Times Without Number

by John Brunner

  The Duke of Scania chuckled. "Indeed I have," he admitted. "I've even had to put up with her so-called progressive friends addressing me as 'Duke' pure and simple. Well, I never cared much for starchy formalities myself." He looked quizzically at Don Miguel. "I take it you and my daughter have been getting on all right -- at any rate, I've hardly seen either of you all the evening."

  Kristina bubbled mischievously. "Miguel's been wonderful, Papal We got dreadfully bored, so he found a way for us to slip out, and we've been all around the city mixing with the people and having a marvellous time. You'd never think it to look at him, but he's got quite a sense of humour behind that grim scarred face. Of course, Miguel, I suppose because you're really very stern, the reason you wanted to see Father Ramón was to confess how wicked you'd been this evening -- escorting an unchaperoned girl!"

  "Kristina!" the Duke said reprovingly. "How often must I tell you? You don't make jokes about other people's religious belief!"

  A sort of strange light-headedness was overcoming Don Miguel now. Already the gruesome events he had thought to be indelibly engraved on his memory were receding, becoming unreal, fading as chalk-marks fade under a wet sponge until the words are as though they had never been written. He said, "Heavens, no, Kristina! I could never regret enjoying an evening with you. Let me prove it by asking you for another dance, and this time I hope it won't be rudely cut short like the first."

  He bowed his leave of the Duke and led her out on the floor. Taking her hand, he murmured to himself, "Everything for the best in the best of all possible worlds."

  "What was that, Miguel? I didn't quite catch -- "

  "Nothing. Just a rather bitter anti-clerical joke. It doesn't matter."

  "Oh, explain it!" she urged.

  A look of sadness passing over his face, he shook his head. "Believe me, Kristina, I couldn't. Nobody could. Forget it, and let's just dance."

  PART THREE

  The Fullness of Time

  I

  "Your people," said the long-faced Mohawk who managed the mines, "came to what you call the New World hungry for gold. You came looking for fabulous kingdoms -- Cibola, Quivira, Norumbega, Texas. And so keenly were you disappointed when you found they didn't exist, you set about creating them."

  He waved at the hillside opposite, where the mine galleries ran like holes into ripe cheese. Don Miguel followed the gesture with his eyes. Here where he sat with the manager -- whose name was Two Dogs -- it was cool under the shadow of woven reed awnings, on the verandah of the plain mud-plastered house which served as both home and administrative offices. But there the fury of the sun lay full, and the Indian labourers emerging from the mouths of the galleries with their baskets full of crushed rock, to be tipped into sluices for sedimentation, wiped their dusty faces, swigged water from leathern bottles, and seemed glad to escape underground again.

  The heat of the air was such that the world felt silent, although there were always noises: the monotonous creaking of the pumps bringing up water for the sluices, the droning of flies, the cries of the overseers in a local dialect that Don Miguel did not understand. But taken together they constituted no more of an irritation than birdsong. Half a world away from home, Don Miguel was contentedly able to relax.

  "More wine?" Two Dogs suggested, raising the jug from the table between them.

  "Willingly," Don Miguel returned, holding out his glass. "It's very good. You grow the grapes locally, I understand."

  Two Dogs nodded, pouring for his visitor and himself. "Our climate here in California is very good for vines. This cheese also is local -- take a piece. The flavours mingle well." He set down the jug and offered a large baked-clay platter on which a wedge of yellow cheese stood, stuck with a silver knife.

  "Speaking of which," he continued, "the very name of California is an instance of what I mean. Am I not correct in saying that it commemorates the legend of a non-existent queen named Calaf, whom your early explorers fondly believed to rule over an island populated exclusively by women?"

  "I've heard some such tale," Don Miguel agreed, and tried a crumb of the cheese; finding it to his liking, he cut a piece as big as his palm and bit into its edge. "Indeed, I seem to recall that there was opposition to the adoption of that name for this province on the grounds that 'California' was notoriously mythical and no one would wish to emigrate and settle in a place that didn't exist."

  He chuckled. To his surprise, he realised after a moment that Two Dogs looked the reverse of amused, and broke off, hoping he had not committed a major social gaffe. Apart from the very much Europeanised Mohawks whom he had met in Londres and New Madrid, he had made the acquaintance of hardly any Indians, and here -- three thousand miles further west on the American continent that he had ever travelled before -- he was only sketchily informed concerning customs, etiquette aud formal behaviour. Of course, dealing as he did with traders and industrial middlemen from the east, Two Dogs must be used to foreign manners in his guests, but there was no point in imposing on his goodwill. Don Miguel counted himself lucky to have run across him -- he was an interesting talker and surprisingly widely read in view of his rather humdrum profession.

  He said now, "In that case we can be grateful that the name was selected. Perhaps that's what kept down the number of immigrants to a level we can tolerate . . . after a fashion."

  "Do you not have many European residents hereabouts?" Don Miguel asked.

  "A handful." Two Dogs shrugged. "Some of whom one is compelled to put up with, such as the priests; some of whom are acceptably useful in the community, such as our two doctors -- one of them more than the other, because he's prepared to listen to what we can tell him about our local herbs and medicinal plants while the other won't pay attention to any remedy not vouched for by a journal from Londres with the Imprimatur on it! And a few others most of whom do your people no credit: several are dishonest and many of them are drunkards."

  Don Miguel stirred uneasily in his chair. He said, "Well, of course, from the point of view of you Mohawks, we must seem -- "

  "Correction," interrupted Two Dogs with a thin-lipped smile. He was a very striking man to look at, taller than Don Miguel and with a rangy leanness that made his visitor think of a fast racehorse. "I'm only by courtesy a Mohawk -- about an eighth of my ancestry, as near as I can work out. The rest is mostly Sioux, Apache and Paiute. And that's another thing which annoys me about you Imperials. For example, take your own case. You bear a Spanish name, you speak a variety of Spanish rather heavily salted with English, French and even some Dutch phrases -- but are you Spanish ?"

  "I see what you mean," admitted Don Miguel. "I am mostly Spanish, but my father's mother was French and my mother's mother was half-English. Which is presumably why one talks about Imperials rather than Spaniards nowadays -- apart from the fact that we were displaced from our homeland, remember."

  "And are you the only ones?" Two Dogs sighed. "You talk of me as Mohawk. Look at a map. Mohawks of a pure strain can be found only some two and a half thousand miles to the east of where we're sitting. The rest are diluted across the continent thanks to the mere accident which resulted in your cementing an alliance with them and giving them the necessary horses and guns to set forth on a wave of conquest. It could as easily have been -- oh -- their neighbours the Mohicans, couldn't it?"

  Something seemed to sound a warning bell in Don Miguel's mind. Was it pure coincidence that Two Dogs had put that hypothesis to him, a time-traveller who might give an authoritative answer?

  It must be! No one for a thousand miles was supposed to know the identity of this visitor from Londres. That was the whole point of coming so far for his furlough -- to get away, even if only for a month or so, from the oppressive demands of his job and the nightmarish recollection of what a single error could do to the fabric of reality.

  Damn Two Dogs, anyway. The last thing Don Miguel wanted to think about right now was the question of speculative time. Since the appearance of Father Ramón's recent article,
"An Analysis of the Probable Implications of Cross-Temporal Human Contact," no one at the Headquarters Office seemed to have talked about any other subject, and with his own unsharable burden of secret knowledge, Don Miguel was unable to enter into argument with the enthusiasm practically all his colleagues displayed.

  But . . . Well, yes, it could have been the Mohicans instead of the Mohawks. Very easily. If Chief Tallfeather had been killed in the Battle of Twin Creek instead of Chief Storm, the latter -- who was nearly as brilliant a strategist -- would almost certainly have received the crucial embassy from the Governor of New Madrid. And from then on things would have continued in pretty much the same fashion.

  I might even be here, now, being told off for calling some quasi-counterpart of Two Dogs a Mohican when he was actually Comanche, Pima and Shoshone!

  Determinedly he drove the subject from his mind. He was sick of it, and what he'd been through last New Year was still giving him nightmares months afterwards. He made a vain attempt to turn the conversation by asking about the miners across the valley, but Two Dogs was equally set on sticking to the subject . . . and, being the host, won, thanks to Don Miguel's desire not to cause offence.

  "It was, of course, in one sense at least a fortunate accident. One need only look south past the Isthmus to see what the alternative might have been -- hm?"

  Embarrassed, Don Miguel cast around for a neutral reply. It was always upsetting for an Imperial citizen to be reminded of the fate of the great civilisations of Central and South America, sacrificed on the altar of European greed. He said at last, "There has never been change without suffering -- it's the way of the world, I'm afraid."

  "And as you people saw it, it might as well be the provincials who suffered," suggested Two Dogs. "You spoke a moment ago of emigrants who might decide not to come here because the name you'd given the area suggested that it didn't exist. I find myself tempted to enquire: what emigrants? Are they emigrants who are crouching and sweating in the mine galleries yonder? Or are they natives, dispossessed from their old hunting-grounds and compelled to adopt this miserable means of earning their living?"

  What have I stumbled across -- some revanchist fanatic? Don Miguel was tempted to revise his opinion of Two Dogs from start to finish on that basis alone. But he held his peace, and cut another slice of cheese.

  "As I see it," the mine manager pursued, "you conceive of yourselves as looking from the centre outwards. Europe is the heart of the world and the other continents are -- what would one call them? -- its outskirts, perhaps. Of course, in one way that's become a self-fulfilling prophecy; at least, over the past five hundred years, a great many local squabbles in Europe have created changes out of all proportion here, in Africa and in Asia. It's taught people like me to be grateful for small mercies. We don't seem to have had any big ones for quite a while."

  The words dug into Don Miguel's mind like the touch of an eagle's claw. Feeling little premonitory tinglings on the nape of his neck, he said, "I'm not entirely certain that I follow you."

  "Don't you? Well, here's an example of what I'd call a small mercy. Suppose your Empire hadn't won its greatest victory. Suppose there hadn't been a strong power in Western Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and -- like Eastern Europe -- the area had split into petty principalities, because you'd lost the Netherlands before you could use them as a launching-site for your invasion of England, and when the Moors reconquered Spain you had nowhere to go. Wouldn't we Indians then have had four or more gangs of Europeans fighting over our hunting-grounds like dogs over a bone?"

  Don Miguel was by this time convinced that he was being needled. In a last desperate effort to prove that his identity was not suspected, he said, "It's an interesting argument. Obviously you've made a study of history."

  "So have you," Two Dogs said, and looked him straight in the eye. "You are a Licentiate of the Society of Time, aren't you?"

  II

  Don Miguel uttered a long succession of colourful curses in the next few seconds -- but under his breath. Finally, he reached for the wine-jug and refilled his glass without asking permission. Not looking at the other, he said, "Can't I get away from it anywhere ?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I came to California for a rest. Simply for a rest! I got so sick at home of being shown off like a circus animal -- looky looky, here's a time-traveller, let's make him do some tricks to amuse us! How in the name of all that's holy did you find out?"

  Two Dogs gave a dry chuckle, " I see. With your typically European parochialism, you thought that this was the end of the world. Well, it's true we're a long way from Londres, but that doesn't mean that we don't hear the news eventually. On your way to California you passed through New Madrid. The Prince of New Castile, who's the Commander of your Society, happened to be in residence at his palace there, making one of his infrequent visits to the territory he nominally governs. You called on him to pay your respects. And . . ." An expressive shrug. "There can't be very many people in the world by the name of Miguel Navarro."

  "By the infernal fires, isn't there anywhere on Earth I can get away from it all?" Don Miguel, scowling terribly so that the cicatrised sword-slash on his cheek nearly vanished as the muscles under it tightened, slapped his open palm oh the table in an access of fury.

  "Away from what?"

  "I told you! From these sensation-seekers who always seem to descend on a time-traveller like flies on rotten meat -- and they're no less unwholesome, I tell you straight!"

  "Well, that at least I can promise you you'll be spared," Two Dogs said. "Our code of good behaviour doesn't allow us to offend visitors in that fashion. In fact, out of deference to your wish for anonymity, I'd drop the subject but for one thing."

  "That being . . . ?"

  "By now, Don Miguel, there isn't anywhere on Earth you -- I mean Europeans generally--can 'get away from it all.' You've scarred the face of the planet far too deeply. They tell me that even the sterile snow of the South Pole is now littered with the refuse of the explorers you've sent to it."

  There was a pause, and Don Miguel again stared across the valley towards the mines. Honesty compelled him to accept, watching the half-naked workers there whose brown skins were turned nearly yellow by the coating of mineral dust they wore, that in the fierce summer heat they must be suffering torments of thirst and weariness. Yes, it was regrettable, but true: the greed of Europe had caused a lot of harm to people who didn't deserve it.

  He sighed, and drained his glass. This time Two Dogs filled it anew.

  "And there's another more personal reason for not acting as I suppose I ought to," he went on meditatively. "I am, as you deduced, very much interested in history. To forego this chance to talk with an expert from the centre of world affairs is something I'll only do if you're insistent."

  "As you like," Don Miguel conceded, comforting himself with the reflection that -- judging by what Two Dogs had so far said -- questions from him would be on a higher level than those from, say, the Marquesa di Jorque.

  "You're kind," Two Dogs said formally. "In the event, let me ask if you agree with the proposition I advanced a short time ago. Is it not probable that without Imperial dominance over the nearer coast of Europe, and your virtual monopoly of trans-Atlantic sea-trade, we'd likely have had you, and the French, and the Swedes, and the Dutch, and even the English, transporting their local differences to this continent and battling over them? And we poor Indians might have been ground between them like corn between millstones."

  There could be no doubt that he took his hypothesis seriously; under the shadow of the reed awning, his face was as grim and ominous as one of the idols carved by his Central American cousins. Don Miguel marvelled at the change that had overtaken him, and wished achingly that it could have been any other subject than this which had arisen between them. He had taken quite a liking to Two Dogs since their first meeting three days earlier, and had looked forward to a lot of idle small-talk to distract his mind from the thing
s that preyed on it.

  But here, now, Two Dogs had gone to the core of his anxieties as directly as a skilled engineer sinking a mineshaft to a lode of ore.

  Well, there was no help for it. But tomorrow or some time soon he'd be advised to move on to some even more remote townlet, possibly even register at an inn under an assumed name . . .

  With yet another sigh, the deepest of all, he said, "Oh . . . Yes, I suppose it's possible. Though personally I doubt whether any would-be conqueror with so small an economic base as a single member-country of the Empire -- even France, which is relatively large and fairly wealthy -- could have established a permanent bridgehead here if the Indians had united to oppose them."

  "Oh, I think so," contradicted Two Dogs. "I think what you would have done would be to take advantage of our poor internal communications and the linguistic distinctions which divided us. Some of us might have been tempted to throw in our lot with one party, some with another, until in the end we were as war-torn and antagonistic as you."