A second woman appeared. Elderly and frail. Hesitantly stepping from the time ship. Wrapped in heavy robes.
The younger woman was Jepthe. Loris' mother. At an earlier time. When she was here before.
Nixina said, in a voice familiar to Parsons, "Why did you let him get out of sight?"
"You know how he is," Jepthe shot back in a husky voice. "How could I stop him?" She leaped up, tossing her mane of hair back. "Maybe we should go to the cliff. We might find him again there."
I am back thirty-five years, Parsons realized. Loris has not been born.
Barefoot, Jepthe hurried from the ship, into the trees. Her long legs carried her quickly; she vanished almost at once, leaving the old woman to catch up.
"Wait for me!" Nixina called anxiously.
Reappearing, Jepthe said, "Hurry." She emerged from the trees to help her mother. "You shouldn't have come."
Watching the supple body, the energetic loins, Parsons thought, But she has already conceived. Loris is in her womb now, as I'm looking at her. And one day she will nurse at those superb breasts.
He began to hurry through the trees, back in the direction of the cliff. Corith had left his time ship; at least he knew that. The man was on his way, approaching what he imagined to be Drake.
Ahead of him, he saw the Pacific. He emerged on the cliff once more. The sunlight momentarily blinded him and he halted, shielding his eyes.
Far off, also on the cliff edge, he saw a single figure. A man, standing on the edge.
The man wore a loincloth. On his head a horned buffalo skull jutted up, covering him almost to his eyes. Black hair hung down from beneath the buffalo skull.
Parsons ran toward him.
The man did not seem aware of him. He bent down, gazing over the edge of the cliff, at the ship below. His enormous copper-colored body was splashed with paint streaks of blue and black and orange and yellow across his chest, his thighs, his shoulders, even his face. Over his back a pelt-covered mass was tied to him by a thong that passed over his chest and strapped beneath his armpits. Weapons there, Parsons decided. And binoculars. The man whipped a pair of binoculars from the pack on his back, and, squatting down, studied the beach.
Of all of them, Parsons thought, Corith had by far the best disguise. It was worthy of his great preparation, his months of secret effort. The magnificent buffalo skull, with tatters of skin flapping in the ocean wind. The blazing bands of paint slashed across his body. A warrior in the prime of life.
Now, lifting his head, Corith noticed him. Their eyes met. Parsons was face to face with him--with the living man. For the first time.
And, he wondered, the last?
Seeing him, Corith stuck the binoculars back into his pack. He did not seem alarmed; there was no fear on his face. His eyes flashed. The man's mouth was set, the teeth showing, almost a grin. Suddenly he sprang to the edge of the cliff. In an instant he had gone over the side; he had vanished.
"Corith!" Parsons shouted. The wind whipped his voice back at him. His lungs labored as he reached the spot, dropped down, saw the loose rock sliding where Corith had gone. The fanatic, cunning assassin had gotten away. Without knowing--or caring--who Parsons was or why he wanted him. Or how he had known his name.
Corith did not intend to stop for anything. He could not take the chance.
Making his way down, Parsons thought, I've lost him. The man had already gotten past him. Down the cliff side.
Why did I think I could stop him? he asked himself. When they failed. His mother, his son, his wife, his daughter--the family itself, the Wolf Tribe.
Sliding, half-falling, he reached a projection and halted. He could see no sign of the man.
On the beach, the small boat was still drawn up in the surf. The five men had collected by their weapon, concealing it. The bearded man wandered away, glanced up, continued to roam. Pretending that he doesn't know, Parsons thought. The decoy.
Taking hold of an outcropping, Parsons started cautiously on. He turned about, to face the cliff . . .
A few feet from him, Corith crouched. The relentless eyes bored at him; the face, inflamed with conviction, glowed. Corith held a tube in his hands. An elongated version of the weapon familiar to Parsons. With this, no doubt, he intended to kill Drake.
"You called me by name," Corith said.
Parsons said, "Don't go down there."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know your mother," he said. "Nixina. Your wife, Jepthe."
"I've never seen you before," Corith said. His eyes flickered; he studied Parsons, licking at his lower lip. Poised to spring, Parsons realized. Ready to leap away and on down the cliff. But, he thought, he will kill me first. With that tube.
"I want to warn you," Parsons said. He felt dizzy; for a moment black flecks passed in front of him, and the cliff wavered and began receding. The glare of the sun, the stark white sand, the ocean . . . he sat listening to the noise of the surf. Over it he could hear Corith's breathing. The rapid, constricted spasms.
"Who are you?" Corith said.
"You don't know me," he said.
"Why shouldn't I go down there?"
"It's a trap. They're waiting for you."
The massive face quivered. Corith raised the tube that he held. "It doesn't matter."
"They have the same weapons you have," Parsons said.
"No," Corith said. "Wheel-lock rifles."
"That's not Drake down there."
Now the black eyes flamed furiously; the face became distorted.
Parsons said, "The man down there is Al Stenog."
To that, Corith said nothing. He did not seem to react.
"The Director of the Fountain," Parsons said.
After a long time, Corith said, "The Director of the Fountain is a woman named Lu Farns."
At that, Parsons stared.
Corith said, "You're lying to me. I've never heard of anybody named Stenog."
They sat crouched against the rock surface of the cliff, facing each other silently.
"Your speech," Corith said. "You have an accent."
Parsons' mind raced. The whole thing had a ring of madness in it. Who was Lu Farns? Why had Corith never heard of Stenog? And then he understood.
Thirty-five years had passed since Corith's death. Stenog was a young man, no more than twenty. He had not become Director until long after Corith's death; in fact, he had not even been alive when Corith died. The woman, Lu Farns, was undoubtedly the Director of the Fountain during Corith's lifetime.
Relaxing a little, Parsons said, "I'm from the future." His hands were still haking; he tried to quiet them. "Your daughter--"
"My daughter," Corith echoed, with a mocking grimace.
"If you go any further down," Parsons said, "You'll be shot through the chest. Killed. Your body will be taken back to your own time, to the Wolf Lodge, and put into cold-pack. For thirty-five years your mother and your wife, and finally your daughter, will try to undo your death; they'll give up eventually and call me in."
Corith said, "I don't have any daughter."
"But you will," he said. "You do now, in fact, but you don't know it. Your wife has conceived."
With no indication that he had heard him, Corith said, "I must go down there and kill that man."
"If you want to kill him," Parsons said, "I'll tell you how you can do it. Not by going down there."
"How?" Corith said.
"In your own time. Before he solves the problem of time travel and comes back here." That was the only way; he had worked it out in his mind, examined the alternatives. "Here, he knows. There, if you go back, he doesn't. He didn't know about you when I was with him; all he had was a series of conjectures to go on. Shrewd guesses. But he was able to put them together; they resumed time-travel experimentation, and finally they were successful." Leaning urgently toward Corith, he went on, "Those weapons that you have won't help you here because--"
He broke off. From the pack strapped to Corith's body so
mething stuck up--something that made cold, bleak fright rise inside him.
"Your costume," he managed to say. "You constructed it yourself. No one else saw it." He reached toward Corith. Toward the pack. From the pack he took--
A handful of arrows. With flint tips. And feathered with familiar colors.
"Fakes," Parsons said. "Which you made as part of your disguise. To come back here."
Corth said, "Look at your arm."
"What?" he said, dazed.
"You're a white man," Corith said. "The dye has rubbed off where you got scratched." Suddenly he seized hold of Parsons' arm and yanked him toward him; he spat on Parsons' arm and rubbed at his flesh. The dye, moistened, rubbed away, leaving a spot of grayish white. Letting go of his arm, he caught hold of the artificial hair braided into Parsons'; in an instant he had torn the artificial hair away. He sat holding it in his hand.
And then, without a word, he sprang at Parsons.
Now I see, Parsons thought. He tumbled back over the lip of the rock and down the cliff side. Snatching, scrabbling, he managed to catch hold; his body dragged agonizingly against the rock. And then, above him, Corith appeared. The massive body descending.
Parsons rolled away, trying to avoid him. No, he thought. I don't want to. The copper-colored hands closed around his throat, and he felt the man's knee dig into him. . . .
Against him, Corith sagged. Blood gushed, staining the ground as it gurgled and became pools. Parsons, with a violent effort, managed to struggle out from beneath the man. He held, now, only one arrow. And he did not have to turn Corith over to see where the other was. As the man had dropped onto him, he had propped the arrow upright and it had gone into his heart.
I killed him, Parsons thought. By accident.
Above, on the edge of the cliff, Jepthe appeared. They'll know, he realized. In a moment. And when they find out--
Pressing against the cliff, he moved away from the dying man, crawling along the rock surface until he could no longer see either the woman or Corith. Then, step by step, he began ascending the cliff.
He reached the top. No one was in sight. They had gone down to Corith, but they would be back up immediately.
His mind empty, he ran from the cliff, toward the grove of trees. Presently, he was out of sight among them. Safe, he thought. No one will know; now they won't know.
The mystery of his death. They will never find out.
I did not intend to, he thought, but that makes no real difference. No wonder Stenog laughed. He knew it was going to be I who killed Corith.
Stopping, he stood deep in frantic thought.
I can go back to Loris and Helmar, he decided. Tell them that I saw only what they saw: Corith on the cliff, going down, and then Corith die. No one else. Nobody came up the cliff from below. The only ones who came down were Jepthe and Nixina. I don't know any more than they do.
And Corith will never tell, because he is dead.
Hiding, he heard voices. He saw Nixina and Jepthe rushing through the trees, searching for their time ship, their faces blank with grief. Going to get the ship, put him into it, take him back and get him into cold-pack.
Corith is dead, but thirty-five years from now he will be brought back to life. I will do it. I will be there, in the Lodge, responsible for his rebirth.
He knew, now, why the second arrow had appeared in Corith's chest. Why he had not remained alive.
The first time, he had killed Corith by accident. But not the second time. That would be on purpose.
I must have come back, he realized, in one of the time ships. That night I revived Corith, while he lay unconscious, recuperating. While I was with Loris, I was also downstairs with him.
But why with an arrow?
He looked down at his hand. He still clutched one arrow. Scrambling up the cliff, he had hung onto it. Why? he asked himself.
Because the arrows saved my life. If I hadn't had them, Corith would have killed me. I was defending myself.
There had been no choice.
And yet, he felt dread, the horror of responsibility. He had been trapped, drawn into it against his will; Corith had leaped on him, and he had done nothing but struggle to protect himself.
What else could I have done? he asked himself. Surely it isn't my fault. But if not, then whose fault is it?
Who really was responsible for the crime? And it was a crime. Any killing is a crime. I'm a doctor, he said to himself. My job is to save human life. Especially this man's life.
But at the cost of my own? Because, when I revive him at the Lodge, he will point me out. And I will be helpless. Because I will not know; this has not happened for me yet.
FIFTEEN
Standing alone in the woods, Parsons thought, I am the man they are searching for. Thirty-five years.
The people at the Lodge would kill him at once, as soon as Corith indicted him. They would show no mercy--and why should they?
Had he, himself?
Perhaps he could break the sequence at some point. Catch myself before I come back here, he thought. Before I kill him the first time.
Above his head, a metallic object moved swiftly, leaving the woods and going to the cliff. The object dropped beyond the edge of the cliff; he heard its jets roaring as it stabilized itself near Corith. The old woman and her daughter had gone to collect the dying man.
In the vicinity, he realized, there were three other time ships; four, if Stenog's was included. This one had already gone into motion, but the others remained. Or did they?
I have to get to one of them, he thought. He began running aimlessly, in panic. But the ships from past time-segments-- he could not approach them without disrupting history. That left only Stenog's ship, and the one that he had arrived here in. Could he go back and face Loris and the others? Knowing that he had killed Corith?
He had to.
Coming out on the cliff, he began running back the way he had originally come. As far as they're concerned, he told himself, this trip has simply been a failure. As before, no one has been able to make out what happened. I've given them no help. My plan was a failure. There is no choice but to give up and return to the future.
While he ran he saw, over the cliff, the tiny figures on the beach below. Stenog's men, at the boat.
The men, with their oars, were tracing huge letters in the sand. Parsons paused. And saw that the letters spelled out his name. Stenog was trying to signal him. With great speed, as if by some prearranged system, the men got their message completed as he stood gazing down.
PARSONS. THEY SAW, KNOW.
Warning him. That this time the trip had not been a total failure. So he could not go back after all.
Turning, he sprinted across the open space, back into the woods. Once they see me, he realized, they'll kill me. Or--his heart sank. They don't even have to do that. All they have to do is go back to the future without me. Leave me here.
But then I can go down to Stenog's ship, he realized.
Go down--and find himself in the hands of the government once more, to be shipped out to the prison colonies. Was that what he wanted? Was that better than remaining here, a castaway? At least he would be free here; he could certainly contact an Indian tribe in the area, survive with them . . . and, later on, when a ship from Europe arrived, he could go back with them. He racked his brains. What was the next contact between this region, Nova Albion, and the Old World? Something like 1595. A captain named Cermeno had wrecked--would wreck--his vessel off the entrance to the Estero. That was--sixteen years.
Sixteen years here, living on clams and deer, squatting around a fire, huddled in a tent made of animal hide, scratching at the soil for roots. This was the superlative culture that Corith wanted to preserve, in place of Elizabethan England.
Better, Parsons thought, to turn myself over to Stenog. He started back in the direction of the cliff.
Ahead of him, a figure emerged, stepping into his path. For one terrible instant he thought it was Corith. The powerful sho
ulders, the grim, rigid features, the sharp, hawklike nose . . .
It was Helmar. Corith's son.
Halting, Parsons faced him. Now Loris and Jepthe appeared.
By the expression on their faces, he saw that Stenog had not lied to him.
"He was on his way down to them," Helmar said to Loris.
Loris, her face stark, said, "You betrayed us."
"No," Parsons said. But he knew that it was pointless to try to talk to them.
"When did the idea come to you?" Loris said. "Back at the Lodge? Did you get us to bring you here so you could do it? Or did the idea come to you when you saw him?"
Parsons said, "The idea never came to me."
"You intercepted him," Loris said. "You went down and talked to Drake--you conferred with him. We saw you. And then you came up the cliff and stopped Corith and murdered him. And then you were going back down to Drake, to go back with him. He warned you that we saw; he had his men write in the sand. So you knew you couldn't go back to us."
To that, Parsons said nothing. He faced them silently.
Pointing his weapon at Parsons, Helmar said, "We're going back to the time ship."
"Why?" Parsons said. Why not kill me here? he wondered.
"Nixina has made the decision," Loris said.
"What decision?"
Loris, in a choked, constricted voice, said, "She thinks you didn't mean to do it. She says--" She broke off. "If you had meant to do it, you would have brought some kind of weapon with you. She thinks you stopped Corith to argue with him, and that he wouldn't listen to you. And you fought each other, and in the fight Corith was stabbed."
Parsons said, "I warned him not to go down." They were listening, at least for a moment. "I told him," he said, "that it's not Drake down there. It's Stenog, waiting for him."
After a pause, Loris said, "And of course my father had never heard of Stenog. He didn't know what you meant." Bitterly, her lips twisting, she said, "And he saw the white showing on your arm. He knew you were a white man, and he didn't trust you; he wouldn't listen to you, and it cost him his life."
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