«Better this way than a Patrol court and the exile planet,» said Whitcomb.
«Technically, at least, he was a thief and a murderer,» said Everard. «But it was a great dream he had.»
«And we upset it.»
«History might have upset it. Probably would have. One man just isn’t powerful enough, or wise enough. I think most human misery is due to well-meaning fanatics like him.»
«So we just fold our hands and take what comes.»
«Think of all your friends, up in 1947. They’d never even have existed.»
Whitcomb took off his cloak and tried to wipe the blood from his clothes.
«Let’s get going,» said Everard. He trotted through the rear portal. A frightened concubine watched him with large eyes.
He had to blast the lock off an inner door. The room beyond held an Ing-model time shuttle, a few boxes with weapons and supplies, some books. Everard loaded it all into the machine except the fuel chest. That had to be left, so that up in the future he would learn of this and come back to stop the man who would be God.
«Suppose you take this to the warehouse in 1894,» he said. «I’ll ride our hopper back and meet you at the office.»
Whitcomb gave him a long stare. The man’s face was drawn. Even as Everard watched him, it stiffened with resolution.
«All right, old chap,» said the Englishman. He smiled, almost wistfully, and clasped Everard’s hand. «So long. Good luck.»
Everard stared after him as he entered the great steel cylinder. That was an odd thing to say, when they’d be having tea up in 1894 in a couple of hours.
Worry nagged him as he went out of the building and mingled with the crowd. Charlie was a peculiar cuss. Well…
No one interfered with him as he left the city and entered the thicket beyond. He called the time hopper back down and, in spite of the need for haste lest someone come to see what kind of bird had landed, cracked a jug of ale. He needed it badly. Then he took a last look at Old England and jumped up to 1894.
Mainwethering and his guards were there as promised. The officer looked alarmed at the sight of one man arriving with blood clotting across his garments, but Everard gave him a reassuring report.
It took a while to wash up, change clothes, and deliver a full account to the secretary. By then, Whitcomb should have arrived in a hansom, but there was no sign of him. Mainwethering called the warehouse on the radio, and turned back with a frown. «He hasn’t come yet,» he said. «Could something have gone wrong?»
«Hardly. Those machines are foolproof.» Everard gnawed his lip. «I don’t know what the matter is. Maybe he misunderstood and went up to 1947 instead.»
An exchange of notes revealed that Whitcomb had not reported in at that end either. Everard and Mainwethering went out for their tea. There was still no trace of Whitcomb when they got back.
«I had best inform the field agency,» said Mainwethering. «Eh, what? They should be able to find him.»
«No. Wait.» Everard stood for a moment, thinking. The idea had been germinating in him for some time. It was dreadful.
«Have you a notion?»
«Yes. Sort of.» Everard began shucking his Victorian suit. His hands trembled. «Get my twentieth-century clothes, will you? I may be able to find him by myself.»
«The Patrol will want a preliminary report of your idea and intentions,» reminded Mainwethering.
«To hell with the Patrol,» said Everard.
London, 1944. The early winter night had fallen, and a thin cold wind blew down streets which were gulfs of darkness. Somewhere came the crump of an explosion, and a fire was burning, great red banners flapping above the roofs.
Everard left his hopper on the sidewalk—nobody was out when the V-bombs were falling—and groped slowly through the murk. November seventeenth; his trained memory had called up the date for him. Mary Nelson had died this day.
He found a public phone booth on the corner and looked in the directory. There were a lot of Nelsons, but only one Mary listed for the Streatham area. That would be the mother, of course. He had to guess that the daughter would have the same first name. Nor did he know the time at which the bomb had struck, but there were ways to learn that.
Fire and thunder roared at him as he came out. He flung himself on his belly while glass whistled where he had been. November seventeenth, 1944. The younger Manse Everard, lieutenant in the United States Army Engineers, was somewhere across the Channel, near the German guns. He couldn’t recall exactly where, just then, and did not stop to make the effort. It didn’t matter. He knew he was going to survive that danger.
The new blaze was a-dance behind him as he ran for his machine. He jumped aboard and took off into the air. High above London, he saw only a vast darkness spotted with flame. Walpurgisnacht, and all hell let loose on earth!
He remembered Streatham well, a dreary stretch of brick inhabited by little clerks and greengrocers and mechanics, the very petite bourgeoisie who had stood up and fought the power which conquered Europe to a standstill. There had been a girl living there, back in 1943… Eventually she married someone else.
Skimming low, he tried to find the address. A volcano erupted not far off. His mount staggered in the air, he almost lost his seat. Hurrying toward the place, he saw a house tumbled and smashed and flaming. It was only three blocks from the Nelson home. He was too late.
No! He checked the time—just ten-thirty—and jumped back two hours. It was still night, but the slain house stood solid in the gloom. For a second he wanted to warn those inside. But no. All over the world, people were dying. He was not Schtein, to take history on his shoulders.
He grinned wryly, dismounted, and walked through the gate. He was not a damned Danellian either. He knocked on the door, and it opened. A middle-aged woman looked at him through the murk, and he realized it was odd to see an American in civilian clothes here.
«Excuse me,» he said. «Do you know Miss Mary Nelson?»
«Why, yes.» Hesitation. «She lives nearby. She’s coming over soon. Are you a friend?»
Everard nodded. «She sent me here with a message for you, Mrs.… ah…»
«Enderby.»
«Oh, yes, Mrs. Enderby. I’m terribly forgetful. Look, Miss Nelson wanted me to say she’s very sorry but she can’t come. However, she wants you and your entire family over at ten-thirty.»
«All of us, sir? But the children—»
«By all means, the children too. Every one of you. She has a very special surprise arranged, something she can only show you then. All of you have to be there.»
«Well… all right, sir, if she says so.»
«All of you at ten-thirty, without fail. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Enderby.» Everard nodded and walked back to the street.
He had done what he could. Next was the Nelson house. He rode his hopper three blocks down, parked it in the gloom of an alley, and walked up to the house. He was guilty too now, as guilty as Schtein. He wondered what the exile planet was like.
There was no sign of the Ing shuttle, and it was too big to conceal. So Charlie hadn’t arrived yet. He’d have to play it by ear till then.
As he knocked on the door, he wondered what his saving of the Enderby family would mean. Those children would grow up, have children of their own: quite insignificant middle-class Englishmen, no doubt, but somewhere in the centuries to come an important man would be born or fail to be born. Of course, time was not very flexible. Except in rare cases, the precise ancestry didn’t matter, only the broad pool of human genes and human society did. Still, this might be one of those rare cases.
A young woman opened the door for him. She was a pretty little girl, not spectacular but nice looking in her trim uniform. «Miss Nelson?»