“We won’t be coming down,” said Betty, smiling mysteriously. We continued our ascent.
The Third Serpent hobbled along following us all that way to the third level and there, as we looked down over the sprawling city, he approached us again.
“Of course you won’t leave Babylon,” he said, “until you know whether Jipfur is guilty or innocent of a murder.”
“We can’t wait,” I said.
“I myself am very curious to know what the gods will say,” said the Serpent. “The lives of several thousand people will be affected one way or another. If the gods should strike him down—”
“Don’t worry,” I laughed. “With all due respect to the gods, I’m sure Jipfur knows what he’s doing.”
It was a long steep climb, and we rested again on the fifth level. That left two more to go.
Betty frowned as she looked down on the glazed brick buildings.
“I see the king’s palace,” she said, “but where is the crowd?”
I didn’t know. I had supposed the plaza would be packed with a vast multitude. Was it possible that Jipfur had slid out of his proposition to stand before the gods?
“On top of the ziggurat is the palace to stand before the gods,” said the Third Serpent. “That’s why so many people have been passing us. Most of the! crowd is ahead of us.”
“Ahead of us!” I was already dizzy from the four hundred and fifty feet of climbing. This remark gave me a whirling sensation as if I were spiraling down on a roller coaster.
“The king changed the place of the test,” said the Third Serpent, adding in the same dry voice. “Why are you suddenly hurrying?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “But we’ve got a certain spot reserved. We’ve got to get there—and—and clear it!”
The Third Serpent was right, the crowd was ahead of us, a good five thousand strong—an ample number to witness Jipfur’s challenge to the gods.
The ceremony was already in progress. The five thousand spectators sat close-packed on the brick floor—a vast circle of sky gazers, their eyes intent on the big fluffy clouds that passed—almost low enough to touch.
Jipfur was looking up, too, shouting into the heavens, calling the names of the Babylonian deities, challenging them brazenly.
“Come, Shamash, if you have any accusations against me, strike me with lightning. Come, Ishtar—”
I saw the anxiety flash through Betty’s face. She knew it must be only a matter of minutes until our departure.
Very well, in a few minutes we would be ready. The watchman had told us the exact point where the glass message had been deposited. We had only to take a few measurements—
But how could we? This vast throng packed every inch of circumference around the tower-top!
“Quick!” Betty whispered. “We’ve got to disregard them.”
I knew she was right. I forced my way through to a specified point at the outer edge, tried to take measured steps across the thicket of spectators.
“Down! Down!” the people hissed. They were intent on the show at the center of the ring. Jipfur was waving his arms, bellowing into the skies.
Betty moaned, “We’ve got to wait. Maybe they’ll leave soon.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “The bull moose means to keep it up till he wears them out. Listen to him!”
“Strike me down, if you dare, Oh Marduk! Stab me with fire if I have ever been guilty of an unkind deed!”
He tossed his pudgy head from side to side. The wavy locks beneath his cone-shaped cap fluttered in the breeze. The brass necklace, “Bull Moose,” dangled from his throat, swinging with each boastful beckon of his arms.
“In their blindness,” Jipfur roared, “my fellowmen have accused me of murdering Slaf-Carch, my beloved uncle. If I did this deed, strike me dead this inst—”
It came! It flashed down out of the sky—a veritable spiral of lightning. Five thousand people caught the quick glimpse—a cylinder of red fire!
Then it was gone.
Betty clutched my hand and I felt the awful throb of disappointment in her grip. Our chance had come and gone—and here we sat, helpless, surrounded by five thousand Babylonians, viewing the sham-religious antics of Jipfur—
What had happened?
Jipfur was lying down, motionless—but not all of him. Only the lower half of his body was there. The top half was gone!
No blood ran, no muscles twitched, there was no life in that weird looking mass of trunk, hips, and legs. But the rest of the body—chest, arms, and head—had vanished with the flash of heavenly fire.
“Jipfur! Jipfur!”
Scores of voices called the name at once, but the shrill cry of the patesi’s haughty sister rang out above the rest. Several persons started toward the grotesque, lifeless object, then drew back in fear and trembling. Hundreds of people began to mumble prayers aloud.
Suddenly, above the welter of excited clamoring, an old familiar voice sounded, loud and clear. It was the never-to-be-forgotten voice of Slaf-Carch.
“Today the gods have spoken!”
A chorus of murmurs echoed the words, like a chant. Then there was a tense silence of waiting, broken at last by a throbbing outcry from Jipfur’s sister.
“Speak on, Slaf-Carch! We are listening.”
Again the voice of Slaf-Carch spoke and as his gentle words came forth, Betty’s hand, held tightly in mine, ceased to tremble.
“Today Jipfur has been taken from you,” said the voice. “Let his passing bring peace to all who were once my laborers and my slaves. I am still with you in spirit. My helpers may carry on for me if they are willing. Even those of you who have come from a foreign land—and a foreign time—may find your ultimate place here. If you believe in me, stay and become my chosen leaders.”
* * * *
Betty and I were among the last to descend the lofty tower that afternoon. There was so much to talk about, so much to plan. Somehow Slaf-Carch’s words made the world look fresh and new for both of us, now that all Betty had feared and dreaded was gone.
“As long as you’re here, Hal,” she said, looking up at me, starry-eyed, “I don’t care whether I ever go back to the twentieth century.”
“What?” I said with a wink. “Haven’t you any feelings for your poor uncle, the Colonel?”
“The Colonel!” Betty laughed. “We’ve sent him a bull moose. What more could he ask?”
* * * *
One day after Betty, Kish and I had gotten the business reorganization of Borbel palace well under way—Jipfur’s sister having generously honored us with managerial responsibilities and a share of ownership—I invited the Third Serpent to come in for an interview.
He closed the door behind him, settled his misshapen back within a comfortable chair, and apparently stared at me through his ring-eyed mask.
I said, “I’ve been looking over the records. You are fairly new to this Serpent clique, I see.”
“I joined early last fall, shortly before you and Jipfur met us by the marsh.”
“This job of gouging peasants for money apparently didn’t agree with you. You were very easy on them, I find.”
“You are welcome to fire me,” said the Third Serpent dryly, “if my work is unsatisfactory.”
“I’ve fired the others,” I replied. “In your case, however, certain other services are not to be overlooked. You are deserving of something over and above a Serpent’s salary. Have you ever considered taking a vacation to—say, the twentieth century?”
The Third Serpent gave a gurgling chuckle and settled more comfortably in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I have. I’d like to go back for a facial surgery job sometime—” he supplemented his smooth Babylonian words with a sprinkling of English—“sometime after the Col
onel grows a bit steadier at the controls. Naturally, I’d give anything to get out of this mask.”
“Is it—quite bad?”
The Third Serpent nodded. “I never allow anyone to see me. Of course I had to learn to talk all over. Does she suspect?”
“Not at all,” I said. “The voice of Slaf-Carch is the real McCoy with her. You know how she loves that river legend.”
“Childlike!” he mused. “That’s why she’s a good Babylonian.” He rose to go.
“That hunched back of yours, Professor,” I said, “is it another Babylonian legend?”
He laughed. “It might be some day. I developed it the same week you traded off the vocoder. It’s made of leather—detachable, of course—and a splendid place to keep my magic. By the way, your machine’s a wonder. It tones down so soft that my fellow Serpents never heard me practicing my Slaf-Carch.”
“You were perfect. And to think you’ve actually made Slaf-Carch live on.”
“He deserves to live on.” He moved to the door, then turned back. “You won’t say anything to my daughter, of course. If she knew, she’d want to see me. For the present it’s better that she believe me dead.”
“For the present,” I nodded. “But I’ll insist that the Third Serpent be present at our Babylonian wedding.”
COMPOUNDED INTEREST, by Mack Reynolds
The stranger said in miserable Italian, “I wish to see Sior Marin Goldini on business.”
The concierge’s manner was suspicious. Through the wicket he ran his eyes over the newcomer’s clothing. “On business, Sior?” He hesitated. “Possibly, Sior, you could inform me as to the nature of your business, so that I might inform his Zelenza’s secretary, Vico Letta…” He let his sentence dribble away.
The stranger thought about that. “It pertains,” he said finally, “to gold.” He brought a hand from his pocket and opened it to disclose a half dozen yellow coins.
“A moment, Lustrissimo,” the servant blurted quickly. “Forgive me. Your costume, Lustrissimo…” He let his sentence dribble away again and was gone.
A few moments later he returned to swing the door open wide. “If you please, Lustrissimo, his Zelenza awaits you.”
He led the way down a vaulted hall to the central court, to the left past a fountain well to a heavy outer staircase supported by Gothic arches and sided by a carved parapet. They mounted, turned through a dark doorway and into a poorly lit corridor. The servant stopped and drummed carefully on a thick wooden door. A voice murmured from within and the servant held the door open and then retreated.
Two men were at a rough-hewn oak table. The older was heavy-set, tight of face and cold, and the other tall and thin and ever at ease. The latter bowed gently. He gestured and said, “His Zelenza, the Sior Marin Goldini.”
The stranger attempted a clumsy bow in return, said awkwardly, “My name is… Mister Smith.”
There was a moment of silence which Goldini broke finally by saying, “And this is my secretary, Vico Letta. The servant mentioned gold, Sior, and business.”
The stranger dug into a pocket, came forth with ten coins which he placed on the table before him. Vico Letta picked one up in mild interest and examined it. “I am not familiar with the coinage,” he said.
His master twisted his cold face without humor. “Which amazes me, my good Vico.” He turned to the newcomer. “And what is your wish with these coins, Sior Mister Smith? I confess, this is confusing.”
“I want,” Mister Smith said, “to have you invest the sum for me.”
Vico Letta had idly weighed one of the coins in question on a small scale. He cast his eyes up briefly as he estimated. “The ten would come to approximately forty-nine zecchini, Zelenza,” he murmured.
Marin Goldini said impatiently, “Sior, the amount is hardly sufficient for my house to bother with. The bookkeeping alone—”
The stranger broke in. “Don’t misunderstand. I realize the sum is small. However, I would ask but ten per cent, and would not call for an accounting for… for one hundred years.”
The two Venetians raised puzzled eyebrows. “A hundred years, Sior? Perhaps your command of our language…” Goldini said politely.
“One hundred years,” the stranger said.
“But surely,” the head of the house of Goldini protested, “it is unlikely that any of we three will be alive. If God wants, possibly even the house of Goldini will be a memory only.”
Vico Letta, intrigued, had been calculating rapidly. Now he said, “In one hundred years, at ten per cent compounded annually, your gold would be worth better than 700,000 zecchini.”
“Quite a bit more,” the stranger said firmly.
“A comfortable sum,” Goldini nodded, beginning to feel some of the interest of his secretary. “And during this period, all decisions pertaining to the investment of the amount would be in the hands of my house?”
“Exactly.” The stranger took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore it in two, and handed one half to the Venetians. “When my half of this is presented to your descendants, one hundred years from today, the bearer will be due the full amount.”
“Done, Sior Mister Smith!” Goldini said. “An amazing transaction, but done. Ten percent in this day is small indeed to ask.”
“It is enough. And now may I make some suggestions? You are perhaps familiar with the Polo family?”
Goldini scowled. “I know Sior Maffeo Polo.”
“And his nephew, Marco?”
Goldini said cautiously, “I understand young Marco was captured by the Genoese. Why do you ask?”
“He is writing a book on his adventures in the Orient. It would be a well of information for a merchant house interested in the East. Another thing. In a few years there will be an attempt on the Venetian government and shortly thereafter a Council of Ten will be formed which will eventually become the supreme power of the republic. Support it from the first and make every effort to have your house represented.”
They stared at him and Marin Goldini crossed himself unobtrusively.
The stranger said, “If you find need for profitable investments beyond Venice I suggest you consider the merchants of the Hanse cities and their soon to be organized League.”
They continued to stare and he said, uncomfortably, “I’ll go now. Your time is valuable.” He went to the door, opened it himself and left.
Marin Goldini snorted. “That liar, Marco Polo.”
Vico said sourly, “How could he have known we were considering expanding our activities into the East? We have discussed it only between ourselves.”
“The attempt on the government,” Marin Goldini said, crossing himself again. “Was he hinting that our intriguing is known? Vico, perhaps we should disassociate ourselves from the conspirators.”
“Perhaps you are right, Zelenza,” Vico muttered. He picked up one of the coins again and examined it, back and front. “There is no such nation,” he grumbled, “but the coin is perfectly minted.” He picked up the torn sheet of paper, held it to the light. “Nor have I ever seen such paper, Zelenza, nor such a strange language, although, on closer examination, it appears to have some similarities to the English tongue.”
The House of Letta-Goldini was located now in the San Toma district, an imposing structure through which passed the proceeds of a thousand ventures in a hundred lands.
Riccardo Letta looked up from his desk at his assistant. “Then he really has appeared? Per favore, Lio, bring me the papers pertaining to the, ah, account. Allow me a matter of ten minutes to refresh my memory and then bring the Sior to me.”
The great grandson of Vico Letta, head of the House of Letta-Goldini, came to his feet elegantly, bowed in the sweeping style of his day, said, “Your servant, Sior…” The newcomer bobbed his head in a jerky, embarrassed return of the
courtesy, said, “Mister Smith.”
“A chair, Lustrissimo? And now, pray pardon my abruptness. One’s duties when responsible for a house of the magnitude of Letta-Goldini…”
Mister Smith held out a torn sheet of paper. His Italian was abominable. “The agreement made with Marin Goldini, exactly one century ago.”
Riccardo Letta took the paper. It was new, clean and fresh, which brought a frown to his high forehead. He took up an aged, yellowed fragment from before him and placed one against the other. They matched to perfection. “Amazing, Sior, but how can it be that my piece is yellow with age and your own so fresh?”
Mister Smith cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly, different methods have been used to preserve them.”
“Undoubtedly.” Letta relaxed in his chair, placed fingertips together. “And undoubtedly you wish your capital and the interest it has accrued. The amount is a sizable one, Sior; we shall find it necessary to call in various accounts.”
Mister Smith shook his head. “I want to continue on the original basis.”
Letta sat upright. “You mean for another hundred years?”
“Precisely. I have faith in your management, Sior Letta.”
“I see.” Riccardo Letta had not maintained his position in the cutthroat world of Venetian banking and commerce by other than his own ability. It took him only a moment to gather himself. “The appearance of your ancestor, Sior, has given rise to a veritable legend in this house. You are familiar with the details?”
The other nodded, warily.
“He made several suggestions, among them that we support the Council of Ten. We are now represented on the Council, Sior. I need not point out the advantage. He also suggested we investigate the travels of Marco Polo, which we failed to do—but should have. Above all in strangeness was his recommendation that investments be made in the Hanse towns.”
“Well, and wasn’t that a reasonable suggestion?
The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Page 40