or was it already too late? His lungs grabbed each gasp of air and clung to it, reluctant to exhale.
Darkness ruled the night, and exhaustion was conquering him. No farther. He could go no farther. And the darkness in his mind and the darkness of the night merged, and the ground rose up to meet him, though he was not aware of its welcome.
The stars were still visible when he awoke. He wondered how long he had slept. There was no moon and he could not tell what time it was from the stars. Nevertheless, he stared up at them and was suddenly struck by an overwhelming awe and loneliness.
Maybe there were some things forever beyond the reach of man, he thought. Maybe the stars were never meant for anything other than to hide the infinite blackness of the universe from the eyes of man.
Maybe.
But there was a part of Thompson that couldn't believe this. Earthmen had walked on the Moon, Mars, and several of the moons of Jupiter. Then the war had come, and there had been no money left after the weapons had been bought. Only when the war ended would mankind be able to turn its efforts back to the stars. If there was anyone left to care about such things.
Thompson blinked his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He was lying less than a hundred yards short of the cave, but he was still too tired to feel any jubilation. If he had been as tired under ordinary circumstances he would have slept for at least a day, but the circumstances were not ordinary in any sense, and some clock in his well-trained mind had allowed him just enough sleep to provide him with the energy to complete his task, then had awakened him.
In front of the cave, not twenty yards away, was a fire, and by the fire was the body of the native mauled by the tiger. Perhaps it was Wisnovsky. Whoever it was, however, was dead now. Thompson thought for a moment. The man must have just died, probably shortly before or after sunset, for the band would not have allowed a dead body to lie around very long.
There was no sentry that he could see—no doubt they assumed the fire would keep the animals away. Thompson stood up. He could not have planned a better test. All he needed for success was one spark of memory in one man's head. Or even one spark of curiosity, for combined with the intelligence that one man possessed, it might be enough.
The morning sunlight invaded his sleep like a sword plunged into his mind. For several minutes it stayed lodged there, severing his memories from his consciousness. He struggled to remember where he was, and why he was lying in the shadow of a rock by a cave in the side of a mountain.
The past returned quickly, rushing in when he pulled his head back within the shadow and out of the sunlight. He hoped that the native who was Wisnovsky would be able to recall his own identity as easily.
Thompson watched the cave for one hour, then another. Finally, when the sun dangled about forty-five degrees off the horizon, they came out, moving swiftly at first, then stopping abruptly as they noticed what the body was lying on. Each looked at the chief, but he did nothing, said nothing.
Thompson sought out familiar faces, Brutus, Cassius, Ugolino, the chief, the two unnamed men— where was Judas? But the question was rhetorical, for he knew the answer.
There were two questions he could not answer, however. Was Judas in reality Wisnovsky? One chance out of four, he thought, assuming that Wisnovsky was a member of this small band. And if that assumption was wrong? What then? But he found he could not stand to even think about such a possibility.
Words floated across to Thompson's hiding place behind the rock. Several people were talking frantically, but Thompson couldn't identify any of the voices.
Then the chief shouted and there was suddenly silence. Every eye gazed at him. The chief stood briefly staring at this new, frightening thing that squatted before him, then whirled, said something to the band, and fled back to the cave. The others followed without hesitation—except for Ugolino's mate. For several minutes she remained by the body, her head bowed, as if in mourning. A voice called angrily, and she finally joined the rest of the band in the cave.
Fear.
The emotion that ruled their lives was ruling history now. Fear had been a part of man's makeup in the beginning, and it would still be with him in the end. Even in the Twenty First Century wars would be fought because of fear. Once, in man's far distant past, it had been an advantage to trust only the known and fear the unknown, but in the time Thompson still considered to be his present, this instinct had become a curse. The strange, the different, the unknown—all were hated because of fear. Was it too much to depend upon one man to be able to conquer that fear?
The sun fell behind the mountains and rose once more before the band ventured out of the cave.
Several of them showed a little more courage and walked hesitantly up to the body: Ugolino, the chief, and one of the unnamed men. Behind those three, Ugolino's wife watched the proceedings with more interest than fear. She glanced from side to side as if searching for something, then she scowled and fixed her gaze on the rock behind which Thompson was concealed.
Was it possible that she was Wisnovsky? Sex changes were not uncommon, but it seemed so unlikely. So unnecessary.
A voice trickled across the distance and the chief started, snapped around, and slapped Ugolino. The latter retreated, pointed to the body, then to himself.
The chief shouted in reply and everyone retreated to the cave again. Thompson leaned back against his rock and swore in disgust. Just one seed of an idea, that's all he needed to get across to the man who used to be Wisnovsky. Just one seed and the spell of the psychotransformation might break. He stood up. They would not try to kill him now. They were too afraid.
His back arched toward the sun, Thompson started for the cave. Courage had saved him before, maybe it could help him now.
The band did not see him until he was inside the cave. As he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness, he expected to feel the flinty point of a spear penetrate his chest. Under ordinary conditions, that's probably what would have happened. But the band was so distraught by present conditions that it never occurred to anyone to attack Thompson. Everyone just stood and trembled. Everyone that is, except Ugolino. He hadn't even noticed Thompson's entrance. He stood off to the side, his eyes glazed, staring outside.
As Thompson watched, the band edged closer to the entrance of the cave, and all at once broke into a run, racing outward, screaming and moaning.
Only Ugolino remained. He glanced outside, back to Thompson, then outside again. Thompson began to walk toward him.
"Stop where you are," a voice behind him ordered in perfect English. "Turn around slowly." Thompson obeyed, and found himself staring down the throat of a sullen black blaster.
Such a strange thing, the man thought as he stared out from the dark safety of the cave. It had appeared during the night, and now it still remained, holding the body of Slevenon in its wooden palm.
Was it evil… or good? The man rubbed his head, then squeezed it between his hands, hoping to drive out the evil spirit which had been causing him pain since late last night.
That object—it was familiar—but how could that be? He had never seen it before. Or anything like it.
Or had he?
He couldn't remember. The pain was stronger now and throbbing and his memories were spinning in his brain like the Earth on its axis—what?—spinning, dissolving, flickering. Tomorrow, yesterday, both were gone, now there was only the present.
One part of the structure was the most important. The two round objects on each side… what were they for?
The man stepped closer to the mouth of the cave. He started to walk outside, but his mate grabbed his arm.
"I must go," he said, shaking free.
"It is wrong," she pleaded. "It is not safe. I feel the evil in it."
"He gazed down at her, and saw her differently than he ever had before. He did not love her. Thoughts of a woman he had loved floated through his mind. So long ago—so far away.
He shook his head violently. The demon was eating his mind. These thoughts could not be his. But then, whose were they?
So absorbed was he in his own pain that he failed to see the pale shaman approach. And when he finally noticed the strange one, he was no longer afraid.
The other members of the band trembled. He wanted to tell them not to be afraid, but the words would not come. He couldn't remember how to say them.
There was an emptiness in his mind now, spreading slowly, as the darkness spread slowly to cover the light when the sun left the sky.
His eyes sought and found the body of Slevenon, and the object it rested upon. The square platform partially supported by two wooden discs, the large straight branch connecting the discs… it was all so impossibly familiar. The discs, he wanted, he needed, he was compelled to give them a name, but in his consciousness there was no name.
At that moment the band yelled and streaked from the cave. As they ran, one of the men grazed the side of the platform—
And it moved. It slid along the ground.
The word—what was it?
It rolled.
And all the memories of all the future-past came gushing through the shattered psychotransformation dam, drowning his consciousness momentarily, washing away all his mental control.
When the flood receded, and he cleared enough debris from his mind to make sense of what remained, the woman who was supposed to be his mate was holding a blaster on the blond man. "I should have known," Thompson said.
"Yes," Ugolino's mate replied tersely. "You were stupid to think we would send Wisnovsky back without a guard."
"And you're no doubt the one who tried to kill me with the spear that night," Thompson said. "Ac-tually, as I remember, your form wasn't too bad—you must have taken your eyes off the target."
"You may laugh if you wish now, but you will find that death dampens your sense of humor."
"The ultimate solution," Thompson muttered. "Because you don't know what else to do with me, you kill me."
"Yes," she agreed. "You've done enough damage already."
"Ah. Then Wisnovsky is remembering."
Wisnovsky listened to the conversation, waiting for what he felt was the proper time for him to intrude. This was it.
"I… I have remembered," he stuttered, trying out his command of this new, yet familiar tongue.
"Yes," Wisnovsky said, gaining more confidence. "I remember." He walked toward her. "But there is a part of me that wishes I could forget again, because what I remember gives me a reason to hate, and hating is against everything I believe in."
"You won't feel any hatred after another psychotransformation," the woman remarked.
Wisnovsky stared at her, and Thompson thought he could see a cold fury in the physicist's eyes. "When you first captured me," Wisnovsky told her, "you gave me a choice—either psychotransformation or death. I have now seen the consequences of my decision, and I will never agree to undergo any form of mind-shaping again. My mind is all I have. It is me, and when you changed my memories and my thought-processes, you changed me into someone I have no desire to ever be again."
"If you fight it," she said, "you will die."
"I thought before that my work should be carried on regardless of the sacrifice required, so I chose psychotransformation over death. I was wrong. Man is not ready for the temporal equations. It is best that they be forgotten. Therefore, I won't undergo a psychotransformation again. If I cannot live as myself, with my mind and memories, I will choose not to live at all."
Thompson started to speak, but Wisnovsky cut him off.
"Just because I am angry with her people is no reason to think I find you Americans any less distasteful. You're no better than the Eurasians. Your purposes were just as bad."
Thompson didn't reply because he saw that the woman had shifted her attention to Wisnovsky. He watched her carefully for an opening.
"One side has to win," she said.
Wisnovsky scowled. "It won't be with my help."
She pressed him. "Does it matter? It's inevitable that someone, sooner or later, will be able to finish the work you've begun. Why don't you do it and save mankind a hundred years of difficult research? Besides, you can't be too eager to die."
"I'm not," Wisnovsky interjected. "And I hope to live out my normal lifespan, even though it seems that my destiny, like yours, is to eventually die here fourteen thousand years before I will be born."
The woman did not recoil in surprise, she did not flinch, her gun did not waver, but she did blink. That was enough. Thompson moved. One step, one fist into her jaw, and she was bouncing against the wall of the cave, gaping as she slid down the wall onto the floor.
The blood pouring from her mouth and the twisted angle of her neck told Thompson that Wisnovsky's prediction was fulfilled.
"You deliberately distracted her," Thompson said.
Wisnovsky went over and knelt beside the woman. "Yes, but I only wanted you to disarm her."
"That's all I intended to do."
"I had hoped she would be able to stay with me." He paused and glanced up at Thompson. "Of course, you no doubt expect me to go back with you. I wish I could. I'm a civilized man and interesting as this period is from a scientific point of view, I don't belong here. Nevertheless, I must stay."
"Why?"
Wisnovsky nodded, pointed to the cart outside. "The wheel—it is the foundation of civilization. Both East and West invented it, but the West never used it for anything other than children's toys, while the East built an entire civilization upon it. Possibly it's more than a coincidence that our Twenty First Century culture has Eastern roots.
"It was a clever idea to build that cart," Wisnovksy went on. "It was the impetus that cracked the wall imposed by the psychotransformation. The principle of the wheel is virtually instinctive to a man from our culture, yet it is a principle that few primitives would readily grasp."
"The first part of my mission was to identify you," Thompson remarked. "I have accomplished that. The second part is to bring you back with me. I intend to accomplish that." He stepped forward.
"I am weak, you are strong. I am a pacifist, you are trained to kill. I can't resist you if you want to take me back. But neither will I ever work on my temporal equations again—for either side.
"You asked me why I must stay. I'll tell you. I am no asset to the Twenty First Century. I can bring it only death. But here I can be useful. My equations predict that the stream of time can be changed. I can test that prediction by staying here.
"It's tragic really," he went on. "Mankind had everything: talent, ambition, intelligence, vision, creative energy. There was nothing we couldn't do—even the stars were within reach. Instead, man preferred to fight."
"To visit the stars requires a faster-than-light drive. I've never heard of one being invented."
"The principle is simple. With one modification of two of my equations the stars become accessible."
"Perhaps if man had known that secret, it would have ended the war."
Wisnovsky shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Man isn't mature enough as a race to be trusted with such power. At least now he only mutilates his own world, but to set him loose among the stars... not until a civilization arises on Earth which values peace above war would I give man the secret of star-flight."
Thompson shrugged to hide his feelings of despair. "It's your choice."
Wisnovsky smiled. "If you allow me to stay here and you return, you might find that you are the only person in the world to know my equations, and the secret of starflight. Then perhaps it will be your choice."
"Bull I don't know the secret."
"I'll tell you." And he did.
Thompson received the knowledge with misgivings. He stared uneasily at Wisnovsky, not sure how to verbalize his doubts.
"I can sense what you're thinking," Wisnovsky said, "and you're right. I can't predict how the future will be affected by what I do now. There are an infinite number of possibilities. I may even be able to significantly alter history, and still not end the war that is responsible for us being here."
"If you stay," Thompson said, "you'll never know what effect you've had."
"But if I go, I'll never have any effect at all."
Thompson could find no answer, for his mind was filled with thoughts of Armageddon. The wars, the killing… maybe nothing would change, maybe a new start would make no difference, but it seemed worth the chance.
"What about me?" Thompson asked. "If the time program no longer exists will I still be able to return to the Twenty First Century?"
"Yes. Energywise, your atoms belong to that time period. You will snap back."
"And what about you? What if the Eurasians come back for you?"
"The band has already decided to move from this cave. The Eurasians will never find us. Besides, when they discover that my mate is dead and I am gone, they will no doubt think that you Americans have me." He paused, then asked: "Will they be right?"
Thompson temporarily evaded the question. "And what if the Eurasians push your recall button just to make sure?"
"They won't, because there isn't one for me. I am self-sufficient in this period. Even the power supply keeping me back here is hidden in these mountains."
"It must be small."
"Less than a cubic foot, but it will last the six months necessary for all my atoms to be exchanged with those of this time period. The unit was one of my first contributions to the Eurasian program. And now it will save my life if you allow me to stay, because it is light enough to carry to a new hiding place before the Eurasians realize what has happened. They will again think that you Americans are responsible."
Thompson fingered the blaster as he thought. There wasn't even a glint on the black steel barrel—it seemed to swallow up what little light managed to penetrate into the cave. He looked at Wisnovsky, then tossed the gun to the physicist.
Wisnovsky caught it, and glanced up, puzzled.
"You might need it around here," Thompson said.
Wisnovsky shook his head. "A civilization founded upon violence cannot endure." He unscrewed the stock and ripped out the power charge.
"What about their spears? And their hunts? That's violence."
"I would be a fool to think I could change them into passive vegetarians. I have to accept a certain amount of violence. They live in a hostile environment. Even the killing of other men is sometimes unavoidable."
Thompson followed Wisnovsky's eyes to the woman lying on the floor of the cave. There was nothing left to be said, and no time left to say it anyway, for voices outside informed Thompson that the band was returning. He glanced at Wisnovsky, then again at the woman, and pressed the ceramic button under his arm, wondering as he did so if General Foster would still exist, and what the general was going to say when he returned… alone.
The Most High Sun Priest of the Incan Empire pulled his robe away from his feet and took the final step to the top of the small pyramid. It was night now, but to the east the sun was pulling back the blanket of stars from over the Earth.
For a moment the Sun Priest just stood there, letting the dry, chilly desert wind ripple through his white velvet robe. Then a thunder to the north made him turn in that direction, where he found three dirty gray ribbons draped across the night. As he watched, the ribbons lengthened toward the east where they vanished into sunrise.
"The interceptors fly closer every day, sir," his companion, the Arch-priest of the Northern Continent, remarked, continuing to stand a respectful five steps down from the top of the pyramid.
The Sun Priest said nothing, but he, more than anyone except for the Inca himself, was aware of the facts. With each mission the deadly interceptors from across the sea came farther south. And after them came the even more feared bombers, which leveled city after city. Soon this entire northern continent would belong to the powers from the East.
The war was going badly for his people. Since the very beginning, when Pizarro came, it had been going badly. Pizarro had been defeated, but others had come: the Portuguese, the French, the English, more Spanish… all after land and gold. For over five hundred years his people had been trying to defend their land from the white invaders from the East. Never had the Incas been a nation of war, fighting only when they had to, conquering only to set others free, such as the peoples under Aztec rule; and now the Sun Priest could see the day when the white races would finally reign over the two continents which had always been Indian. There was only one chance of survival for his people.
And that chance was the reason he was here today.
"Are you sure this is the right time and place?" the Archpriest asked.
The Sun Priest chose to overlook this expression of doubt. There were too many other things on his mind now. "The blond shaman will come. He must come. The starships are ready. We need only the equations he carries in his mind to make the starflight engines."
"And what if he doesn't know the equations?"
"Archpriest, you seem full of doubts today. Don't you believe what is written on the tablet?"
"Of course, sir. I beg your forgiveness."
"It is granted." But the Sun Priest could sympathize with his companion's concern, for there was much the Archpriest did not know. The Archpriest knew of the man named Wisnovsky and the first tablet he left telling of the coming of the blond shaman, but he did not know about the second tablet of stone that Wisnovsky had left, for it had been passed down from Sun Priest to Sun Priest from the very beginning of the Empire. Now only he, the present Sun Priest, and the Inca himself, knew what was inscribed upon it; only the two of them, of all the Incas, knew of the other timeflow which could have existed but did not because of the knowledge Wisnovsky had given their ancestors. And while all the priests knew that the blond shaman could save them by revealing the secret of starflight, only he and the Inca knew why Wisnovsky had chosen not to transcribe his equations upon stone, but rather relied upon this time messenger to bring them.
The Sun Priest blinked and turned away from the rising sun. He tried to imagine what the Incan Empire would have been like in the other timeflow. Without iron, without the wheel… how could Pizarro not have defeated it? But no matter how backward and barbarian those other Incas would have been, he still thought of them as brothers.
Wisnovsky had kept the good parts of the old way, and discarded the bad, and the prosperity which resulted had given the Empire little incentive to change, especially in comparison with the civilization which had arisen across the sea. Only the knowledge of iron and the wheel had enabled the Sun Priest's people to delay the conquest.
But it had only been a delay, not a victory, and now the starships stood waiting to take them from this world. For thirty years the starships had been ready, awaiting the arrival of the blond shaman. Now the wait was almost over, for he was due to come this morning, here in the desert on this chilly day in early spring.
And the blond shaman, who held the key to starflight in his mind, would decide whether, at last, man was ready for the stars.