Dawn brought one of those bright, sunny days when sails draw well and seagulls sing hymns to the sun—when porpoises, filled with joie de vivre, crisscross the bow and startled anchovies waste millions of tailpower frothing Homer’s wine-dark sea. Cookie fried over a hundred rye pancakes—light, fluffy ones, thanks to some yeasty miracle—and though the butter was long gone, he had produced a sweet syrup, vaguely reminiscent of dried apricots.
Guilbeau was steering. Joe, after a glance at a morning worthy of the young King David’s harp, decided to hold his meeting on deck. He reviewed the time travel business and explained his hypothesis of the night before.
Freedy pursed his little mouth. “How do we keep from going farther back in the past?”
“A good question,” Joe said. “My guess is it takes power to drive anything out of its own time and that no matter how far away, that person or thing must always have an affinity for his proper position in time. Perhaps if the same process which dislocated him in the first place were repeated, but without power . . .”
Lapham’s Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “You mean the lightning?”
“Right,” Joe said. “It was the still and, I think, the fathometer which got us in this fix, coupled with a couple of googol watts from a lightning discharge.”
Dr. Krom broke in excitedly. “Let’s try it—what can we lose?”
“Nothing we haven’t already lost,” Schwartz said.
No one else objected, so Joe said, “Gorson, you and Cookie set up the still. Try to get everything like it was when we tangled with those Vikings off Catalina or Iceland or wherever.
“Freedy, make sure your gear’s all there. Whatever you do, don’t turn anything on!”
“Rose, how are the batteries?”
“Half charge,” the engineman said. “If the breeze holds and the windmill doesn’t give out they’ll be up in another day.”
“Everyone spend the day thinking over my theory. How many things can go wrong? After you come up with your objections I’ll spring mine. If that doesn’t spare you to death we’ll throw the switch tomorrow.” He glanced automatically at his wrist and remembered his watch had gone down with the Romans. Damn them; I might have been willing to let them live if it hadn’t been for that.
Raquel appeared beside him. “You expect more trouble?” she asked.
“No,” Joe said, “but I didn’t expect to get out of television range of San Diego the day I sailed. Incidentally, how much English do you understand nowadays?”
Raquel shrugged. “Your language is like the Viking tongue but I think it is worse. I still know only a few words.”
Villegas must have filled her in about the meeting, Joe guessed. Like every Latin gentleman, he preferred blondes and had set up bunkkeeping with one. Still, Joe felt an obscure discomfort and wished the great lover would keep away from Raquel. Not that Joe had any intentions, honorable or otherwise, but . . . He couldn’t make up his mind just what he was butting.
The day wore on and no sight of land. Where were they? He was sure he’d passed Cape Malea by this time. How could he have managed that without sighting land? They’d be passing across the Ionian sea’s lower end soon, maybe already. He wondered how it would be for pirates, remembering that Julius Caesar had been taken and held for ransom here.
They had roast goat that afternoon. Surprisingly like venison, Joe decided. They had been horribly short of fats and the rye bread dipped in hot tallow was delectable. The Alice was still well fixed for rye and meat but the island had contributed little or nothing in the way of greens, thanks to the same goats they were now eating. Joe ran his tongue over his teeth and wondered if it was imagination that made them feel slightly loose. How long before someone blossomed out with a genuine case of scurvy?
The still was ready. Radio and fathometer were still complete, if only because the Romans hadn’t been able to imagine the cost of a power transistor. Joe turned in and threshed about in his bunk. Chances were when he got everything set up and threw the switch, nothing would happen. If something did there were about eighteen thousand things that could go wrong. The first jump had taken them from the Pacific to the Atlantic; the second had landed them in the Aegean. The reverse should take them back home—maybe.
He flipped on the light for a look at his watch. Damn it, would he never remember it was gone? He climbed wearily into his pants and hoped there would be some burnt rye in the coffee pot. If the fire hadn’t died down in the range it might even be warm.
Lights were on and all hands sat waiting in the galley. “What time is it? Why’s everybody up?”
“Homesick, sonny,” Ma Trimble said. “Everybody’s waiting for you to get off the pot”
Joe stumbled toward die coffee pot which, thank Mahan, was full. Somewhere in the back of his mind had lurked the hope that with warm bunks and carnal satisfactions the Alice’s crew would not be in such a hurry to get home. As the only historian aboard he had, he realized now, been indulging in wishful thinking. “Hasn’t anyone any objections?” he asked.
Silence.
“Well,” he continued, “the first jump, took us from off California to somewhere between Norway and Iceland. The next one dumped us in the Aegean. Why? Maybe we hang in limbo while the Earth revolves beneath us.” He shrugged. “Anyway, each jump has moved us east. Now take a look at the map. If this next jump proves true to form the Alice is going to have one damn rough time sailing down Mt. Ararat.”
Shocked silence.
“But we got everything all ready to go,” Cookie finally protested.
“Okay,” Joe said, “if everybody’s willing, so am I. But remember, the biggest deserts on Earth fie due east. The Golden Horde of Fu Manchu couldn’t dig a canal across the Gobi.”
There was silence for another moment; then Dr. Krom protested, “But do you know?”
“Of course not,” Joe snapped. “I’m guessing like everyone else. What time is it, anyway?”
“About dawn,” Gorson said. “Guilbeau, relieve Schwartz.”
The Cajun nodded and climbed into his peacoat.
“Batteries at full charge,” Rose suggested.
A faint hint of daylight glimmered through the porthole. Joe didn’t want to jump. He was haunted by the suspicion that he was forgetting something very important. He needed more time to think. Maybe he could get Freedy to check over the electronics gear again. He was trying to think up a reason to stall when Schwartz’s raucous voice yelled. “Land!”
Ten seconds later all hands stared at a rocky promontory off the starboard bow. Where in blazes were they? Joe was willing to bet his commission they’d passed Cape Malea. This couldn’t possibly be Sicily. He studied the point and wondered how far out that rocky spine would shoal. If the Alice headed any farther south she’d be sailing by the lee. Nothing for it but to haul everything in close and jibe.
“Want a sounding?” Freedy asked. “I can turn on the fathometer.”
“With everything set up for a jump? Hell, no.”
They hauled in the mainsheet and were wrestling with the spinnaker pole when Joe first saw it come streaking from behind the point. The ship was light and carried a single bank of oars. “Libumian,” he grunted. Caesar used them for dispatch boars. A second galley came from behind the point and shot toward the Alice.
“Dammit,” Gorson moaned, “The s.o.b.’s must crawl from under every flat rock.”
Freedy stuck his head up through the companionway. “You sure it’s deep enough here?” he asked.
Joe gauged the wind against the quick-stroking Libumians. “Were in deep enough,” he said. “Turn on the fathometer.”
XI
HOWARD MCGRATH had not been having it easy. The night before the Alice had been taken by the Roman ship, he and Lillith had escaped in the caique, but right now, with the wind abeam, the little vessel was about as stable as a bicycle. Out of bits of cordage they had finally rigged a couple of slings which permitted him and Lillith to dangle rapidly varicosing butt
ocks outboard of the windward gunwale while steering with the sheet rather than the lashed sweep.
After several eternities they reached Piraeus and brailed up sail. There being no proper thwarts, Howie had been at something of a loss until Lillith stood facing forward with her pair of oars and taught him how to row. In the hour and a half it took them to make land he felt circulation returning little by little to his cinctured lower extremities.
Instinct guided Lillith away from the moles where customs men swarmed over the large ships. They rowed slowly, toward a more ancient section of the harbor where small boats reeked of ancient fish while their occupants mended nets and addressed each other in equally pungent koiné.
Howie had acquired a minimum of Aramaic in the last week but this was his first contact with the language of the New Testament. How, he wondered, would they get by here?
Lillith, using the few Aramaic words Howie understood, managed with much arm waving to explain that she would do the talking and that he had best pretend to be her slave.
Howie saw the wisdom of this: slaves were not expected to fight and these bruisers looked as if they’d like nothing better. They inched along the mole to a vacant space large enough for the caique’s bow. Howie scrambled over the slimy stones and tied up. By the time he had helped Lillith up onto the dock an immense crowd had gathered.
Howie glanced embarrassedly at his ragged dungarees. He must be wearing the only pants in town. He ran a hand over his sunburned chin and wondered when he’d find a razor to take off the half dozen bristles which sprouted there.
Lillith addressed the gawkers shrilly. Had Howie known more of the language he would have known her Greek was almost as atrocious as his Aramaic. But she got the idea across. Soon fishermen bid briskly against each other. One dumped a few staters and a large handful of copper éboloi into the pocket she made of her tattered skirt. She handed him the caique’s painter.
The crowd dispersed. Howie studied Lillith’s legs and desire rose in him for the first time since they’d sailed. But there were too many people. Glancing about at the few women’s long skirts, he saw Lillith was conspicuous, brazen, or both. He pointed at the money and at a pocket in his dungarees. Lillith gave him a swift glance and surrendered the coins.
She started down the narrow street and Howie, after she had hissed and pointed a couple of times, fell in behind as befitted a slave. The street was cobbled with uneven stones which threatened to sprain his ankle with every step. It was not over ten feet wide at best and upper floors extended until the street caught less than enough sunlight to dry the stinking mounds of rubbish and offal which collected beneath balconies.
The lower story was mostly open-front shops, selling weird things at whose use Howie could only guess. He muttered an unchristian word as his toe stubbed another cobble. Why hadn’t he brought his shoes?
Lillith was used to going barefoot but she fared little better. Abruptly she stopped before a display of sandals. Moments later they had two pairs, and half of the copper coins were gone. A few doors farther they stopped again and Howie squatted for nearly an hour while Lillith tried on robes until she found one which showed off her sultry complexion to advantage.
In considerably less time she picked a himation. Howie put it on but refused to remove his trousers. Lillith, after some venomous asides, led the way again. Howie’s denim-clad legs attracted stares from those Athenians who had not yet seen everything. He struggled with the himation. Lillith was suddenly walking much faster. Eventually, he got the bulky garment bunched up around his waist, more or less as Others seemed to wear it.
They left the docks and the fishy smell was gradually displaced by an all-pervading odor of onion, garlic, and the rancid stink of olive oil. When had he eaten last, Howie wondered. The smell grew stronger and he felt suddenly faint. Lillith stopped so abruptly that he bumped into her and Howie saw that one of the open-fronted shops had an immense soot-blackened cauldron in which oil smoked and little brown things sizzled.
The cook was a small, suspicious man with kinky black hair. His eyes became human only when Lillith extracted money from the hypnotized Howie’s pocket. Then the little man grabbed chunks of dough and twirled them pizza fashion before dumping fried sausage and a handful of onion in the midst of each. When each gob of dough was rolled back into a ball he dropped it in. Howie could not take his eyes from the cauldron. After an eternity of waiting for them to cool Howie and Lillith wandered on down the street, dodging porters, pack mules, and an occasional VIP’s litter.
They were leaving Piraeus now, starting the six mile walk up between the remains of the famous long walls. Howie felt better since he had eaten. But with his stomach full, he became even more cognizant of how long it had been since he had last slept. Lillith had catnapped while he steered constantly. He looked wistfully for someplace to sleep but every nook in the ruined walls was filled with lounging sailors, drovers, or bands of half-drunk students out picnicking.
Howie plodded behind, seething inwardly as students caught sight of Lillith and made loud remarks which required no translation.
Two miserable stumbling hours later they finished the uphill walk to Athens. Howie was so exhausted that he took no notice of the stoa through which they trudged, save that he was startled by the gaudily painted statue of a naked young man about to fling a plate at somebody. He had always thought statues were left in the natural white of marble.
Lillith stopped before a building which reeked of steam and oil. Well scrubbed men lounged before the building. Those downwind moved when Howie and Lillith sat down.
The silver coins were all gone and only a handful of copper oboloi remained. Howie wondered if there’d be enough for a room in whatever these foreigners had in the way of a hotel. He was going over his meager vocabulary, trying to find a way to ask Lillith, when he noticed a small, bright-eyed man studying them intently. Howie stared back. The little man’s chlamys fit better than most of the citizenry’s and was woven of finer material. Howie glanced at Lillith. She too had noticed the man’s glance. Jealous anger boiled through Howie at the suspicion that they had been communicating for some time.
Abruptly, he remembered he was pretending to be a slave. The sooner he got to Rome, the better, Howie decided. He didn’t think he was going to like Creeks.
The little man moved toward them. Lillith gave Howie a warning glance and he lapsed into immobility. The conversation was long and repetitive, due to Lillith’s imperfect Greek, but eventually the little man produced a silver stater. Other loungers gathered to watch the bargaining and offer ribald comment.
Lillith extracted the last of the money from Howie’s pocket and spread it beside her. Pointing to coins and extending fingers, she indicated her price. Howie’s anger disappeared, overwhelmed by a numbing shock. He was seeing Lillith in her true light for the first time—peddling herself like a common—He couldn’t bring himself even to think the word.
The little man’s eyes burned more brightly. He licked his full red lips. Lillith, with a gesture of finality, picked up her coins and tossed them down the front of her dress. The little man knew when he was licked. He produced a handful of staters. Howie’s eyes bulged. He knew how much they’d gotten for the caique and how far it had gone. But this—why, it must be ten times as much!
And she could make all this money just for—Lillith dumped the silver down the front of her dress. It was wrong, of course; she shouldn’t do it. But then, they did need money. And it would only take a little while. He brightened as he reflected that he now had a steady source of income which could take them both to Rome. And since he was going to Rome for a good cause . . . Come to think of it, Jesus hadn’t hesitated to accept Mary Magdalene’s earnings.
Lillith pointed at the entrance of the building. He recognized the word for bath. Or was it wash? He’d have to make himself scarce anyway while Lillith performed her part of the bargain.
The bright-eyed little man propelled him toward the bath attendant. Howie let himself
be led into the first chamber. The attendant took his clothes and left him to doze in drowsy, comforting steam. He woke abruptly from a dream of carnal delights to discover the attendant scraping him with a strigil—like a wooden currycomb. After awhile he was propelled into the next room, a swimming pool full of warm water. He joined the men who squatted there and fell asleep.
The attendant fished him out and slapped his back till he was through coughing and choking, then led him into the next room. The attendant pushed him into the cold pool. By the time he had splashed his way to the other end he was wide awake. To his surprise, the bright-eyed little man was waiting for him. Howie looked for his clothes but the little man had him by the hand and was leading him to a curtained-off alcove.
Thirty seconds later the little man burst through the curtains immediately in front of Howie’s foot. “Jehovah smite thee!” Howie raged. “Isn’t the girl enough? Jesus rescue me from this den of iniquity!”
The little man stood at a safe distance, lower lip trembling as he stared at this berserk apparition.
A crowd gathered immediately. Hadn’t these Greeks anything to do but stare? One elderly man detached himself from the crowd and edged toward Howie. “Didst say Jesu?” he asked.
Howie stared.
“Art thou Christian?” the old man continued. “Methought thy tongue rang haply of mine own.”
“Who are you?” Howie croaked.
“Alas,” the old man sighed, “once I was Brother Willibald of Glastonbury—until that Satan inspired Alchemist talked me into arming his copper coiled Alembic.” The old man sighed again. “The Abbey may now possess the Philosopher’s Stone and know all the Arts of transmuting Base Metals into Gold but alas—will Brother Willibald ever again drink the brown October Ale?”
The Ship That Sailed the Time Stream Page 15