Overtime Tom Holt

by Overtime (lit)

  'Ouch,' the intruder said. He froze.

  'Now then,' Caesar said, 'just what the hell do you think you're doing, barging in here when I'm having a -'

  'Let go!'

  The words came from the second intruder, who was standing about ten yards away from the tree, with a mob of soldiers gaining on him fast. The second intruder didn't seem to be paying any attention to them; he was pointing at Caesar with a small black metallic object in his hand.

  'Let go!' he repeated.

  'Hoy!' Caesar replied angrily. 'Who do you think you're talking to?'

  The brightly dressed intruder squirmed in Caesar's grip. 'For crying out loud, Guy,' he yelled, 'put that confounded thing away! You know what happened the last -'

  'If you don't let go,' said the other intruder, 'it'll be the worse for you.

  Caesar gave him a blank stare; then threw back his head and burst out laughing, at the same time giving the ear in his grip a savage tweak. The second intruder swore, and then there was a loud crack, like a thunderclap. Caesar's hat jumped about a foot into the air, was caught by a gust of wind, and floated away towards the river.

  'My hat!' Caesar shrieked, and clapped his hands to his bald head, too late to stop a great long lock of damp grey hair from slithering off his bald dome and flopping down over his ear. He directed a murderous look at the two intruders and set off in furious pursuit of his floating hat.

  'Guy, you pillock,' Blondel panted, 'now look what you've done.'

  They watched as Caesar, intent only on the recovery of his hat, dived into the waters of the river and started to swim. The current was almost too strong for him but he struck out vigorously, reached the other side and flung himself with a cry of exultant triumph on the hat, which had come to roost in the branches of a stunted thorn bush.

  The army, meanwhile, was watching with fascinated attention. As soon as Caesar set foot on the far bank, a great whoop of joy rose from the ranks, as thirty thousand men shouted, all at once;

  'The die is cast! Caesar has crossed the Rubicon! To Rome! Rome!'

  Caesar looked up, the hat wedged once more over his slightly protruding ears. A look of supreme disgust crossed his face.

  'Oh shit,' he said.

  The army had started to cross the river. Someone had hoisted up the sacred Eagle standards. They were singing the battle song of the Fifteenth Legion.

  'I told you,' Blondel said. 'Didn't I tell you?'

  They were alone now in the abandoned camp. On the other side of the river. Caesar was being carried on the shoulders of his bodyguard, on inexorably towards Rome and Empire.

  'But I' thought that was what was supposed to happen,' Guy whimpered.

  Blondel shook his head. 'In a sense, yes,' he replied. 'But ... oh, never mind. Let's get out of here and go and have a drink.'

  Giovanni smiled.

  'What I always say to people in your situation,' he said, 'people who've fallen off the edge of the world and are sailing aimlessly about, is that one of these days you're bound to find your way back again, and in the meantime, don't you think your money should be working for you as hard as it possibly can, so that when you do finally get out of here...'

  The Genoese merchant gave him a blank, empty-eye-socket stare. Giovanni kept going. In his youth, when he was just another Florentine wide boy hawking scarlet hose and fragments of the True Cross door to door through Gascony, he'd come up against harder nuts than this.

  'Think how long you've been down here,' he said. 'A hundred years? Two hundred? Would five hundred be nearer the mark, maybe?'

  The Genoese made a little muffled noise, somewhere between a moan and a shriek. Giovanni nodded.

  'Okay,' he said, 'call it four hundred and fifty years, give or take fifty on either side. Now, a modest stake of say one thousand bezants, invested at twenty-five per cent compound interest, tax-free for four hundred and fifty years ...

  The Genoese suddenly howled and tried to bite Giovanni in the neck. Being a man of action as well as a man of intellect, Giovanni sidestepped, picked up an oar and clubbed him savagely on the head. Being an insurance broker he mentioned to him the benefits of proper accident insurance and private health cover. Before he could get any forms out or unscrew the top of his fountain pen, however, the Genoese stopped twitching and lay still. Giovanni sighed; an opportunity lost, he couldn't help feeling.

  'Is he ...?' Marco asked.

  Giovanni nodded. 'Fool to himself,' he said. 'I suppose we could retrospectively insure his life for a couple of grand, but it hardly seems worth the bother. Come on, let's try over there.

  They walked on over the insubstantial sea, keeping their spirits up by offering passing ships the opportunity to take advantage of low-start endowment mortgages. After about an hour, they came to what looked remarkably like a bank.

  'Don't look at it,' Giovanni said, 'it's probably just a mirage or something.'

  Iachimo shook his head. 'Look,' he said, 'they're members of FIMBRA, it says so in the window. It must be a bank.'

  'Iachimo...'

  'But Giovanni,' Iachimo said, 'they aren't allowed to display the FIMBRA logo unless they're...'

  Giovanni shrugged. If he was going to start hallucinating, a bank was a nice thing to hallucinate. Especially a bank which, in the circumstances, must count as definitively offshore.

  'We might just wander in,' he said tentatively. 'Just on the off chance, you know...'

  It was a very nice bank, and before he knew what he was doing Giovanni had filled his pockets with leaflets. Then he noticed something.

  'Iachimo,' he said, 'Marco, there's nobody here.' Iachimo sniffed like a dog. 'You're right,' he said. 'Completely deserted. How can they be members of FIMBRA if there's nobody ...

  Giovanni rang the bell; nobody came. Mind you, that didn't mean very much. Next he tried the door that led to the area behind the bullet-proof screen. It opened.

  'Coming?' he asked.

  Marco looked nervously at the security cameras. 'Do you think we should?' he said. 'I mean, we are in the Archives, and -'

  'There's nobody here,' Giovanni replied. 'Come on.' They walked through. At once, all the computer screens, which had been blank, sprang into life. They started displaying stock market results from all over the Universe. There were one or two that Giovanni had never heard of before.

  'Here, Iachimo,' he said, 'you know about these things. What's the ????ß???F 600 Share Index when it's at home?'

  Iachimo frowned and shook his head; clearly, it worried him that he hadn't heard of it. Giovanni, meanwhile, had sat down in front of one of the consoles and was tapping keys. After a while, he looked round.

  'Lads,' he said, 'I think I've sorted it out.'

  The others looked at him.

  'It's pathetically simple, really,' Giovanni said, with a grin.

  He tapped a key, and a dazzling display of little twinkling figures appeared on the screen in front of him. He paused for a moment and read them. 'Getting us out of here is going to be no trouble at all. Iachimo, what's the sort code for our bank in Geneva?'

  '7865443,' Iachimo said promptly. 'Why?'

  'Because,' Giovanni replied, 'I'm going to pay us into our deposit account there. By telegraphic transfer. A doddle, really. Hold tight.'

  He typed in 7865443, then a couple of codes, and then their names. A moment later, they had vanished.

  They stayed vanished.

  'Giovanni!' Iachimo screamed. It was dark and cold and he had the sensation of falling and he couldn't feel anything -anything - with any of his limbs or senses. 'What's happening? Giovanni?'

  'Sod it,' came Giovanni s voice, drifting in nothingness. 'We must be after business hours. The bastards have put us on hold.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'Means we've got to stay here till the bank opens for the next day's trading,' Giovanni yelled back. 'Means we'll lose a whole day's interest. When I get out of this, somebody's going to get sued.'

  As if in response, there was a d
eafening crackle and the three brothers felt as if they were being squeezed, like toothpaste, through some sort of nozzle. Then there was a crash, and they fell, head-first, through a computer screen.

  'Giovanni,' Marco said, 'you've got a bar code printed all over your forehead.'

  'So have you,' Giovanni replied. He picked himself up, dusted splinters of broken cathode ray tube out of his hair, and smiled at the terrified computer operator in whose lap he had landed. She stared at him and then, without removing her eyes from his face, started to fill in an Input chit.

  'Right then,' Giovanni said. 'Come on, you two. Mademoiselle,' he asked the girl, 'je vous prie, où sommes-nous, exactement?'

  The girl replied that they were in Geneva, and did he want to be taken off deposit? Giovanni confirmed that he did, and the three brothers walked out of the bank into the open air.

  'Quick thinking, that, on my part,' Giovanni said, 'wouldn't you say?'

  'We should have offered to pay for the broken machines,' Marco replied. 'They aren't cheap, you know.'

  They found a cafe and had a drink. They could afford it, after all; Marco's lucky silver three-penny bit, which he kept on his key ring, had just accumulated 10,000 Swiss francs interest. Accordingly, it was adjudged to be his shout. He paid.

  'The next thing on the agenda,' Giovanni said, 'is to find Blondel.'

  Iachimo shook his head. 'Can't do that,' he said. 'That man said he'd been destroyed, right? Blown up in a Time Archive. Means he never existed.'

  Giovanni put down his glass, wiped his lips on his tie and sighed. 'Don't be a prawn, Iachimo,' he said. 'If he never existed, how come we both know who I'm talking about?'

  'Who are you talking about?' Marco asked. They ignored him.

  'Stands to reason,' Giovanni went on. 'If we both remember him, it follows that he must have existed. Thus he can't have been killed in the Archives. Furthermore, if we can remember him here, Topside, then he must have got out of the Archives somehow. In which case he's still here somewhere. Capisce?'

  Iachimo wrinkled his brows, thought about it and then nodded enthusiastically. 'That's brilliant,' he said. 'How do we find him?'

  Giovanni shrugged. 'There,' he said, 'you have me. That's a difficult one. I mean, we had enough trouble finding him last time.'

  'You could try the phone book,' Marco said.

  'I suppose,' Giovanni went on, 'we could try going back to all the gigs we set up for him which he never actually did and see if he's done any of them yet. Then we could sort of work backwards, and...'

  'There's a phone book here,' Marco said. 'Look.'

  'Alternatively,' Giovanni continued, 'we could hire an enquiry agent. There's Ennio Sforza, only he's semi-retired. Or maybe we could try Annibale Tedesci; I know he really only does cross-temporal divorce work, but he might be prepared to stretch a point ...'

  'Here we are,' said Marco. 'Blondel. Blondelle Cash & Carry, Blondella Hydraulic Systems, Blond Elephant Night club...'

  'Do you know how much Annibale Tedesci charges per hour?' Iachimo replied. 'We'd have to do extra gigs just to cover the fees. How about if we did a credit search? We could go back in time, issue him with a credit card, and then...'

  'Blondel,' Marco said, '32 Munchenstrasse.'

  His brothers turned and stared at him.

  '32 Munchenstrasse,' he repeated. 'Here, look for yourselves if you don't -'

  His brothers examined the entry. They read it again. Giovanni said something profane under his breath, and grinned.

  'Now that,' he said, 'is what I call landing on your feet. Marco.

  Marco smiled, preparatory to preening himself. 'Yes?'

  'Get them in, there's a good lad,' Giovanni said, indicating the empty glasses. 'And while you're at it, see if anybody's got a street map.'

  La Beale Isoud tapped her foot.

  'Mr Goodlet,' she said, 'enough is enough. I can take a joke as well as anyone, but this is getting silly. Either you open that door this minute, or -The door opened, and Blondel crawled through. 'Hello, Sis,' he said. 'Is supper ready? I'm starving. You've met Guy, haven't you?'

  'Mr Goodlet!' said La Beale Isoud. 'Come back here at once.

  Guy, halfway back down the coal-cellar steps, froze. Like an exhausted stag turning at bay, he knew when he'd had enough. He smiled weakly.

  'We have met, yes,' he said. 'Blondel ...'

  But Blondel wasn't listening; either to Guy, who was trying to explain in a loud and urgent whisper, or to La Beale Isoud, who was providing a different version of the same basic facts in a much louder voice. He waved a hand placidly and walked through into his study, leaving Guy and La Beale Isoud together. He probably thought he was being tactful.

  'Mademoiselle, er de Nesle,' Guy said, 'I think we really ought to...'

  La Beale Isoud swept past him and locked the coal-cellar door with a little silver key, which she then dropped down the front of her dress. It must have been cold, because she winced slightly. 'Now then, Mr Goodlet,' she said grimly, 'I think we most certainly ought to get a few things straight, here and now. First, if you think for one moment that I want to marry you, you couldn't be more wrong.'

  'Oh,' Guy said. He felt like a boxer whose opponent has just punched himself forcefully on the nose. 'Well, I ...'

  'If you were the last man in the entire world,' La Beale Isoud went on, 'and they were giving away free alarm clock radios with every wedding bouquet, I still wouldn't marry you, if it was up to me.'

  'It is, surely.'

  La Beale Isoud looked at him. 'What?' she asked.

  'Up to you,' Guy said. 'I mean, I'm with you a hundred per cent there. Who you marry - who you don't marry, more to the point - surely that's your business and nobody else's. You stick to your guns.

  'Mr Goodlet,' said La Beale Isoud dangerously, 'the fact remains that we are married - or we will be, which is roughly the same thing, I suppose. The question is, what can we do about it?'

  'We could get a divorce,' Guy said. 'If we book one now, perhaps it could be ready by the time we -'

  'Divorce,' said La Beale Isoud, 'is out of the question. The scandal would be unthinkable.'

  'Surely not.'

  'Kindly,' said La Beale Isoud, 'do not interrupt. As far as I'm concerned, divorce is entirely out of the question. If you have any sensible suggestions, I should be pleased to hear them.'

  Guy thought, but all he could come up with was suicide. He stared at his feet uncomfortably.

  'I take it,' Isoud went on, 'that you have nothing constructive to suggest. Very well, then. I take it that we'll just have to find some - how can I put it? - some form of civilised compromise.'

  Guy nodded. 'That suits me,' he said. 'I'm all for civilisation. What had you in mind?'

  La Beale Isoud glowered at him. 'Frankly, Mr Goodlet,' she said, 'I feel that only one form of compromise is likely to be acceptable; namely that, after we are married, we see as little of each other as possible.'

  'Fair enough,' Guy said. 'Separate beds, you mean?'

  'I mean,' Isoud replied, 'separate centuries.'

  Guy raised an eyebrow. 'Don't get me wrong,' he said, 'I think it's a perfectly splendid idea. But you said a minute ago that you didn't want a divorce because of how it would look. Wouldn't having a husband hundreds of years in the future look almost as bad? Or doesn't it work like that?'

  'If you intend to make difficulties -'

  'No, no,' Guy said quickly, 'perish the thought. Besides,' he added, 'if we're hundreds of years apart, then really the whole thing becomes pretty well academic anyway, doesn't it? I mean, you could marry someone else, I could marry someone else, nobody would ever know...'

  'Mr Goodlet!'

  'Oh come on, now,' Guy said, 'be reasonable. Anyway, doesn't it say somewhere in the book of rules that if your wife hasn't been heard of for seven years she's assumed to be dead? Think it's seven years, though I'd have to ask my lawyer. I mean, that way we'd have all the advantages of a divorce without the...'

&nbs
p; Something about La Beale Isoud's expression - perhaps it was the ferocious look in her limpid blue eyes - gave Guy to understand that he wasn't really doing himself much good. He decided to change the subject.

  'Anyway,' he said, 'we can sort something out, between us, you know, later. Plenty of time for that. Um.'

  That seemed to be that. La Beale Isoud, perhaps not able to trust herself to speak further, stomped out of the hall, and shortly afterwards Guy heard the sound of large copper pans being banged about.

  Then Blondel came back into the hall. He had changed out of his usual outfit into another, exactly the same but cleaner, and had combed his hair. Guy had the feeling that La Beale Isoud was rather strict about such things. He shuddered; and Blondel, observing him, grinned weakly.

  'Isoud told me the good news,' he said, 'I ought to congratulate you, but I'm a realist. Never mind, it may never happen.

  'Thanks,' Guy replied, 'but it already has. Or it already will have. How do you cope with all these future tenses, by the way?'

  'I don't,' Blondel replied. 'When you whizz about in time like I do, you tend to get the sense of what people say rather better if you don't actually listen to the words. Just stick with the general sort of tune and you won't go far wrong. Fancy a drink?'

  Guy nodded. A drink, he felt, would be almost as good an idea as something to eat. It was a very long time since he'd had anything to eat, and he didn't want to get out of practice. He mentioned this; and the words were no sooner past the gate of his teeth when there came from the far room the sound of somebody hitting a piece of quick-fry steak with a wooden mallet, very hard.

  'It sounds to me,' Blondel said, 'as if Isoud's fixing something for us right now. You're welcome to stay.'

  'Thank you,' Guy replied. 'But I'd hate to impose, I mean ...

  Blondel nodded. 'So would I,' he replied, 'but I'm stuck with her. Look, Guy, my dear fellow, are you sure you wouldn't like to marry her? Permanently, I mean. Sort of, take her a long way away? I'm sure she'd make you a wonderful wife, and then I could just get a hamburger or a couple of pancakes on my way home in the evenings, instead of having to gnaw my way through scale models of the Krak Des Chevaliers in mashed potato.'