 
### Time Management for Mercenaries

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Author: Dai Alanye

Designer: A F Donley

### © 2019 by Dai Alanye — Edition 2.01

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be reproduced, re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not download it, or it was not downloaded for your use only, please return to your book retailer and obtain your own copy.

Time Management for Mercenaries is an original work of fiction—book I of a series. Except for historical events, persons or places, all other characters, locations, things and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings or individuals other than the historical, or to contemporary persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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### Time Management for Mercenaries

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### Chapter 00 - Valkyries

Pierce lay on his side, his view of the slaughter-field blocked by ranks of spearmen. He'd run the gamut of emotions today—fear, irrational calm, anger, exhilaration, apprehension and fear again as battle waxed and waned.

Near an hour had passed since the last attack. The sun lowered, half hidden in banks of mist. A light breeze blew from the south, wafting serried clouds high overhead.

_Buttermilk sky_. How queer the name in this bloody place.

Better to imagine those sun-glinting drifts as Valkyries come to carry the slain to a Saxon Valhalla, there to feast and fight and be made whole again until Gotterdammerung.

The swan-maidens would have heavy work this gore-soaked day.

In Pierce they awaited a reluctant fighter a millennium out of time. What sense to travel so many years and miles to seek an early death? He felt a brief unreasoning anger at the man who'd brought him here.

Unreasoning... for none but Brian Pierce was ultimately to blame.

### §

### Chapter 01 - The Right Man

In the study of a fine old home—two walls lined with books, plank floor dark and lustrous—sat a brawny strong-featured man, his dark hair streaked with gray. The Southern California sun, barely restrained by filmy curtains, beat in through tall windows as he spoke into the phone, his voice husky.

"Yes, I understand and I hope you... No, no hard feelings. You have your... Well, thank... thank you for your... No, my discretion is... Certainly not, Colonel."

As a larger man entered, he turned to glower in disgust before returning to the phone.

"Absolutely. Under the circumstances you've pointed out... You've convinced... No... No, I simply have to give up this project. Yes... yes... Right."

He hung up, leaning back and giving a huge sigh.

"Colonel Radabaugh again, Mister Cam?"

Dimarico turned weary eyes toward the doorway.

"Who else? Hard to get a word in edgewise."

"You say you're quitting?"

"To shut him up. I'll never quit—you know that."

"He chicken out?"

"Wouldn't touch this deal with a barge pole. Concerned for his reputation if it became known he even _talked_ to me... Yet he looked so good, Saipele—credentials and in person, too." Dimarico's voice hardened. "But it seems there's a difference between a good man and the _right_ man. And now... Now only one left, my friend. The least impressive of the entire bunch, with a questionable record to boot."

"Maybe not-so-good record better. He don't have to always worry about his rep—how he looks to other officers."

"I wonder..." Dimarico and the big man studied one another. "We're running so short of time I'm ready to consider anyone with fewer than three heads. And I am _not_ going to drop it, regardless of what Radabaugh thinks he's talked me into."

"Look up the Marine?" Saipele Manaea sat before the desktop and started mousing. After several clicks, he said, "Maybe at that range today."

"What times?"

"Starts ten-hundred."

Dimarico looked at the clock and came to a decision, energy returning in a rush. "It's late but... let's move!"

"I was working. I should..."

"Only a clean shirt. _Go_ , man!"

### * * *

Swann's final shaft cleft a stunningly blue sky to the zenith before arcing down toward its goal ninety meters distant... only to strike in the black, contemptibly far from essential gold. Failure!

As if he needed more of it.

Family lost, profession gone—now even his hobby letting him down.

A wave of petulance hit him—disgust, anger, frustration with the entire sport of archery... And with plenty more. He longed to walk away, not even retrieve his arrows—to leave this useless, time-wasting piddle forever behind.

But no.

Trained his whole life to act the part of a man, he'd not change now—not give way because of one more paltry setback.

He unstrung his bow, resigned to playing a civil role a while longer.

·

Among bleak dry California hills, backed by bleaker California mountains, a few level acres of hilltop had been fenced and a wide swath of brush cleared and groomed as an archery range. At the front of this plot beside a narrow asphalt road stood a green shed. Eighty or so men and women congregated there, next to a carpark.

A young man hailed Swann—Brian Pierce.

"Jack! How'd it go?"

Elbowing through a crowd around the scoreboard, Swann grimaced.

"You saw it."

"Sixth ain't bad."

"Not bad! Worse—it's pitiful. Time to move on, I think."

"C'mon, man. Next year you'll be swimming in medals."

"Too old for this kid stuff, Brian and I'm bored. Time to look for another hobby—shuffleboard, maybe."

"What's this _too old_ baloney?" A tall girl with striking looks strolled up to them.

"Sheila!" Pierce exclaimed.

"How'd you do?" Swann asked.

"The usual," she said, smiling as she reached to brush at his collar.

"Tell him," Pierce said. "Nothing to be ashamed of with sixth."

"Hope you beat the boy here, at least," she said to Swann, ignoring Pierce.

"He took third."

She glanced at Pierce. "Luck still pays off, huh? But hey, I gotta run. See you next month, Maje."

Giving a wink, she turned and strode off.

Swann sketched a wave but Brian called, "So long, _Diana!_ "

She made no acknowledgment.

Pierce gazed after her.

"I don't get it! Women don't usually hate me but she acts like I'm not even here."

Swann shrugged as they walked off—Brian's lovesick act was getting old. Despite his clean-cut appearance, intelligence and a great deal of persistence, the girl showed no inclination toward him—had, if anything, become cold.

Too bad, perhaps, but Swann had his own predicaments to think of.

"She acts as if she's interested in _you_ , Jack, even though, er..."

"Go on—old enough to be her father, right?"

"Naw," Pierce protested.

"Well, you're close. I have a sixteen-year-old, and she's what?"

"Twenty-three, I think, and so gawd-awful beautiful! But I can't even get her to tolerate me, much less go out."

"Golden goddess of the range, old buddy."

"She's almost tall as you, Jack. What's your height?"

"Oh, near six on a sunny day. Five-eleven and a skosh."

"Think I'm too short?" Pierce whined.

Swann laughed. "You're the most negative... You're as tall as I am!"

"Yeah, but if she wore heels?"

"Get yourself cowboy boots, doofus."

They stopped at Swann's vehicle, nodding and waving as shooters and spectators straggled past.

"Boris has finally decided to bring up her transfer to the men's divvy."

"Yeah, I heard, Brian."

"So how do you stand on it? She's been nagging forever."

"More reason to quit. I'd be seventh with her in there."

"C'mon, man. She's not that strong to handle another twenty meters."

"Maybe, maybe not."

A rawboned figure passed by. "Hey Jack! Brian!"

"Early-bird!" Swann replied.

"Ya see what I did? Almost caught ya, old man."

"Might have to break a couple of your fingers, Earl."

"Beatcha next time, huh, Jack?"

As the man drew away, Pierce muttered, "What a jerk!"

"He's okay—just rather basic social skills. Shirt off his back, though."

"I can't stand him, and nobody else can either."

"He only bothers the snobs."

"Like me, you mean?"

"Well... think it over, Brian."

Pierce sighed. "But Sheila, Jack—I can't get over her. I love that build. Maybe I'm weird to go for a girl who's so muscular."

Swann snorted. "Huh! You'd better check her again—she has _all_ the right equipment. Plenty of bone and muscle, though. Could've used her in the Corps."

### * * *

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Northern Tehachapi Primitive Archery and Boozing Club.

Contests shall consist of 18 arrows

from each of the following distances,

shot in this order:

30, 50, 60, 70 meters for Women

30, 50, 70, 90 meters for Men

Women and men shall shoot alternately at each distance.

122cm target face shall be used for 90, 70, & 60m distances

80cm face shall be used for 50 & 30m distances.

"Abandon recurve, all ye who enter here."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

### * * *

"There!" Dimarico shouted. "That sign—turn there! They're leaving. Get in the... okay, okay. Right here by the gate."

"We catch him at home if he..."

"Who knows if he's _going_ home? Out and look!"

They jumped out and climbed the bumpers.

"See it?"

"Lots of silver vans. Maybe—Look there, Mister Cam! He's talking to somebody."

"Run quick! I'll grab the keys. _Don't get hit!_ "

But Manaea was gone, sprinting between the exiting vehicles.

### * * *

As Pierce laughed and turned away, Swann stored his gear, thinking this might be the last time. Should he care? No, not much, except for the loss of a few acquaintances. The club was merely another filler in an empty life. Even had he improved to the point of regularly medaling, boredom would have set in, simply taking longer.

So... No family, no job and now no hobby. Perhaps the time had come to get away from California with its associations and memories—find another home and new surroundings in hope of attenuating his yearnings for the unattainable.

Hearing footsteps among the other noises he glanced left. A large man ran through the dusty lot, dodging cars as if they were tacklers, headed this direction. Swann's eyes narrowed. He was coming...

" _Whoa!_ " Swann yelled as the man leaped in front of his opened door. "What the devil...?"

"Scuse me, Major. Mister Dimarico wants to talk. You wait, please—okay?"

### §

### §

### Chapter 02 - The Pitch

Swann, with Dimarico as his passenger, followed the speeding Escalade as they headed toward a diner in the next town.

"Your boy doesn't waste any time."

"Ten percent above" Dimarico said. "We avoid attracting the law. And _my boy_ , as you call him, has spent half his life in your outfit."

That put another light on things. "Samoan or...?"

"Right. Now let me give you the background. My family's company is Randolph-Lectro. In the previous generation my branch lost a fight for control and was bought out, leaving us stock-poor but well-funded. As a result, I've gone in for... serious hobbies. I don't tell you this to boast but to assure you I have the wherewithal to back a project such as I'm going to describe."

"How do Dimarico and Randolph work together?"

"They chose Randolph because at the time of corporate formation Mussolini or Capone was too many Americans' idea of Italians."

"And how did I come by this high honor?"

"To be chosen? I went over lists of recently retired military officers for certain qualifications—including ground combat experience—then cross-checked archery clubs, looking for skill with the bow. Tehachapi was perfect, in fact, because it doesn't allow all those strings and pulleys and composite materials."

"The bow, eh—not too many available."

"You're the fourth on my list. I started at the top and worked down."

"Down? Down by rank? Where'd you start?"

"Brigadier general, as it happened."

Swann frowned. "Thank goodness you didn't have to lower yourself any further."

Dimarico gave him a sharp look.

"I won't apologize for wanting rank. You'll see why when you learn more. A couple I eliminated upon meeting. Too conventional in their thinking and too old, as well. I wanted someone in good shape—mental and physical both—and open to new ideas.

"The next one—a lieutenant colonel—I considered my man. Today we had our final conversation and he did me the favor of pulling out. I was afraid he lacked independent judgment and today he proved it.

"But somehow, Major, I don't think that's going to be _your_ problem. Too much the other way, perhaps."

It was Swann's turn to give a sharp look.

### * * *

"Primitive weapons in this day and age? I can't believe it! The most backward of backwaters—outside some of the Andamans, perhaps—are full of AK-47s, RPGs and Heaven knows what else—camel-bombs if not car-bombs."

Dimarico chuckled. "Beside the Andamans, what others could you dream up?"

They sat in a corner with Master Sergeant Saipele Manaea in the next booth to assure privacy—as Cam and Jack, now on a first-name basis, discussed Dimarico's scheme of third-world liberation on the sly. The tiny restaurant had emptied, and they switched to neutral subjects whenever the waitress came by.

"Here's another surprise—the climate is temperate. Chew on that for awhile. But all in all, you're going to have to take it on faith for the time being. I don't intend to release details to anyone, as yet."

"Yeah, but... There are certain laws against coups, piracy, making war without an act of Congress—that sort of thing."

"This isn't a coup or piracy. Now, the latter—making private war—could be somewhat stickier, I'll admit, but if we can avoid publicity, it won't be announced to the world by me. Further, it'll be clear we acted in the interests of the locals. And if worse comes to worst we can simply stay there, safe from American law."

"You know, Cam, you're saying the right things but I'm doubtful. I don't buy the idea any society such as you describe still exists."

"In fact, Jack, there's been no real description yet..."

"No kidding!"

"—but I'm going to give you one. Although I can't tell you anything yet that'll allow you to guess where it is, everything I say will be factual."

### * * *

Half an hour later Swann was pensive but still skeptical. "So—it's a kingdom and well-governed..."

"For its level of development—keep that in mind."

Swann gave a wry look.

"My mistake, Jack—I don't mean to talk down to you. Go on."

"You say the king is selected by a vote of the elders, so it can be considered—sorta kinda almost—a representative form of government. They collect taxes in an equitable way, they have both a militia and standing army, there's a primitive communication setup and their finances aren't hurting. So what's the problem? These folks can't lose, assuming some world power doesn't get involved."

"They're divided internally and they have more than one external enemy. Agreed—they can probably handle one invasion with success but what if two hit them simultaneously? And when they're defeated, personal freedoms are lost, their land and wealth go as spoil to the invaders, their retainers become serfs, their widows and daughters are prizes, thousands go into exile and the more recalcitrant portions of the country are desolated. Not a pretty outcome, Jack."

"You make it sound foreordained."

"I believe it is." Dimarico was somber. "By the way, do you know any languages?"

"Only German, and it's rusty."

"German! German is good."

"This isn't the Liechtenstein Liberation League, is it?"

Dimarico laughed and decided to bring matters to a head.

"Here's my offer, Jack." I know you're not hurting for money... Take it easy—of course I checked you out. Even though you're supporting your son, you live simply and your pension and savings are enough to keep body and soul together. Yet as the Bible says, _Wine maketh merry but money answereth all things_.

"First, you'll get a three-hundred thou annuity, payable to your son or whomever you want, on terms you select. Monthly, you'll get four thousand, as will the enlisted. In addition, reasonable expenses. In the combat zone, there'll be... let's say, other rewards.

"For each recruit you find, a two-thousand immediate bonus plus a pay increment of one thousand per month, up to ten thou max salary with the bonuses continuing. How does that sound to you?"

"Pretty good, and I could pick up plenty of former Marines."

"And how long to make good archers of them? We're in a hurry."

"That's a problem, of course."

"I'm in DAA, Jack—Dark Age Anachronists. At least one kid there will join up."

"One other problem, Cam. Travel and adventure are genuine lures but when you want a special skill and there's no glory to be had—sort of a secret mission—and when the prospects of living to spend the money seem questionable..."

"Yes. Unfortunately, I know what you're getting at. This is only going to appeal to those who have weak roots, whose futures look bleak, who've lost many of the things they hold dear, or are desperate to change their lives... People like you, Jack."

·

That hurt, and anger almost made Swann spout off—but it rang too true to deny. His wife, Ashleigh Callender now, had been one of those who simply couldn't take long absences for training and campaigning—couldn't handle the thought she might become a widow without notice. After their child arrived things became worse, and when he deployed a second time to the Mideast she'd called it quits.

He loved his son and still loved _her_ —once hoped they could get back together. But she'd remarried. His son lived with Ashleigh but he'd refused to allow Jeff to be adopted, though by all accounts the boy got on well—too well!—with the stepfather.

·

Dimarico interrupted his thoughts. "Jack, I want you to do one thing for me. I've checked you out by conventional means—finances, general history, your reputation among the few folks who know you. But one thing I couldn't check, not even using Saipele's contacts. So... exactly what happened between you and the Corps?"

Swann thought it over before deciding to explain—to unburden himself as it were—something he'd done with few in the Marine Corps and no one outside it.

"Well, Cam, you know something of the Geneva Conventions, I suppose. It's all to do with them. Most people don't realize they're meant to protect _our_ troops, not the enemy's. That is, _we_ behave so _the enemy_ will behave. It's supposed to be mutual."

Swann had fallen afoul of American rules of engagement. Determined to preserve his troops' lives, he held that false surrenders released capturing forces from the need to risk themselves in order to protect a treacherous enemy. He offered no second chances to enemy fighters who pretended to surrender then ambushed unwary Americans.

"Putting it simply, I objected to coddling terrorists for the purpose of burnishing our reputation with people who wouldn't sympathize with us in any case—who wanted our heads regardless of how _honorable_ we might be. I believed—and still believe—if we'd been less wimpy we'd have tamed them quicker. They didn't fear us enough to respect us, you see."

"Specifically though, what caused you to leave early?"

"I wouldn't— _couldn't_ , the way I saw it—let it go. I took it up with the light colonel commanding until he stifled me. Then—with permission, of course, though unwillingly given—I took it up the ladder high enough for someone to suggest I'd done enough damage to my career... that I'd be happier as a civilian as soon as I'd put in twenty."

"So that was it."

"That was _absolutely_ it. Political correctness trumped practical matters... And cost us lives and injuries."

Dimarico let a few beats pass.

"Seems you'd want to grab this opportunity—a chance for redemption, isn't it?"

"Redemption! I feel no need for _redemption_. I've sacrificed my career for my principles. And as you've made clear, no one will see me _redeem_ myself in any case."

"So... is that your answer?"

"Afraid so, Cam. Interesting and challenging and ennobling though your project might be, it's buying a pig in a poke—and for all I know you could merely be a great salesman. Why risk my life for that?"

They sat in silence, both downhearted—Swann disappointed nothing better had come from this momentarily exciting prospect, Dimarico seeing the potential ruin of something long planned.

Swann made a move to rise.

"Well, Cam..."

"Wait, Jack—perhaps I've misled you. Do you realize I'm not merely _recruiting_ you—that I'm going to be _with you_ over there?"

Swann sat back down.

### * * *

By the time Dimarico finished explaining his own role he assumed from Swann's interjections that he had him. So it proved.

"I still have plenty of questions, Cam, but... I'm in."

"That's great, Jack." Dimarico raised his voice. "Saipele! What do you think?"

The big man turned round in his booth.

"I think Major Swann is a good man, good officer. I think troops follow him, obey him. You know, Mr Cam—they take risks for him, go where he leads. He's your right man."

### §

### §

### Chapter 03 - Thine Own Self

Taking security seriously, Swann moved his lips as little as possible, although nothing—not even a scrawny desert bush—stood nearer than fifty yards. With Pierce showing insufficient enthusiasm, he was steering the lad toward his vehicle.

"That's the deal, Brian. But you're hesitant, so let's drop it."

"It's weird, Jack. I mean, who ever heard of Americans setting up a private army? It's like some goofy-stan place."

"Weirder yet is primitive weapons. I would have sworn there wasn't a nation in the entire world that didn't have a supply of AK-47s or the like."

"Yet you still think..."

"Can't help trusting this guy. Tons of charisma and a big packet to boot—worth eighteen mil as far as I can determine. One thing I don't doubt, though, is he's misleading me on some details for reasons of security. That I can excuse, though, or even approve."

"I wouldn't call the pay so great, would you? Except for the annuity, and who knows if we ever live to spend it."

"Well... no. His idea of excellent pay is less bountiful than mine. Still, it's not exactly slave wages."

"So are you the honcho, Jack, or is he? How's it work again?"

"Put it this way. He's theater commander, I'm field commander. He liaises with the locals, determines policy. I plan the campaign, set tactics, train the troops, lead the battle."

"In other words, you do all the dirty work."

"Not quite. He takes care of logistics—a major job—and he's in the field with us under my command, sharing the risks and hardships. That's what sold me."

Pierce grimaced. "Still sounds crazy, Jack. The idea of getting cut up, maybe a poisoned arrow in the gut... It gives me chills, I have to admit."

·

Swann had approached club members, picking those with limited ties to their present situations. He didn't care whether those weak ties were concrete, like an unsatisfying career, or psychological—disillusion with the way life was headed.

Only four met his standards, and two he dropped during initial exploration.

This was his second discussion with Pierce, the person he'd most expected would welcome the chance for adventure but who now sounded questionable. Only Earl Gephart had jumped at the offer, with surprising alacrity and enthusiasm.

·

They halted at Pierce's car.

"I'll have to let you know, Jack, that's all I can say."

"No you won't, Brian—I've already crossed you off my list."

Pierce drew back. "That hurts! I thought we were friends."

"No change there. It's merely that I looked upon you as a kindred spirit, and now I realize I've misjudged. No hard feelings, though—nothing like that."

Pierce hung his head as he slid into the seat. "Sorry to let you down, Jack."

"To thine own self be true, Brian. That should be your motto... and mine."

### * * *

Dimarico was more than a little critical.

"I expected far better from you, Swann—half a dozen at least. What do we do, go over there without a cadre? A measly one man, and him without military experience. This shoots things all to hell!"

"If I could go after Jarheads..."

"How long to make them into capable bowmen—a year or more? And how much longer to make them competent trainers? We need to do most of our recruiting locally, and it's ridiculous to attempt training hundreds of foreigners with such a small crew."

"There have to be plenty of Marines and former Marines who are archers, and there are plenty of bow-hunters out there whom we could..."

"I've gone through that on my own. How do you tell which ex-military shoot the bow—put up a billboard? It's different with officers—more info available. And we still have to think of security. Hunters? Sure, but the same problem exists. We can't go to archery or hunting clubs broadcasting our interests—we have to do it quietly through personal contacts... And now it turns out you don't _have_ the contacts."

Swann gave him a long level stare.

"Let's remember I'm not one of your flunkies."

Dimarico looked away for several moments, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Forgive me, Jack. That was money speaking. I'm too used to telling people to jump, and seeing them immediately put on their gym shoes. You're an associate, same as Manaea—don't think otherwise."

"But I see the problem. Can you get any more of your Dark Ages buddies?"

"No, blast it! I've had little more luck than you. Of course, they're heavily into sword whacking, and that's all my one poor recruit is up to. He's no archer either."

"Let me suggest this, Cam. Despite your security concerns—which I agree with—in the last days before we leave it should be safe to recruit and scoot. What do you say?"

Dimarico took a while before replying.

"It's not simply recruiting but setting up the annuity. I'm also not sure we could find any decent numbers in a few days—it might take weeks. However... what if we recruit in another country? I could probably advertise ahead there without much concern, and that should avoid problems with US authorities. I'd have time to work out the financial arrangements, and I plan to jump off from outside the US in any case. Yes, we'll take on a few foreigners."

### * * *

Swann picked up his phone after coming back from a short jog, still breathing deeply from the terminal sprint.

"Yeah?" he gusted.

"Jack? I've decided—I'm in."

"What! Is this Brian?"

"It's me. I'm ready to go with you. You know, the..."

"Hold it!" Swann commanded. "Meet me at... What's the greasy spoon toward Rands? Yeah, that's it. Give me until... say ten-thirty—I have to shower. And don't talk any more—let's just meet."

He hung up. _Yahoo!_ Though on the other hand, why couldn't the kid keep in mind they weren't to talk openly?

·

Getting ready, he considered Brian's change of mind, wondering what had brought it on. He'd cooled to the lad since the turn-down, thinking he might have over-rated him. After all, the fact he thought of a twenty-five year old as a _lad_ was bad enough.

After joining the club he'd immediately hit if off with Pierce despite the age difference. He missed his son, and Brian filled some of that place for him, albeit as an older and more independent son than Jeff. He fit the position in part through his youthful enthusiasm, somewhat clinging ways and continuing need for advice.

Witness the ongoing Sheila Brenneman matter, an infatuation lasting months now.

He wondered whether he'd be doing right in allowing Pierce to join up, although it could easily be justified as a good way of helping him mature. Yet if he matured only to die unwept in distant jungle or tundra—what kind of favor would that be?

Yet the die was cast, he supposed. He himself was committed, and Brian had now committed _his_ own self.

He pulled up to the diner in a mood of somber acceptance.

### * * *

Over eggs and hash Swann listened to Brian's song of epiphany, and coming to the apex of the tale...

"So when I saw how Sheila lit up on hearing about..."

"What!?" Swann grated, trying to keep his voice low and almost succeeding. "What the _devil_ are you saying?"

"Well I... she..."

"Shuddup! Not another word inside here." He rose, dragging Pierce with him to the checkout, then out to his van.

"Get in," he told the cowed Pierce.

He played with tuning the radio while getting his temper under control then turned to his potential recruit.

"Exactly what did you blab to her?"

"Not much, Jack, believe me. I..."

" _What?_ Straight and short."

Pierce gulped a couple of times before getting anything out. In a near whisper he said, "You'd asked me to go on an expedition."

"And?"

"Only... only that it... we'd use bows and such." He paused. "So help me, Jack, I didn't give anything away. I mean, only that little."

" _Only that little!_ In other words, everything we're trying to keep secret except the sailing date."

Swann could hardly trust himself to say more. This young man, whom he'd befriended and even compared to his son... Why, his son had twice the discretion of this fool and more maturity besides.

"What more could you have said, jackass? Did you give any names besides mine?"

"I don't _know_ any other names, Jack," Pierce whispered.

Yeah, that was true. At least he hadn't blabbed anything more himself. But if he had, no doubt Brian would have spilled that as well.

"I only hope, Brian," Swann said in resignation, "you got something worthwhile in return."

Pierce started to cry.

### * * *

Dimarico exited the office, leaving Pierce within.

"I don't think we're getting ourselves any bargain with this one."

"No."

"He's weak—a boy compared to the other one, Early-bird."

"And to think this was the one I considered most likely."

"He's bright enough. A good shot, you say? Could be a useful instructor but how's he going to hold up in a fight?"

"Don't know, Cam."

"And yet I think we have to keep him. Do less harm on the inside than out, maybe. Think he can keep his mouth shut in the future?"

"He says he'll drop her but he's been infatuated for months, and goes on and on about her. It's verging on unhealthy. On the other hand, why would she shoot off _her_ mouth?"

"Could he fool her by claiming he lied?"

"Think he could pull it off? I don't. Question is, what tack should _I_ take with her, assuming she stays curious?"

"The other choice is, you and he stay away from the club... Only then we lose any chance of further recruitment."

"He stays away but I go, though I'm not confident of finding anyone else. If Sheila brings it up to me I'll have a good lie ready. Maybe I'll claim to've snagged a guy who wants to bow hunt, and I'm going to train him and go on hunting trips. I suppose I'd better call them hunting _expeditions_. If she can't see Brian he won't be able to give more away, and I ought to be able to spoof her."

"Let him know so he can play along, Jack—if she contacts him for any reason."

"I will."

"What of Gephart?"

"He shouldn't know anything of this Brian fiasco and Sheila won't suspect him of being part of our mob. Even if she did and remained curious, I can't see them getting together on any terms.

"But you know, Cam, we're getting so twitchy we're making a kind of Mata Hari of this girl. Chances are she'll drop it. What's she gain beyond satisfying curiosity?"

"Okay, fine. Now let's get Pierce on his way while you and I discuss supplies—both what we'll take with us and what we'll need for troop maintenance when we get there."

"How about a guess at where we're going—you ready for that?"

"You take a guess, you mean?" Dimarico gave him a considering look. "Okay, I'll chance it. If you get it right I'll tell you—I feel I know you well enough by now."

"When Hitler invaded Russia, Stalin—the paranoid SOB—cleared out a lot of minorities for fear of treachery. He moved them all, so far as I know, to Siberia. And this included, from the Crimea, the remnant of the last Eastern-Germanic tribe—the Goths, who still spoke their own tongue." Swann raised his eyebrows in query mode.

Dimarico smiled. "And you think there might be some of them left after half a century and more, living deep in Siberia and still speaking Gothic."

Swann nodded.

"And you figure they must be pretty primitive, or else they'd be known instead of hidden from the world. And maybe Turkic or Mongolian tribes are pressing hard on them. And your knowledge of German—even though it's a modern West Germanic language—would be useful in learning the East Germanic Gothic."

Swann nodded again, and despite his best effort looked smug.

"Good reasoning, Jack—very darn good. Shows a lot of knowledge on your part and the ability to put two and two together and come up with..."

A smirk showed on Swann's face—he couldn't stop it.

"...five! Sorry. So close and yet so far off! Yet it's good thinking, Jack—that it is."

### §

### Chapter 04 - Shrapnel

Distracted and unable to do his best at the next shoot, Swann landed in ninth but no longer cared.

He spent time looking for dissatisfied expressions and listening for whines and complaints not connected with archery performance, and initiated a few conversations in the hope of eliciting such information. No possibilities presented themselves.

He longed to go up to the club president, Boris and ask, _Who's having troubles at home? Who hates his job?_ Impossible, of course.

And after scores had been posted the inevitable occurred.

"Maje!"

Swann turned to Sheila, finding her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever.

"Ah, the queen of the quarrels."

"The what?"

"Quarrels. Another name for arrows—but for crossbows."

She looked nonplussed. "Where's your bosom buddy?"

"Presuming you mean Brian, I don't know, though it's possible his social life has become too demanding of late."

Her grin faltered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I assumed you could tell me."

"Pooh! We had a drink—no big deal."

"For you a social drink, for him a social revelation."

"What bull! But I don't want to see _him_ —I want to talk to you."

She linked her arm through his, pulling his right triceps against her not inconsiderable bosom as they strolled toward the parking lot.

"I'm feeling happy to see you, Sheila, if you know what I mean."

"I'll bet you are, Major Jack, but... Say, why do they call you _Jack_ when it's D Swann on the records?"

"D for Daniel, therefore _Jack_ Daniels. Get it?"

"Hah! Almost funny, in a low-class Leatherneck kind of way... But are you going to help me get into the men's divy? It's up next meeting."

Swann felt a rush of relief. If she'd buttonholed him for this, his worries were over.

"Not a chance, Sheila. Why would I want more competition when I can't medal now?"

"You dog! I don't believe you mean it. Will you help or not?"

"I'll help to this extent—I won't show up to vote against it."

"You aren't _that_ big a rat! I'm gonna expect your vote, Jack."

"Oh, it's _Jack_ now, is it? Not even showing respect for my rank."

"I'm not kidding." Her voice lost part of its wheedling quality. "I want you to back me. Gawd knows I've been nice enough to you."

"Look, Sweetie, you can work your wiles on practically every man in this outfit, so you don't need my help. And the women will probably go for it to lessen the competition, so you're in like Flynn. As for me, I'm leaving soon and see no need to inflict my judgments on the rest of the crew."

"Yeah, but I don't want any split decision—I want it unanimous."

_What an ego!_ "C'mon, Sheila—my humerus or whatever is getting overheated. Can you let go of me now?"

They stopped at the edge of the parking area. She gripped his arm tighter and rotated into him, purring in a sultry voice, "I don't _want_ to let go of you, Jack."

"There you go, getting familiar again! What am I to do with you attached to me like a remora?"

She ignored these half-comic insults, secure in her beauty and sexuality.

"And I want to ask you something else. What's this expedition thing?"

He pushed her off and shook his arm loose, glowering.

"How do _you_ know about it?

"Tell me what's going on." She clutched him again.

"I asked you a question, Sheila."

She tossed her hair. "How do you think I know? Your buddy bragged, that's how. He wanted to make himself a big deal, and he told me every single detail."

"And you, of course, didn't weasel it from him with great promises of physical pleasure or anythi..."

She stuck her face into his. "We had a _drink!_ If he told you anything else, it's a lie!"

Swann himself was getting angry but lowered his voice to further mislead her.

"Thank you, Miss Brenneman. Our conversation has been extremely enlightening. You've told me far more..."

"You're getting on my nerves, Swanny," she almost yelled. Then she too regained control. "Simply tell me what's up—that's all I'm asking."

"And all I'm telling you is it's confidential between me and my client. Pierce should have kept his mouth shut, and now he's probably off the payroll."

"Payroll! Are you guys mercenaries? I thought you had a rescue mission to some third-world joint."

Swann forced a puzzled expression onto his face.

"Now _I'm_ confused. What the devil did Brian tell you?"

She peered at him, trying to penetrate his brain.

"He said you're gonna liberate some jerkwater place in Africa or somewhere, and you're gonna use primitive weapons to keep it quiet from the UN and CIA."

As she presented this unlikely tale to his skeptical gaze he could see doubt build in her expression, and he now did some of the greatest acting of his life, bending over and bursting into loud guffaws.

"He told you...! Bwa-hah-ha-ha! I thought, I... I thought—ah-hah-hah. Oh God, I'm sorry, Sheila, but..."

Her face was red and scowling, yet he couldn't help noticing—she still looked pretty good. With an effort he controlled himself.

"Sheila... Sheila, forgive me. I... Well, I simply assumed you were the one leading _him_ down the garden path, but now..." He broke off for a chuckle. "...now I see it's mutual." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Never thought he had it in him. What a cad!"

" _Jack_..." Her voice quavered briefly. "What are you telling me, Jack? Are you saying he lied? Cause I don't believe it! We sat there for..."

"One drink, remember."

"Three, actually. It took that long to worm it out of him."

" _Three_ drinks! You oughta be ashamed. Except he took as much advantage of your gullibility as you did of his infatuation. You're a real pair! Maybe I won't fire him after all—at least he managed to dupe _you_."

"I don't believe you, Jack. I know when a man's slinging it, and you guys don't fool me one bit."

"Mislead yourself if you feel the need, but now you'll get your wish. I'll tell you our little secret—without any names or details—and all you need to do is swear to keep it under your hat. If I learn you've spread it around... well, that's it between us—I'll have nothing to do with you in the future."

"I still don't believe he fooled me. But sure, I'll swear, cuz I don't much care whether you stay friendly or not."

"Not only my friendship—my respect, as well."

"Spare me the BS."

"Simple enough. A guy who's killed enough critters with slugs now wants to stuff another trophy room. Go primitive—no fancy gear. Might even be wanting us to knap flint before he's through."

"Nap...?"

"Chip it—make arrowheads."

"That's crazy!"

"Eccentric, Sheila— _eccentric_. You don't call paying clients _crazy_. I don't know if he'll go that far but I'm prepared..."

"You don't hunt," she scoffed. "So why'd he pick _you?_ "

"Marine Corps contact."

"He's a Jarhead too?"

"You want his serial number? No, he's a feather merchant all the way. A guy who works for him..."

"Wait!" Her face reflected confusion, puzzlement, loss of assurance... and suspicion. "Brian said..." She tried to stare into his brain again, big blue eyes wide. "You're pulling something on me, I know. You... you could fool me—you have a great deadpan. But Brian..."

She shook her head, perplexed.

"Something don't add up, Jack. Something ain't right."

"Think what you want, but remember your promise." He turned to go.

She grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait!" He shook loose again. "No!—wait a minute, Jack. I want to go with you."

This he wasn't ready for.

"Huh!"

"Yeah, I want to go with you—whatever it is."

Now his laugh came unforced. He could picture her and her lovely derriere, her blond ponytail tucked up under a beret or campaign hat, snooping and pooping in some Godforsaken bush country—freckles hidden by camo paint, shapely legs flexing in green utilities, bosom thrusting at her bush shirt...

He began to feel some deliciously discomforting sensations. And she blathered on!

He interrupted. "Have any nursing skills? Can you set up camp, prepare and cook game? Or are you looking to be a comfort lady?"

"What's that—something dirty?"

"Uplift the troops' morale."

"Troops! So it _is_ guerrilla stuff."

"Pfft! You've a one-track, mind, Sheila."

During their argument everyone else had straggled past and left the parking lot, leaving them alone. Dust sifted down unnoticed.

"I'm coming with you, Jack! I deserve some adventure in _my_ life, too. If you won't help I'll drag it outa Brian. I'll..."

"If Brian gets within half a klick of you I'll have his scalp. If he ever says _G'day_ I'll... Well, never mind. Let's go—I'll lock the gate."

She shouted from her SUV window as he relocked the gate. "I'm goin' with you, Gyrene—when I want something I get my wa-aayyy!"

Her vehicle leaped onto the highway in a storm of dust and pebbles while he crouched to avoid the shrapnel.

### §

### Chapter 05 - Hanky-panky

Swann sat on a table in the office of Dimarico's beat-up warehouse, swinging his legs like a kid. Everything was going swimmingly. No new recruits, but the plan to interview men overseas was set and he'd started field training for his minuscule squad of Brian Pierce, Earl Gephart, Saipele Manaea and Dimarico's young friend Barry Sutton.

Edith Lachey, a drab somber woman, entered the room bearing a coffee for Swann, and he decided to jolly her out of her perpetual depression.

"Thanks, Edith. You couldn't be more welcome if you were offering fifty-dollar bills."

The witticism fell so flat he wondered whether it might have an objectionable second meaning. She made no response whatsoever, turning and walking out the door.

·

Swann was here to see a demonstration of some gizmo developed by one Professor Evan Koskinen and his technicians—Dale Kinnard and Lachey. He had no clue as to how this fit in with their expedition, and neither Dimarico nor the help was offering any.

So here he sat cooling his heels in this barren office—bereft of magazines, calendars, chairs or any other equipment—resting his bones on the single piece of furniture in sight.

He knuckled an eye and yawned, thinking of the warm bed he'd unwillingly exited early this morning.

Forty minutes later Dimarico woke him and he stumbled into the warehouse, alternately brushing dust off his right side and rubbing his eyes.

They stopped ten yards shy of a small wooden platform topped with a four-foot round metal plate. A cable led to the underside and from its outer edges stuck three antenna-like prongs. Off to one side stood the professor and his minions, and beyond them a console connected by the cable. Everyone watched the platform.

"What's the silly drill, Cam?" Swann asked.

Dimarico held up a hand. "This is a demonstration—explanations later."

Swann found this mystery ungratifying, and furthermore something continually screeched in the background.

"What the devil is yowling?"

Dimarico pointed, and off beyond the console, half hidden by a steel column, Swann spotted a small whitish creature in a hardware-cloth cage.

"A cat!" He wondered if he were dreaming this surrealistic scene. "What the heck are we waiting for?"

Dimarico glanced at his wrist. "Ten forty-five."

Swann checked his own watch. "It's ten forty-eight right now."

"Ten forty-seven and a few." Dimarico sounded worried.

No point arguing over a minute, Swann figured, but... "Can't you get rid of that ca..."

A dull _POOM!_ sounded, and Swann crouched and swiveled toward the platform.

What! Now the cat and it's cage were here, the yowling twice as loud.

Swann boggled. "Caa-amm!"

Dimarico pointed as before. There were cat and cage by the column and here were cat and cage in front of him. And there was cat and here was...

### * * *

"Not a chance! I wouldn't believe this if it were printed on the front page of the LA Times. In fact, I _especially_ wouldn't believe it there. I don't... What's the gimmick, and what's it have to do with anything?"

"You won't believe the evidence of your own eyes?" This from Doctor Koskinen.

He, Dimarico and Kinnard tried to convince Swann of the impossible, while Lachey disposed of the cats outside. Swann surreptitiously eyed the exit in case he needed to make a run for freedom.

The _Perfesser_ , as Swann denoted him, droned on.

"This is not surprising, for it's the common reaction. Even Dale, even Mister Dimarico found it difficult to accept at first. You must simply..."

"I must simply _nothing!_ I don't and won't believe it's anything but a con. It ain't possible and I ain't gonna be convinced."

Koskinen turned away with a disdainful shrug, leaving the problem to lesser minds. Kinnard grimaced nervously but hung on, determined to make the sale. Dimarico grinned, as though enjoying this reprise of the skepticism of earlier converts.

"Unless I see the wound," he attempted to quote, "and put my fingers into it..."

This venture at a Biblical reference merely irritated Swann. God knew he wasn't much of a Christian but he respected those who believed and resented cheap hucksters who used holy text for their own crass purposes. But the man prated on.

"Why don't you make a test, Jack?"

"Me! How would I do that, for crying out loud?"

"Send something of your own back."

"Back! And how do I get it again if I send it _back?_ "

"You'll get it," Kinnard interjected, "because the other you will send it from the future, and this you—er, _you!_ —will get it here."

"Have you any idea how _crazy_ that sounds?"

Dimarico still grinned. "Send your watch, Jack."

"But I want to _keep_ my watch, Cam," he explained mock-reasonably.

" _Jack!_ We're trying to tell you— _you_ won't lose it, you'll keep it. The _other_ you will lose it—the _alternate_ you!"

"Sure, Cam—and that's all well and good—but I have a feeling the a _lternate me_ won't want to lose my... er, _his_ watch either."

Dimarico gave a big guffaw as he and the technician walked away to have a laugh and plan their strategy.

Yet now Swann—his head spinning with the attempt to make sense of something he knew impossible—decided to make a test simply to shut them up. To kill the practical joke or whatever was going on.

He pulled out his handkerchief and walked over to them. "Here, send this back."

They pivoted to see what he held, and Dimarico said, "Your hanky? Sure. What time is it?" He looked at his watch while Kinnard went toward the console. "Eleven thirty-six. Let's plan on eleven forty."

"Plan _what_ , for...?"

Out of the corner of his eye Swann saw the professor, standing near the platform, give a flinch.

"I'll be darned," Dimarico said. "There it is!"

Even to Swann's skeptical eye, there it was indeed. His handkerchief, neatly folded, lay near the middle... And his handkerchief, neatly folded, still rested in his hand. An eerie feeling overcame him as with unwilling steps he approached the platform.

Dimarico's voice assaulted his ears.

"Maybe we didn't hear it arrive because we were talking, or might be it's too small and soft to make much of a sonic boom." He turned to Koskinen.

"Doctor! Here's another thing—it came through early—at least three minutes. Are we seeing instability?"

Whether he knew or not, Koskinen rushed to assure him.

"I very much doubt it, Cameron. Most likely they—we—made a slip with the settings, or perhaps we—alternate we—decided to send it earlier."

"You know, Evan, _alternate me_ could have done it deliberately in order to more easily convince Jack there was no hanky-panky with the evidence." He snorted a laugh and nudged Swann. "Catch that, Jack? _Hanky_ -panky. Simply came out that way." He picked up the _new_ handkerchief and laid it in Swann's unresisting left hand.

Swann turned like a sleepwalker and paced over to the office, entered and kicked shut the door, blew any remaining dust from the table corner his jeans had earlier polished and laid the two pieces of evidence side by side.

For several moments he stared at them, collecting his thoughts and trying to make sense of what he'd seen, for in these items lay the key to a puzzle or—perhaps as likely—a key that would open the door to a greater mystery than any he'd yet known.

A week before he had taken this—one of these—handkerchieves from his bureau drawer to place in his pocket. A gift from his wife many years ago, it was of fine cotton embroidered with the initials DES—she'd never cared for the nickname _Jack_ —and had a quarter-inch satiny dark-blue band woven near the periphery.

Hardly used, he hadn't changed it since. But a few mornings ago, by dint of vigorous snorting he deposited deep in its folds a particularly repulsive gob of bloody mucus, and in the refolded kerchief that evidence no doubt still hid. He reminisced about the gift, one of a set of four Ashleigh had given him, the others sporting bands of maroon, dark green and bronze—classy items, in keeping with their giver.

He unfolded the one from his right pocket—once, twice—and there in desiccated splendor lay a small attestation to his mortality.

He unfolded less willingly the other, outwardly identical to the first—once, twice...

### * * *

A tap on the door and Dimarico stuck his head in. "Jack..."

Swann leaned against the table—arms and ankles crossed, his face expressionless.

"Well, what do you think?"

"I'm going home."

Dimarico was silent for a moment. "That hard for you to accept, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else we can do?"

"DNA test on those cats... but you've let them go."

"Considered it but results take too long—weeks for a thorough match. Besides, we've done it before and I can show you the results—ninety-nine point nine-plus likelihood of identity."

Swann gave a weak chuckle. "How many cats have you got?"

"We trapped that critter this morning. It was wild, running around here. I think Edith might have been feeding it on the sly. No, we used a mouse before. A lab gave those results for the two carcasses."

"A mouse!" Swann jeered. "Those things are practically clones anyhow."

Dimarico looked stumped but then smiled. "A _wild_ mouse, Jack—not one of those white lab rats."

"Oh... And you didn't worry about Hanta virus?"

"What's that?"

"Some Korean disease that's migrated here. It's now endemic in the southwest US and it has a real high mortality rate."

Dimarico seemed nonplussed.

"Too late to worry now, I guess. The DNA results were good in any case, disease or no disease."

"So where are you _really_ planning to go?"

### §

### §

### Chapter 06 - Shangri-la

"The ancient world, of course—back to hammer and tongs style warfare. Back to simple living and low pollution, if you don't count horse manure and human, too."

"To change history."

"Yep."

"For better or worse."

"If we're lucky, for better. If unlucky, we won't be alive to repine."

"And what happens to today—this timeline or alternative as you call it? How does _now_ come out?"

"According to theory, it goes right on as before. Not that we'll ever know."

"Whose theory?"

Dimarico tilted his head toward the door. "Our resident genius and crackpate—Professor Koskinen. Yet we—the techs and I—have had our discussions and we have our own ideas.

"It's this way, Jack. A friend told me of this crazy scientist several years back, who was pushing an idea wilder and more unlikely than cold fusion. He dared me to look into it, and as I was at loose ends—had been most of my life, in fact, and thought I needed a unique hobby—I checked it out. Koskinen, I found, was cordially despised by the rest of the faculty, laughed at by his more sophisticated students, barely tolerated by the school administration, unable to get another grant to save his soul.

"So I gained my hobby—supporting a mad scientist.

"For diversion and partly by way of charity, I funded a grant for him—enough to get him through the year. It's all I initially planned, but becoming familiar with his ideas I lost part of my skepticism—began to think if sub-atomic particles could travel back in time, as a few experimenters claimed...

"You see, one particular period in history has always fascinated me—a nexus that could change the world and astound every historian who had ever pontificated on its effects. So I set him up for another year, while he left the university to devote more time to to his mania."

"How old are you, Cam?"

"Fifty."

"You don't look it."

"And you don't look forty-four, Jack. So what?"

"You've devoted how many years to this?"

"Going on seven."

"Huh! You must be a true believer."

"Gradually became one. Each year we've accomplished more and now it's nearly done. Things have been zapping through time for several months now. We're going to build a larger model, and if it works we'll go full-size immediately, do the briefest of tests then it's off to... off to our next stop.

"I can't fully express, Jack, how excited I am. And I'd give anything—everything—to do this."

"And that's exactly what you're doing."

"As far as money, yes. And as far as my existence? Well, I'm risking _that_ , also."

"And mine."

"If you're willing."

"There's a choice? Are the doors unlocked?"

"Locked but able to be unlocked. It's still secret except for the inner circle, and not even _you_ will know all the details until immediately before we take off. But everyone will be informed at the last, and anyone who wants to refuse—anyone I've misjudged, in other words—will be free to return to the US and spend his new money. All except the annuities, which I'll immediately cancel."

"So there won't _be_ very much new money."

"Well... You can't expect me to offer an incentive to quit, can you, Jack?"

Through the walls they heard another of those soft explosions that had heralded the arrival of cat number two. Dimarico's expression altered and he sprang to the door and flung it open. Koskinen and Kinnard stood by the platform, lifting off a weighty corrugated-paper box. A guilty look crossed the technician's face but the professor displayed no concern.

Dimarico raised his voice but kept it neutral.

"I believe we previously decided to make no unnecessary tests, did we not?"

"This was an assessment of mass capacity, Cameron."

"Ah! What is the total weight of the box, Doctor, and the ratio of mass to volume?"

Now Koskinen showed discomfort.

"I will immediately calculate it."

Dimarico blandly continued, "Yet isn't it field size we've agreed is most critical, Doctor? And haven't we made all the tests needed on this generation of transport?"

Koskinen counterattacked with a smirk. "How are we to control the actions of our future selves? If they wish to send, what can we do but receive?"

Dimarico considered and Swann thought he detected a sign of triumph on the professor's mug. But no, Dimarico had an answer.

"Good point, Doctor, so here is what I'm going to do. For those transmissions which fail to have my authorization, a fine of ten percent of monthly salaries will be levied."

"But if they..."

"I must levy the fines in _this_ timeline, of course, but I'm quite sure the alternate Camerons will do the same in _their_ timelines."

He raised his voice to be certain it could be heard by Manaea, who stood as far as possible from the mischievous ones.

"And the fine will be paid by all present, active or passive. You may inform Miss Lachey, Saipele." He turned back to the guilty two. "And that means I must take it from my own pay, as well, Doctor—simply to be fair." He gave a broad phony smile.

Swann immediately scurried for the office to have his laugh in private.

Dimarico followed, and after closing the door said, "I don't know why you think it's funny, Major—it includes you as well!"

Swann grinned. "Well worth it to see the expression on the jackass's face. Congrats! You've acted in the best traditions of the military with the mass punishment approach, and it's so logical yet illogical there's no hope of him fighting it."

Dimarico looked quite pleased with himself.

Swann continued, "I imagine you included Manaea to make sure he keeps an eye on these two."

"The doctor, yes—Dale would never pull such a trick on his own." He turned serious. "I hate the idea of tampering with something we don't understand, possibly wreaking havoc in the alternate times, tearing at the fabric of space-time every button we push. We need to test in order to have any hope of success, but a conservative philosophy demands we transmit only enough for our purposes and never for sport or diversion. You see that, don't you?"

"Absolutely. In fact..." Swann frowned.

"What's the matter?"

"Have you ever received more than one transmission? I mean, do you only receive something when you've already planned to send it back? There's never anything spontaneous from the future?"

"Right. So far, anyway."

"Well then... Then how do you know the future still exists? How can you be sure it isn't destroyed—the alternate future—every time it shoots something into the past? What proof..."

"You're a bit _too_ bright for this job, Swann!" Dimarico snapped. "Yeah! I have _that_ on my conscience. Good ole Doc Kosky has a soothing explanation, however—timelines, branching timelines! He has so many branches it would take a forest of redwoods to match them!"

"Then you _don't_ know."

"Hell no! I don't know, you don't know, Dale and Edith don't know... And Koskinen! He only knows how to come up with a glib explanation. He probably knows—and certainly cares—no more than any of us... But one thing we _have_ done, although it isn't absolute proof, is send back—that is, have sent back to us—two items in succession, one after a slight delay. It indicates the alternate timeline still exists for a short period, at least."

He paused.

"I know this much, Jack. It appears to work, so I'm going to be taking the big step back along with anyone who has the guts or hopefulness to come with me, even if it's only Saipele—that's what _I_ know."

"So... And what does Saipele know?"

"He's no dunce, Jack—you see that. But he comes from a culture which pretty much takes American engineering miracles for granted. I imagine if I told him tomorrow we'd changed our minds and were going to take a spaceship to Mars, he'd be puzzled for awhile but ultimately accept it."

"Categorical loyalty."

"I believe I can count on that with him."

### * * *

They went out for lunch and brought pizza and drinks back to the crew. They spoke in Dimarico's vehicle but left any significant discussion for the presumably secure site of the warehouse.

"Assure me you're not misleading any of us."

Dimarico was silent a long time and Swann refused to let him off the hook by adding more.

At length the man said, "In all candor, Jack, the only ones who know my full plans are me, myself and I. That's the way it has to be and that's the way it's staying. Yet if I've judged you accurately you won't regret any surprises which come up."

"So it's still to be taken on faith—you, this joke of time travel and alternate timelines, this pompous professor and his laughable theories you've inflicted upon us and yourself..."

Dimarico simply nodded.

Swann said, "A mad voyage into the unknown under a mad captain, guided by a mad navigator, with a half-mad crew."

"And where do _you_ come into this hierarchy of the mad?"

"The mad son of a sea-cook, maybe, because I want to come along."

"We were both born too late, Jack. We belong to the age of the conquistadors."

"Or of the Children's Crusade."

"Do you realize you've gone from the ultimate in skepticism to acceptance inside three hours?"

"I'm going home to study my handkerchiefs. And if tomorrow in the clear light of dawn I still can't figure out how I've been conned, then you can call me a believer."

"Time to bring the recruits into the picture. Next week we'll have the pilot model ready and we'll put on a show for them."

"Consisting of...?"

"The night watchman here is Dale, and we've fixed up a locker room for him."

" _Dale!_ "

"Wait. He has a big ugly mutt—it's tied outside when we're working—to do the guard-dog act. And you saw those signs on the console."

·

\----------------------------------------------

CAUTION! 20,000 Volts! DANGER!

¡Precaucion! ¡20,000 Voltios! ¡Peligro!

\-----------------------------------------------

·

"So if your burglars can read..."

"Doggy is quite friendly but looks mean as the devil and has a bark like a cannon blast—he's the real watchman. And we'll soon be guarded twice as well. Plugger—who's a hundred pounds if he's an ounce—makes the big jump next week, to arrive as Plugger II, the clone and brother of number one. That'll be our show for the boys."

"You're willing to put them in the picture—not wait till the last minute?"

"They deserve it, of course, but my reasons are purely practical. We need to be sure of a minimum cadre before we finalize the jump arrangements. I don't want to arrive in, er... _Shangri-la_ with only you, me, Saipele and the good doctor."

"In the five-hundreds Theodoric, Emperor of the Goths and Romans, died without a strong heir. In a generation or so the Eastern Empire reconquered Italy, and with Gothic power broken the gates opened for the Franks and Lombards and whoever as the Dark Ages descended over the Western Mediterranean."

"Beautiful reasoning again, but..."

"But?"

"Too many Goths."

### §

### Chapter 07 - The Home Front

"Because of _me_ , Dad?"

They sat over lunch at an isolated picnic table in a park near the home of Swann's ex-wife. Jeff was weeping.

"Never!" Swann's eyes streamed, too.

"Because I wanted to have him adopt me?"

The boy meant Ashleigh's second husband, by all accounts a prince of a man. Swann almost couldn't hate the guy—almost. Ashleigh and Jeff wanted to make their new family more official but Swann had refused permission.

"Never, Jeff. Nothing you could do would make me reject you. You're my son and always will be, whatever you call yourself."

Swann had explained his trip in its earliest version—liberation of some backward land. He had sketched the financial arrangements set up by Dimarico, and explained the trust fund he'd endowed out of his own resources. He wiped his eyes for the twentieth time and energetically cleared his throat.

"Get this, Jeff. As part of everything, I'm giving written permission for the adoption from one year after I leave. It'll be finalized when I know the exact date."

"You talk as if you're not coming back _ever!_ "

"I know... If I could figure any way to get back together with your mother and you I'd never consider this step. But I've spent so many years in this dream that I can't take it any longer. I need to have a life with meaning."

"You're talking about dying in some hole—not a new life!"

"I'm talking about meaning, mostly. Can't you understand?"

"I understand you're _abandoning_ me." The boy broke down, his arms on the table, face hidden, shoulders convulsing.

·

Swann dabbed at his eyes and peered around but no one seemed within earshot. He wanted to calm the lad but didn't know what he could do. His son's arguments made more sense than his own. He knew the ultimate selfishness of his motives for leaving, yet what choice had he?

In a few years Jeff would be grown and living on his own. Unless grandchildren came, Swann beheld himself playing less and less of a part in Jeff's life—could only predict a lonely and pointless old age. He couldn't see himself remarrying while things remained as they were—setting up a new family while the one he longed for remained tantalizingly forbidden to him.

If Ashleigh's new husband were to kick the bucket, or if he could think of a way to safely... But no—that was wrong and stupid to dwell on. Even if he were to baffle the authorities, his attitude could make Ashleigh suspicious. She knew his moods and expressions too well and he wasn't a sufficiently hardened criminal.

If the Corps had allowed him another ten or fifteen years with appropriate promotion... If _anything_ challenging might be going to happen in his life he wouldn't have thrown himself into this Quixotic and illogical adventure with Dimarico.

Hateful to think of sitting on a park bench yarning with other ancient citizens thirty or forty years down the road. He wanted to die in the bosom of his family or die with his boots on. Better an arrow in the neck and five minutes oozing out his life on a muddy trail than years of lonely descent into senility.

"Dad?" Jeff was sober but composed. "I don't like it but I have to accept it, don't I?"

Swann silently nodded.

"I... I want you to know I think you're doing something noble."

Swann's eyes began to prickle again.

"I'll miss you and I'll always remember you, but I've worked it out. I won't let him adopt me. Or even if I have to for some legal or money reason, I'll never change my name—it'll always be Jeff Swann."

Now Swann broke down while the boy tried to comfort him.

·

"The way I'm disposing of my personal funds is this. Your mother will get an immediate check for five thou to spend on you or herself or whatever she wants—no strings. If any small debts I've forgotten crop up, she can take care of them. You'll be getting a check for five hundred every birthday as a little present. I've set up the trust out of state because I assume you'll go to college here and it'll improve chances the vultures in financial aid won't get their claws on it. They'll strip your bones if they can.

"The trust will run until you reach thirty-five, at which time there'll be no restrictions. You can keep it for a yearly income, which should be better than four thou even if the market does nothing for the next nineteen years. And if it comes back, the income should be over ten, which is why I've kept the yearly payout so small, to give the capital a chance to grow.

"It'll be your decision. If you want to pay cash for a vacation home—assuming the mullahs still allow vacations—or buy the world's fanciest car..." This got a chuckle from Jeff. "...or take a trip round the world, or pay your own son's way through school—it's up to you. I figure by that age you'll have the judgment to choose wisely.

"And there's the other three-hundred-thou insurance I explained earlier. When and if it comes through there'll be a hundred-thou for your mother and the balance for you.

"Here's the spare key to my shack—don't lose it! I've bought out my lease. When I'm gone, get your mother to bring you up and clean out the personal gear I haven't already disposed of, then let the owner know you're done. Don't wait for someone to learn it's empty and break in to help himself. You keep what you want and dump what you don't. Don't be too sentimental and save my old skivvies or anything such as that—think utilitarian."

"I feel a lot better, Dad."

"So do I. Practical details always help. But get ready for more tear-jerking. When I'm presumed dead—officially or not—your mother might be thinking of a memorial service. I vote no, but it won't be my decision, of course. I'm letting you know so your conscience—and hers—won't be too tender. Also, whatisname—he whom I choose not to identify—you'll want to think of his feelings in the matter."

"I understand."

"That's it, I imagine, unless you have something to discuss. Let's clean up our trash and take a walk around then I'll take you home."

"I'll never forget you, Dad."

"Nor I you. Now don't make me break down again. Come back in a week and I'll bet the grass here will be green as anything, we've watered it so well."

The boy smiled and gripped Swann's arm.

"In a couple weeks or so, Jeff, I'll call you right before I go and we'll have a good talk on the phone. Be a man, take care of your mom, and whatever you do in life try to do well and honorably."

"I won't forget your advice, either."

### §

### Chapter 08 - You Just Wait!

At the range they set up 3-D deer targets, one straight out and the other two at wide angles. From various ranges and positions the archers stood sideways or backwards until Swann cried, "Enemy!" followed by "...left," "...right" or "...center."

With arrow nocked, they would pivot, draw, aim and shoot for speed and accuracy. Barry Sutton and Saipele Manaea had earlier worn themselves out swashing their buckles then done some shooting. The latter two weren't intended to be archers but he wanted them familiar enough to pick up a bow if needed.

The Samoan was another Dark Ages Anachronist, and had—because of his size, strength and determination—been tagged with the DAA moniker Lord Sappy von Killawhalo, a pun on killer whale. They all found it a laugh to watch Manaea hack and stab at Sutton with grim homicidal stolidity while the smaller quicker man dodged and parried and endlessly backpedaled, rarely taking a hit but as rarely landing a counter.

Pierce told him, "If he ever gets you inside a fenced acre, you're dead meat!"

Sutton agreed with a ready grin. His positive attitude raised the spirits of all.

A well-built, good-looking kid and varsity running back, Sutton had slid through high-school and dabbled at junior college. Lacking any particular aim in life, making no meaningful connection with any young woman, a bit detached from his family—he was another natural for their expedition. Though no scholar he had an interest in the Middle Ages and was well-read in chivalric fiction and in swords-and-sorcery fantasy. Thus his joining DAA.

His approach to a career followed the rest of his outlook. After his fling at college he'd taken a job in auto sales. The requirements of the profession had soon sickened him. Early on an older salesman told him, "If you see me smilin' as the customer leaves, you'll know I took another sucker—an' I always got a grin on."

He found a spot at a small country dealership where the attitude was better, and managed to make a living—but high adventure was his true calling.

·

All were resting, equipment at their feet, when Sutton pointed. "Major?"

Swann turned to see an SUV at the gate.

"Oh... my... gawd! Why didn't I foresee this?"

He jumped up and trotted to the parking lot, arriving as Sheila exited her vehicle.

With a satisfied grin she said, "Hi, Major Jack! How's the shooting?"

"You quit work and drove two hours simply to pester me again?"

"Eighty-four miles and all of it uphill."

"How'd you know we'd be here?"

"Three times already—I knew you'd be around sometime. Smart, huh?"

"Like a yellow-jacket at a picnic. Is that smart or merely insane persistence?"

The gibe set her off.

"Nothin' insane when it comes to outsmartin' _you_ , you dumb Jarhead."

He grimaced and turned to give the assembly signal. The men started taking down the targets and soon wended toward their vehicles.

She peered to her heart's content, he figuring any attempt to interfere would simply increase her curiosity.

"Earl? You got _Earl_ with you! And who's the big black dude?"

"NFL," he lied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Former NFL player."

"What's _he_ hunt for—wild footballs? That's your boss, is he? I want to meet him."

"No." He grabbed her arm.

"You don't tell me... ! Let go!"

She surprised him by leveling not a slap but a right cross at him, which he only partly blocked.

"You little...!"

He grabbed her arms and shoved her off balance, this way and that, while she attempted to break loose and launched kicks at him whenever two feet were on the ground simultaneously, turning the air blue in the immediate vicinity.

By mutual consent they paused.

"I'll let you go if you..."

" _Bri-aaaan!_ " She screamed, renewing her efforts. Soon the vehicles were loaded and heading for the gate.

"Only..." Swann panted, "...two more minutes... Sweetie. Then we, _unh_... can have a nice talk."

She managed to land a good kick and he seriously considered throttling her. The vehicles cleared, Earl locked the gate and Swann shoved her away. She launched at him in a rage but he cocked his fist and she stopped.

"I warn you, Sheila—come at me again and I'll knock you down."

"You'll be singin' soprano if I get at you."

"And you'll never yodel again with my hands around your throat."

They gulped for air and calmed—seemingly. Sheila resumed seductress mode and Swann prepared for the verbal phase of their contest.

"I guess those swords and spears are so you can hunt like those African dudes who fight lions, yeah?"

"Masai?"

"Ma-sigh, ma-see, ma-saw—what do I care? Proves you're a lying so-and-so is what it does!"

"Maybe you're right, Sheila—maybe I should come clean with you. You deserve that much."

"You bet I do!"

Swann collected his thoughts, conscious that in this new career of big-time liar he now reached for the pinnacle.

"Brian told you part of this, and most of what he said was fairly accurate."

He told her of the Goths, starting with their earliest known history in present-day Sweden and Poland, their subjugation by Attila and rebellion after his death, the Balkan travails, the conquest of Italy and so forth.

Yet always, he pointed out, remnants stayed behind when the warbands and wagons went on trek to greener fields—and in the Crimea particularly, a remnant of the Gothic nation remained until exiled by Stalin.

Here the fictional portion began, and in his description of their harsh but spectacular new homeland—desolate tundra, bold mountains, barren deserts and dense forests, deep lakes and swift streams—he became excessively poetic. He described their difficult life, hardscrabble farms, wiry cattle and horses and goats. He spoke of the efforts to retain their ancient tongue, now much diluted by Russian, and their traditional customs, inevitably modified by the years.

He told how through it all they retained their love of freedom, still gloried in their warrior skills, repulsing the raids of skulking Turk and Hun. But now, their enemies reinforced by backing from China and Muslim nations to the south, they faced their sternest test, the one which would determine whether the grand Gothic tradition would prevail or be wiped from the Earth.

"This then is our mission—to keep these proud but hard-pressed folk from genocide by their neighbors."

Dazzled by his own eloquence, he paused and looked at Sheila, almost expecting to see tears in her eyes.

"What incredible bull!" she shrieked. "You must think I'm the biggest idiot in three states! Everybody knows—everybody!—the Goth movement ain't more than twenty years old. I'm letting you blather on merely to see how far you'd take it. And I'm ashamed for you, Jack—yeah, ashamed to think you're so stu...What's goin' on?"

Swann doubled over in laughter, almost strangling with glee. He'd failed to convince her but... Out of the corner of an eye he saw a kick coming and dodged in the nick of time. He could well imagine how Dimarico would respond to this tale.

He was able to straighten in a few minutes but still laughed, pointing at Sheila as her rage sent him into fresh gales of mirth. She didn't have a clue! _Not one clue!_

At last his guffaws and giggles ceased. A few deep breaths, some gusty sighs, an occasional straggling chuckle and he readied himself for round three.

"So you won't buy into the Goths," he wheezed. She only sneered. "What do you think it is then?"

"I'm only surprised you weren't more original and tried punks or rap artists. _Goths!_ " she derided.

"Okay," he said, "you've seen through my best. Now I'll have to try the truth."

"About time," she muttered. "But no matter what you come up with, I'm going along—whatever you say, whatever you do."

"The problem is the Kraloths."

"The what?"

"Klaroths."

"Didn't you just say it different?"

"Sorry—Kraloths."

"How would you spell it?"

"In English? K-R-A-L-O-T-H."

"African tribe, right?"

"No!" he snorted. "Forget Africa. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Africa and never did. Kraloths aren't African!"

"Okay, I get the picture—not African. So why can't I go? Not that you're gonna convince me, Kraloths or no Kraloths."

"Well, here's the deal. They have a taboo or something of the sort. They're similar to Muslims—no females aboard their spaceships."

Her rage now was something fearsome to behold, and he took a step back... but she subsided.

"Nobody, Major..."

He went on guard at her use of the respectful mode.

"...has ever frustrated me the way you have. I always get my way with most men. Nobody's ever been as tough as you—and I respect it. Only I don't understand. Why _won't_ you take me along? What's the problem?

"Everybody likes me, mostly. I can keep up. I'm as good a shot as anyone here. You got it in for me for some reason, and I don't see why, because I've always been nice to you."

He merely looked wise. She stepped closer and he tensed, ready for fight or flight.

"I've always liked you... a lot." She chuckled. "Brian's been after me to go out but I'd rather _you_ asked. You're a pretty decent-looking old stud and sorta nice. And I wonder why you don't? I've given enough signals, I think. Seriously! Tell me why. Why aren't I good enough for you?"

_Aw, what the heck_. She could be sweet when she wanted. He'd let her down easily.

"In the first place I'm in love with someone else."

"Who?" she demanded.

"My wife, of course."

"Your wife! You got no _wife_. You've been divorced forever, you lying pimp!"

"Sheila, I bid you good day."

He climbed into his vehicle, drove to the gate and dismounted to unlock.

Her angry shout followed. "I'm going, Jack! I'll find out and I'll go! You just wait!"

### §

### §

### Chapter 09 - Motherships

Swann's story of Sheila and the Goths sent Dimarico into gales of laughter, even as both worried once more over security. Time was growing short, as was dog food with two of the big creatures to feed. The pilot-model transporter successfully checked out, as did a mock-up of the final version—not yet updated with new controls.

Dimarico shared further concerns regarding Koskinen with Swann.

"Electronics isn't my specialty but it _is_ the family business, so I couldn't help but absorb a bit. His circuit diagrams make no sense to me, nor do they seem to match up with his descriptions. The wiring of the controls looks strange, insofar as I can trace it."

"Are they boards or...?"

"Mostly discrete circuits, with a few standard boards and lots of jumpers. Can't be sure whether he's deliberately hiding what he knows—which I certainly wouldn't put past him, paranoid SOB and manipulator that he is—or whether he doesn't know himself what he's doing, like a kind of idiot savant, working with psionics or something far beyond my ken."

"With _what?_ "

"Psionics—paranormal stuff, ESP—that kind of thing."

"Exactly how serious are you?"

"Jack! I do _not_ know what we are doing. All I know is the tests seem to work."

Swann wondered, not for the first time, what he'd got himself into.

"Tell me one thing—have you ever used the machine without him being present—used it successfully, that is?"

"You're thinking of mass hypnosis and such? Yes, we've run it with him absent, with Kinnard and Lachey absent and even with me out of the way, as you've seen. Mind control seems pretty doubtful."

"That's one relief... What do you still need for the large machine?"

"Capacitors—huge ones. Another week, at least."

"Then we're looking at what—a month before we jump?"

"Hope not. The frame is on its way to... the place. And you'll notice on the mockup we're not using plate but store-bought heavy aluminum foil this time—two layers. Assuming it continues to give results, everything is on for two weeks."

"What port did they ship to?"

"Naughty-naughty! Don't push for cheap clues—it's beneath you. You'll get a big one when we go over to recruit—only a week off."

### * * *

A few days later Swann was in his garage cleaning up. He'd decided to ready his mower for sale by changing the oil but a slip led to disaster, leaving a greasy mess on the floor. As he finished, a large white van pulled into the drive.

With a feeling of apprehension Swann stood, ready to meet the FBI with bland assurances but the man who dismounted from the passenger side immediately dispelled his concerns. If this fellow was FBI, he himself was Popeye.

He tossed the soaked rag into the trash can and retrieved another to dab at his hands and trousers, then stepped up and nodded as a small man in a pale lightweight suit came to meet him.

"Mister Daniel Swann?"

"Yep. What can I do for you?"

"Let me introduce myself—I'm David Offutt with County Neighbor."

"With what?" Swann was distracted now that the specter of federal agents had receded. He finished with the latest rag and turned to toss it away.

"County Neighbor. We're an independent social agency covering the rural areas of the county. Our support comes partly from private and partly from public sources."

"Ah. Well, if you want a donation you've caught me at a bad time."

"No, no. I'm simply here for a chat."

The man gave a hearty but fraudulent laugh and Swann teetered between cordiality and sending him on his way.

"I need to clean up—change my clothes. You want a cuppa something?" He gestured toward the side door.

"That would be fine."

_Again with the laugh_ , Swann thought.

"What about your friend?"

"Oh, nothing for him. He's my driver."

"Not thirsty?"

"He's the driver," Offutt insisted, as if it explained everything.

Swann ushered him into the kitchen of his three-room cabin.

### * * *

Emerging from the bathroom—washed and in clean shirt and trousers—Swann found the little man still nursing his icewater at the kitchen table.

"Okay, what's up?"

Offutt forced a smile. "We—the agency—focus on rural areas where people might be isolated, lacking in social and civic services, have too much time on their hands."

"I know the feeling," Swann said as he boiled water for tea. "You concerned for my neighbors?"

"Well... Have you noticed any problems with them at any, er... time?"

"Not hardly. We tend to keep to ourselves."

"There, you see—isolation."

"Three places for nearly a mile, so of course it's isolated. It's something we each wanted in the first place."

"Yet is isolation a good or bad thing, Mister Swann, when you have so much _time_ on your hands?"

"I can't speak for _them_ , but I don't feel isolation—merely serenity when I gaze at these mountains. And I keep pretty busy."

"But do you find time moving slowly for you? Do you ever wish to speed up the flow of time?"

"Hardly! I'm getting old fast enough as it is."

He couldn't help laughing at the prospect of time moving faster. Did backwards count? _Good Lord!_ The thought hit him—did they know whether people—creatures—regressed in age as they traveled back in time? Moving back ten years—did you arrive ten years younger? He jumped up.

"We've gotta cut this short. I have to see someone right now."

Offutt still sat. "Wait, Mister Swann! Does this have anything to do with..." He whispered the words, "...time travel?"

"What!" _Here we go again! How is this stuff getting out?_ Did they have a mole on board? His mind spun—but the pieces started to fit together. He took a deep breath and sat down, putting on a knowing look.

"Now I get it. You're after _me_ , not my neighbors."

"We're not _after_ anyone, I assure you. We simply want to help..."

"People who are confused, delusional, have strange visions, hear voices, want to liberate Orleans from the Goddons," Swann supplied.

"New Orleans?"

"Orleans, France—Joan of Arc."

"Er, possibly," Offutt admitted, seemingly baffled.

"And time travel—that's a new one, right?"

"Mister Swann..."

"Yes or no, if you please."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

_Lies, don't fail me now_. "Have you been in touch with the Sheriff?"

"We _do_ have liaison with the Sheriff's Department on occasion but there's no connection with my call on you today."

"Okay, but..."

A voice called from outside. "You alright, Dave?"

"Yes, fine. Go sit down, Frank."

"Ten minutes, okay?"

"Yes, fine— _fine!_ Go sit down now."

Swann grinned. "Needs that drink, you think?"

"He's only checking on me. Never mind—let's get back to your problem."

"I don't believe I _have_ a problem, Dave."

"Well, time travel and the Sheriff persecuting you—those sound like problems to _me_ , Mister Swann."

"Let me make a guess, my friend. You received a tip from someone saying I was into time travel? Someone who thought I needed a type of help which could best be accomplished from inside a locked building? Am I right?"

"Let me assure you—we don't lock people up, Mister Swann. You have nothing to fear in that regard."

"Again, simply a yes or no, please."

"We have a referral, yes."

"Let me take a few more guesses. Do you enjoy guessing games?"

Offutt smiled back at him, perfectly at ease now—sure he had caught his fish, trapped his mouse, roped his calf, harpooned his whale.

"Certainly, Mister Swann. Go right ahead—Frank and I can wait."

"First, I apologize for being slow on the uptake. I've been busy with three or four other things and couldn't concentrate. And let's face it—I'm not getting any younger."

"Pooh-pooh, Mister Swann! You don't look a day over... forty—thirty-five?"

"Eighty! Yes, I'm eighty, Dave. Because time travel is the fountain of youth. You go back slowly to get younger, then return to the present real fast so the change freezes. I'll tell you this—when I have it perfected it'll put plastic surgeons out of business."

Offutt's face was a study as he struggled to maintain the preferred bland expression during this bizarre admission.

"Of course," Swann confided, "my driver's license says differently, because the space aliens took care of it. You d _ig_ , daddy-o? By the way, I picked up that term in one of my trips to the forties... or was it fifties?"

Offutt leaned forward in confidential mode. "Let me offer you some assistance, Mister Swann. If you would—voluntarily, I assure you—visit our offices, you could talk to one of our counselors regarding these matters, and we could arrange for..."

"Let's cut to the chase, Dave. I've enjoyed pulling your leg but the whole thing gets tiresome after awhile, so I'll tell you what happened."

"Certainly, Mister Sw..."

"You were approached by someone who told you I'd been babbling about time travel, I suppose?"

"We can't discuss referrers, I'm afraid."

"No need, Dave, because I'll tell _you_. A few weeks ago a Sheriff's Deputy stopped here to discuss my sighting of little green men and my trip up to the mother ship where they put this gadget into my body. Except... it was all news to me. After we got things straightened out and shared a good laugh, he _did_ give me some info on the referrer. Now I don't know if the same person went to you or if she used an intermediary, but here's the deal—it was probably a young woman, right?"

"We can't discuss..."

"An attractive young woman."

Offutt's expression fell. "We can't..."

"A very attractive tall blond young woman with a long ponytail and big blue eyes, plus a figure to tempt a monk. Someone who's been compared to the goddess Diana, as a matter of fact."

"I still can't say anyth..."

"No need!" Swann could see his bolt was in the gold. "Let me tell you the tale. It's quite flattering at first to be followed around by someone like her but there's more to personal attraction than looks alone. So after a while it gets to be uncomfortable—similar to stalking. Can you believe it? That someone so sharp could go for an older guy such as me? I felt plenty of doubts at first—wondered if she was mocking me. But seems it's true, and this is her way of dealing with rejection—harassing me with prank reports, such as to you. So _now_ what do you say, Dave?"

"You... As far as time travel goes?"

"Never done it and not looking forward to it. The gadget I was working on when you came up? Not a time machine—only a lawnmower."

"And these aliens you've mentioned?"

"Oh! _Those_ are real enough. Mostly Mexican, though, and no motherships."

### §

### Chapter 10 - Well-behaved People

"This is so _great_ of you, Brian. I'm so excited I can't sit still. I'm gonna heal that bruise for you."

"Hey, I'm driving!" He brusquely fended off her attempted kiss.

The attraction had ceased on Pierce's part and he now knew there had never been any on hers. When forced to admit his slip during a meeting of the troops, his chagrin was extreme. With Swann turning away in disgust, Gephart had the gall to knock him down and call him names, while the major strolled off, pretending not to notice.

And next to him Sheila now blathered on, full of herself as usual, not even noticing _his_ problems.

"I woulda happily driven here myself. You didn't need to pick me up—go so far outa your way."

He ignored her.

"How far is it, anyway? Are we _there yet?_ " she mimicked, laughing a fit at her own joke.

"You'll find out all too soon," he muttered.

"What? What's that?"

He turned the last corner.

"What a dumpy... Hey! A welcoming committee. And the big guy's here!"

_Wonderful_ , Pierce thought, _absolutely wonderful_.

### * * *

"We've done that check. We sent back—well, you know what I mean—planned to send back after a delay in the future..."

"Planned—you don't actually know."

"We _never_ know. It's always on faith, Jack— _always_. We used a seedling and a young mouse—a real baby, just weaned we figured—barely old enough to feed itself. The plan was to hold them a few days before returning them."

"Yeah?"

"The seedling—a sunflower with only the seed leaves—appeared within a minute of our set time. It now showed two true leaves. The mouse looked no different but it weighed a few grams more than the original. Then, Jack... Then we figured to do the same thing but for a longer period, with both sets of plants and mice. This was the clincher for me."

"What happened?"

"Well, they were back in no time, of course. We never need to wait on this end. The time is set digitally to the minute, so only if the length of day has varied over eons... Not a problem with the durations we're using. At any rate, both seedlings were larger, although one of them had died and withered. The mice were noticeably bigger and older. To me it indicated everything worked as planned."

"How'd the animals appreciate the trip?"

"No problems, but then we put a delay into the transfer. The sonic booms had become so loud we feared for the windows, not to mention exciting passers-by. So Koskinen figured a way to make the transfer less than absolutely instantaneous. Now it appears to cause minor discomfort in animals but makes less of an ear-splitter."

" _Less than_... You mean your liver arrives before your lights? Or is it vice versa?"

"The usual answer."

"Yeah, nobody knows. What of the dead plant? What does _that_ signify?"

"Sometimes plants die—what else?"

"The discomfort problem concerns me."

"They seem to get over it in seconds, so it can't be too serious."

"You do any autopsies?"

"Dissections, yes. My chiropractor did them."

Swann laughed.

"I'm not being funny. He knows what he's doing—when he's not three sheets to the wind, at least. His basic medical education is better than you'd expect. There were no major abnormalities."

"Did he know what you were up to?"

" _Please_ , Jack! I'm always security conscious."

"And he goes along with this kind of weird doings?"

"He's an old and somewhat dependent friend."

### * * *

Manaea opened Pierce's door and helped him out, while the two females hauled Sheila from her seat. One, a thin sallow woman with lank black hair and an expressionless face said nothing—but the other, a cute little blond with short curls, hardly stopped talking from the outset.

"Sheila Brenneman, is it? I'm LeeAnn Dasczo and this is Edith Lachey."

The two women linked arms with her and marched her toward the door of a crappy-looking factory-type building.

"We're so happy to have you with us—so few women and all these men."

"When is too many men a problem?" Sheila wise-cracked, and by blondie's reaction you'd have thought it the funniest joke ever. Sheila now noticed studs and at least one tattoo. _Eeww!_ Not so cute after all.

They entered and continued toward the far side.

"Don't you love the decor?" LeeAnn smirked. "Should we call it Japanese metal style or early modern barren, do you think?"

"Are you my escorts or something?"

LeeAnn laughed heartily. "We sure are, Honey, but here it ends."

They propelled her toward a door. The door opened from the inside and she was shoved through without ceremony.

"Where's Brian?" she called over her shoulder. But the door was closing. She turned her head and...

"Jack! I'm almost happy to see you. I told you I'd be coming, didn't I?" She reached up to caress his cheek but he slapped her hand away with stinging force, his face stern and unwelcoming. "Hey! What's the deal?"

"Miss Brenneman."

She swiveled to face a large man, dark-haired and handsome in an older kind of way.

"I imagine Major Swann disapproves of familiarities between the commissioned and enlisted ranks."

"Whadaya mean? And where's the Boss?

"That would be me."

"What about the football player—the big black guy? Where's he?"

Dimarico looked at Swann, who mouthed, _Saipele_.

"You're referring to Sergeant Manaea. He'll be with us later. You'll be seeing a lot of him soon."

"What's that supposed to mean? Jack told me he's the boss—another lie, I guess. You _ever_ tell the truth, Swann?"

"He's _a_ boss, but I'm _the_ boss." Dimarico flashed a quirky grin. "You'll be taking orders from both of us—from almost everyone, in fact."

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't take orders so good as you think."

"So I've been informed." He smiled more broadly.

"What's so funny?"

"Why don't we get down to business. Your questions will be answered in good time. If you listen rather than interrupt it'll be sooner rather than later."

Sheila began to have second thoughts of the wisdom of having pushed her way in here but saw the need to dissemble now and hope to gain her freedom later... later when she might not be surrounded by fake-friendly men and women who didn't boggle at pushing her around.

She hesitantly nodded.

"You've volunteered to join our team..."

"Volunteer! I didn't volunteer for _nothing_."

"Hold it! Didn't you demand of both Major Swann and Private Pierce that you be allowed to accompany them? And didn't you use espionage techniques to wile information from Pierce? Didn't you invade our training session with yet another demand to be taken aboard? Didn't you repeatedly and vociferously request to go on whatever type of expedition we organized, whether hunting or warfare? Correct me if I'm wrong in any detail."

She objected in a small voice. "Well, I didn't expect to be shanghaied like this. I didn't sign anything, or agree to be a _private_."

"There's been no shanghaiing, and I doubt if anyone offered to make you a general right off. This is a quasi-military operation and you are merely a recruit at the start, with everyone else having more seniority if not more rank. Is that clear?"

She could simply nod, awed by this man's assumption of authority and by his logic. _Brian and Jack!_ They'd baited her into this. If they'd told her what it was going to be like... And still the guy kept talking.

"...no official sign-up. Everything is verbal and therefore deniable. Nod if you understand."

She nodded.

"Because we've established you are ambivalent and unreliable, you'll be under special custody until the day before we make our departure."

"Wha...?"

"Departure. At that time you'll be given a choice—as will everyone—of staying with this challenging but dangerous mission, or returning here with a termination bonus in your pocket. Clear?"

"What sort of bonus? What's the pay?"

"Everything will be explained but I don't have time now. I think you'll find it quite generous."

He nodded to Swann, who stepped to the door and opened it for Manaea and Lachey, obviously waiting directly outside.

Sheila's head spun from this continuing display of efficiency and inevitability.

"Let me introduce Master Sergeant Saipele Manaea, your immediate commander and fiance. This is Miss Edith Lachey, your chaperon. They'll be with you at all times, day and night, at work or at home, at table or in bed."

"What's _her_ rank?"

"Civilian."

"Wait! _Fiance!_ I ain't sleepin' with this big black stud."

"Calm down—nobody said you were. Miss Lachey will share your bed."

"Well, I ain't too crazy for that sorta deal either."

"You won't be harmed and you won't be forced to do anything degrading or outside your duties. Simply understand this..." He looked hard-eyed at her. "Your every minute will be spent in the presence of these companions. Outside this building or Sergeant Manaea's apartment you will be next to him and he will either be holding your hand, or have his arm around you. Do you object? Because the other choice is handcuffs.

"Miss Lachey, as well, will be continually in your company. Either she or the sergeant will drive the car and the other will sit next to you in back. In the bathroom she will be at the door and the door will be unlocked. There is no window. In bed, the same. If you need to leave the bed for any reason, you will wake her and she will accompany you. Your affectionate lover, meanwhile, will make _his_ bed in front of the apartment door. Do you agree to these conditions? Decide now."

Sheila's eyes flicked around searching for an escape, her heart pounding like a hammer. She licked her lips.

"Have I got a choice?"

"Very little, I'm afraid."

"Okay, I agree."

"You'll obey their every order. In the event they disagree you will obey Saipele because he's bigger."

Sheila did not smile.

"You'll be totally free within four weeks if our schedule holds. In the meantime we intend to treat you well and with as much dignity as practical. If you have any complaint you may bring it to me or Major Swann. We'll arrange for your employer and relatives to be notified of your departure on a sudden vacation. Understood?"

"Yeah, sure. Only I ain't too thrilled with gettin' squeezed by some black dude."

"How very old-fashioned—you disappoint me! But Saipele is Samoan, and they are quite well-behaved people. Right, Sergeant?"

"Sure thing, Mister Cam... long as we don't get too hungry."

Sheila didn't get it but all three men laughed.

"Why can't Brian play my fiance," she whined.

To her chagrin they considered this even more funny.

Dimarico took a book from the pocket of his bush jacket.

" _History of the Goths_ ," she read. "What's this for?"

"The whole book is quite interesting, but look in the index for _Crimea_ first."

### * * *

After the three left, Dimarico and Swann looked at each other. Failing to keep straight faces, they burst into laughter, straining to keep the noise down.

"I can't..." Swann gasped, "I can't believe she fell for it!"

"As I told you, Jack—any number of people prefer a conspiracy theory to a simpler, more logical explanation."

They had rehearsed and rewritten their act several times. Pierce had been absolutely necessary to the plot, much as they would have preferred to keep him on the sidelines—but he managed his part well enough. Sutton could not keep a straight face and Kinnard repeatedly muffed his lines, so those two kept away. Lachey played her role perfectly, to Swann's surprise, but she need merely be herself and speak no lines. Manaea was habitually stone-faced, while LeeAnn Dasczo, Swann felt, was a born con-artist. So all came out well.

Had Sheila at any point caught on to them, or simply refused to be _shanghaied_ , they would have immediately gone to Plan B—general laughter and the admission of a joke, along with the claim the group was a historical re-enactment troupe. Swann had argued for using that approach from the start, as it would presumably forever rid them of her.

Dimarico was adamant for Plan A, however, insisting it would be easier to convince someone of her psychological makeup she'd penetrated a conspiracy than to get her to believe Swann capable of putting together an elaborate practical joke.

"You missed your calling, Cam—Hollywood beckons. And the book is to keep her off the trail?"

"Right. Someone will slip soon but she'll be confused for a while... Two days maximum to fix the locker-room then they move in here. I think we want another guard, too. She'd break Kinnard with one arm, pencil-necked geek as he is. Who?"

"Not Pierce, for sure. Either Gephart or Sutton. You choose, Cam."

"Gephart. I trust Barry pretty well but he's still of the age to be afflicted with raging hormones. And if anyone could make hormones rage it'd be her. After they're situated we take off for..."

"Yes?"

"A few more days of mystery, Jack. We'll check on the arrival of the transporter, see whom our ads bring, spread some cash around, then come back here to collect the crew of the good ship Chronometer."

"And what of my bonus for this latest excellent recruit?"

Dimarico gave him a long look. "Tell you what—maybe I won't dock your pay."

### §

### §

### Chapter 11 - One Less Mystery

"Where'd the palms and plants come from?"

"We wanted to make it nice for you," LeeAnn told her, winking.

_This one's always got an answer_ , Sheila thought, _and she sticks like a barnacle_. Goofy Earl stood around watching them, along with Saipele, the big dumb dusky Jarhead. And the weird witchy woman who never said anything or looked directly at you.

_Gives me the creeps_.

LeeAnn was saying something about the dogs, chained outside but in for an occasional run.

"Yeah, I love them too, LeeAnn," she drawled. "They must be brothers, they're so alike. Or clones—are they cloning dogs yet?"

"Sure looks that way to me, Honey."

_Gawd! What's with the_ honey _stuff all the time? They must think I'm stupid to be taken in by this gabby tart. Dimarico's secretary! You'd think he'd do better with all his money_.

She noticed the girl had a bruise today.

"I hate the looks of this place."

"The plants help, don't you think?"

Sheila shrugged. "Better than piles of trash, I suppose."

LeeAnn giggled on cue.

"When are the boss and Jack coming back?"

"Beats me, Honey. Mister D calls the shots and we simply do as he tells us."

"Why? Why're you willing to put up with this... this servitude?"

"Decent pay, for one thing. Plus, he treats you decently—takes care of his people."

Sheila sneered. "A great big sugar-daddy, huh?"

·

Before he and Swann left, Dimarico had tried to butter her up.

"Jack says you're a good man. And he meant it in a nice way."

Sheila preened herself for him but wasn't fooled. She knew he had an angle for every word he said.

"I can keep up with any of these guys—at the butts and on the trail. Try me and I'll show you."

"We'll be counting on you. And I want to apologize again for putting you through this tag-along routine but I'm quite security conscious and don't believe in taking any chances whatsoever."

"Who're you afraid of, for cryin' out loud?"

" _You!_ "

"No! I mean, who do you think _I'd_ tell? Why d'you think I'd want to screw up my chance to go with you?"

"You probably wouldn't, considering the trouble you went through to get here. Yet why should we take chances when we're on the brink?"

"Oh well, when you put it that way... I'm kinda sorry I didn't believe Swann when he told me the stuff at the range. Is it what we're gonna do, for sure?"

"You've read the book?"

"The part you told me to—the Criminy deal. I'm surprised I never heard of them."

"There are plenty of things you—and I—have probably never heard of."

He hadn't exactly answered her question. Sure, it made sense in a way, but how could those old Krauts be so primitive as to have no guns? And why couldn't Dimarico sneak a few modern weapons into the country? Everything would be so simple! Of course then they wouldn't need archers, but still...

### * * *

As they flew back, Swann nearly burst with the desire to elucidate his theory as to their time destination, which had become clear to him within hours after they'd landed. But Dimarico was still playing his silly game, as Swann saw it—so he had decided to play his own silly game and make Dimarico beg him to expound. They exchanged a lot of self-satisfied smiles while in the air, and more of them on the ground.

Their recruiting had been mildly successful—two capable bowmen. One of them seemed half-crazed, yet that was their standard in any case. The platform and its components were in storage, ready for assembly with non-ferrous bolts and glue. The most surprising thing had been Dimarico's disclosure of an extensive minting operation by four different stamping operations—unknown to one another so as to prevent the loss of the entire silver hoard should part come to light and be interfered with by someone in authority.

Seeing these coins hardened Swann's hypothesis into firm belief. Penny-sized but thinner, they showed a spread eagle on one side, and on the reverse a full-width grooved cross.

They moved to another country for the flight home—more of Dimarico's security—and in an isolated spot on the boat to Dublin he asked, "Well, Jack, what do you think?"

"Think what—the possibility of getting away with it?"

"No! Where we're headed—our ultimate destination."

Did his tone show disappointment at Swann's apparent lack of interest?

"Oh gee, Cam, I've been too busy lately."

"I'll bet," Dimarico said, with the slightest bit of skepticism.

"It's off the subject, but in the area of alternate history—which, after all, is what we're involved with—what if the Greenlanders' discovery of North America had been followed up? In fact, why didn't it succeed? They weren't anywhere as technologically advanced as Europe five hundred years later, but still—their political structure, techniques of warfare, iron tools, ships and livestock—those should have been enough to establish stable colonies in Indian country."

Dimarico hid a smile, convinced—Swann was sure—he had him sniffing the wrong trail again.

"Good points, Jack—real good. Quite a quandary—not to you and me alone but to most historians, I imagine, as to why the Norse were successful in Britain, France, Sicily and Russia against more advanced opposition, yet they abandoned America, a land of boundless opportunities. Why, the timber alone would be a major lure to people living on treeless islands.

"So," he added slyly, "do you think that's our objective?"

"No, I'm not thinking of that—merely of our endless possibilities to screw up the whole history of the world forever and ever. Right, Cam?"

Dimarico sighed and looked pensive.

"Yet you still want to do it, don't you, Jack?"

"God help me, I'm willing to risk the destruction of everything—time, space, the future, my family... It's darned near the greatest adventure ever, and I can't turn away."

He went on in a quieter tone. "Yet there are so many unknowns—for us and for the future we'll leave behind... Tell me, have you ever received anything through it you didn't plan for?"

"As I think I've said—never."

"Nonetheless, doesn't it bring a tremendous doubt to your mind?"

"In a way, Jack. There's only one other thing. We early on made a small transport back in time, coming through with no problems—at least, none we know of. This encourages me to believe the alternate futures will freely continue after a transport."

"One! That's adequate proof for you?"

"One. You know my philosophy. I'm hesitant to do any excess playing with the fabric of time, as it were."

"What was it?"

"We sent? A plain old graphite pencil."

"I suppose a pencil couldn't destroy too many civilizations... One more thing, though—are you _lying?_ "

"No! For God's sake, Jack, whom do you think you're dealing with?"

"A monomaniac. A man desperate to change history to suit his whim. The mad captain of a half-mad crew."

Dimarico made another of his casual periodic scans to check for privacy before saying, "And you're another."

### * * *

Nearing port, they took up the discussion again.

"Barry—what's your take on him, Cam?"

"Mad to prove himself in combat with the ancients."

"Brian?"

"Mad teenager, despite his age."

"Well put. Earl?"

"Hmm, madly trusting of you, unhappy with his dull life but can't imagine an escape by himself. Perhaps desperate is a better designation than mad."

"Saipele?"

"Sanest of us all but still mad for adventure. Left home for the alien US and now off to something even more alien."

"Sheila?"

"Borderline paranoid schizophrenic with bi-polar manifestations."

" _Jeez!_ But I'm afraid you're possibly right. The Perfesser?"

"The maddest and potentially most dangerous to us."

"How reassuring... Dale?"

"Half mad pencil-necked geek."

"C'mon. He's okay."

"He's a key man—good designer, good mechanic, willing laborer. Without him none of Koskinen's dreams become reality. Admit it, though—if he's with us he's half-way round the bend."

"Lachey?"

"A sad case. Terrible childhood, poor environment with her aunt whom she won't leave, probably abused as a girl by her mother's lovers. She's mad or desperate for some impossible salvation and probably headed for a tragic end. Does her job, though."

"It's sad. I've tried to get through to her but the shell is impregnable."

"She doesn't react to me either. And I think—not trying to be egotistical—if a woman refuses to be charmed by at least one of us, something's gone missing."

"LeeAnn?"

"Ha! The mad airhead, yet she's sharper than you think. I'd say she rivals Saipele for most sane among us but a tad feckless."

"And now—you."

"Same as you, Jack. The same but maybe a tiny bit worse."

### * * *

They flew tourist on the return—more of Dimarico's security tricks. He had shown tension even before takeoff, leaving Swann to wonder whether it was the approaching deadline or another problem.

_Well, I'm getting pretty tense myself_. Even if his brain were convinced of the reality of time travel his gut could not be. Dimarico had accused him of being too logical—a compliment disguised as a criticism, part of the man's use of flattery as a leadership tool. Yet Swann was well aware the time hypothesis wasn't proven.

That they need only plan an action for their future selves to flawlessly perform seemed too glib to be trustworthy. To design and built transporters reserved for exclusive use by their _alternates_ was bizarre.

Of further concern—only one test was being made of the mockup of the final design, with greenery and a couple of tall dogs as cargo—despite the fact they ultimately intended to displace far more mass and more living flesh. And why no ferromagnetic materials in the base when practically anything could make the trip _within_ the field? He'd listened to Koskinen's jargon-filled explanation regarding _the magnetic component of the quasi-synchronous displacement field_ , yatada, yatada.

Dimarico was right— _the Perfesser_ knew no more of what occurred than did they.

### §

### Chapter 12 - Hell or High Water

Disembarking from the plane, Dimarico and Swann ignored one another until on the sidewalk of the airport pick-up area. In a short time a small sedan pulled up, driven by Lachey.

"Hers?" Swann asked. "How come?"

"More convenient, more secure. We'll talk inside."

They dumped luggage in the trunk and entered the back seat, greeting the woman.

She immediately informed Dimarico, "Someone came around two days ago—building inspector, he said."

Dimarico snapped alert. "What happened?"

"Mister Manaea dealt with him."

"But what happened? Were there any consequences? Did he leave or did Saipele let him inspect? What occurred?"

"I'm sorry—I don't know. He went away but I think he was angry."

Dimarico slammed back in the seat. "Great! I should have been checking-in instead of worrying over calls being traced. Three days is all we need and... Two days back, you say? See, Jack! He's had time to think it over, time to talk to a supervisor. This is bad."

"Or it's nothing."

"Don't give me that! We can't leave anything to chance at this stage."

"No, but you can't go into panic mode either. If this was an ordinary inspector, their next step is probably a nasty letter or—at worst—a court order to let him in."

"And if it's a probe—then what? Remember the lieutenant-colonel I told you of? He could have gone to the authorities. He said he'd keep it under his hat, what little I told him. Though if he thought he needed to protect his bloody fine reputation..."

"Wouldn't they immediately raid if their concern is high? Or would they wait to gather forces?"

"Or maybe they'll let more mice gather before springing the trap. Perhaps they aren't even sure what we're up to. They'd merely know the initial version but it's the exact one they'd fear. If they knew we'd been playing at time travel they'd figure we're crazy, have a laugh and scheme how to tax us. Probably should have used it from the start—let them think we're some kind of nutty cult. Regardless—worst case, we'd better get out and get out quickly."

"Yet if they see the ants scurry..."

Dimarico frowned. "Go on, Jack."

"Are you leaving from here, or did your devious mind plan to confuse the trail?"

"The field's approximately four hours..."

"Huh?"

"Not commercial this time—a lease picking us up at a private airfield. And I figure to use an slagged-out motel in the area as a staging point."

"Reservations set?"

"Not this place—too run-down to ever be full. We could send Manaea and Brenneman up there on a vacation—definitely don't want her around if anybody else comes a-knocking. Can you go too, Edith?"

"I hoped to sell my car."

"And do what?"

"Put the money in the bank."

"For your aunt?" She nodded. "You're staying with me, then?"

She nodded again. "Yes."

"Great! I'm glad to have you."

Swann couldn't hold back. "You're willing to risk this with what you know of Koskinen and his theories? You're not afraid?"

"I'm afraid, but..." Her voice strengthened. "I'm going and I want to stay."

Swann and Dimarico exchanged pleased glances.

Dimarico said, "I could easily buy your car if you think a few thousand more will help your aunt. What else do you have to do?"

"Arrange for a visiting nurse. I... I only made up my mind right now, so I... Well, nothing's set as yet."

"Send LeeAnn with Sheila, Cam, "Swann urged. "Can't she drop everything? And send another man. Make it a double date."

"I could."

"Barry looks the part of a young lover and he won't be too easily conned. Have them box-up their weapons so they won't have to fret about a casual traffic stop."

"But Sheila! How is she going to take this move? I can easily see her giving a cop a distress signal."

"Make it an adventure for her. Give her some responsibility. Put her in charge of getting a picnic ready for the rest of us."

Dimarico laughed, relaxing at last.

### * * *

Manaea admitted offering the inspector two hundred dollars, saying _the Boss_ had told him to take care of any permits. It had been indignantly refused. Dimarico cursed him for being so clumsy at offering a bribe but felt relieved the incident appeared relatively innocuous. He thought of phoning the Building Department to invite them back—acting as if they'd nothing to hide—but eventually let it Slide.

Saipele, Barry and LeeAnn were given their instructions, she squeaking at having zero notice but quickly agreeing to play the game. Sheila seemed to fall in with the idea of a final party with herself in charge of arrangements, and they were rushed off to shop and find a spot—Saipele knowing exactly where to head.

The rest enthusiastically daubed a paper banner with poster paint, declaring _Southern Sierra Reenactments_ , _Ye Olde Medieval Faire Oct 30, 31_ , taping it to the long wall in the building. Next to it a typed notice warned the participants to report no later than midnight Friday next week for the last weekend of rehearsals, and reminded them November would commence _Old West Days_ practice. Signed _The Boss_ , penciled graffiti lent it realism. As a whimsical crowning touch Dimarico sent Kinnard to buy the men cowboy hats and the ladies tasteful sombreros.

In short order Dimarico needed to avert another crisis. He and Koskinen retired to the office whence loud rumblings were heard. In time they emerged—the doctor deeply chagrined, Dimarico grimly satisfied.

In response to Swann's lifted eyebrows he said, "Our good doctor declined to be rushed, so I reminded him of the Golden Rule."

Swann supplied, "He who has the gold makes the rules?"

"Exactly. I also accused him of doubting his own dubious theories. That did the trick. But I'm going to have to take him to his pad so he can retrieve a few toys."

"What's his concern?"

"I truly believe he thinks he's going to come back to a world unchanged except for his triumph, in which he will glory to the fullest."

" _Unchanged!_ In exact contravention of his own theory."

"He wants to prepare ahead of time for the revelatory show and celebration. I'm going to need to watch him as closely as Sheila."

"And you're letting him go home?"

"Not alone. I'll be tight as a tick with him. We'll next go to my place and then... I've not decided exactly where and what, yet. Also, I have to finish last-minute arrangements for the trusts. But come hell or high water, Monday evening we're every one of us going to be headed for England's green and peaceful land."

"Do you need to clear out any more gear?"

"The platforms are on their way to being firewood, the old controls are dismantled and disposed-of, the cables are in my ride and will be dumped, the old antennae are gone, the aluminum plate and plants can stay and the dogs will go to a doggie hotel with perpetual maintenance until adoption. Dale's cleaning up the living areas and lockers. The beds are stripped and can remain, and we've never kept any paper around. Can you think of anything else?"

"Brian and Earl go with me. Edith—you'll get her?"

"She and Dale will help me with Evan. I swear to God, if I have to I'll knock him down and drag him! He is _not_ going to screw things up after all these years."

"I've never seen her—Edith—so talkative as today."

"Relief, I think. Getting out from under her aunt and away from the past's ugly scenes. It's an escape for her but she's weighed down by a sense of responsibility."

"Good luck with those big mutts in your vehicle."

"One positive—they'll sure make the police less eager to stop us."

### §

### Chapter 13 - The Question

An hour before sunset the plane lifted, allowing Swann a feeling of ease for the first time in days. His intellect knew it was over-optimism but the symbolism of escape was sufficient for his emotions.

Dimarico had an even more intense reaction before falling asleep. In fact, almost everyone aboard instinctively relaxed as the wheels left the surface—everyone, perhaps, with the exception of Sheila, who appeared ready for mischief.

Perhaps nonchalance was appropriate. They might never have been under any scrutiny, for the guilty flee where no man pursueth. Or they could be, as Dimarico was all too prone to fear, the target of airborne surveillance this very moment.

·

Swann made a last call to his son before they left, only reaching the family's voice mail. He assured him again of his love and his admiration for the boy's manly behavior, advised him not to hesitate getting a lawyer if any problems came up with regard to his inheritance or trust fund, and requested once more that he look after his mother. Then had come the parting.

"So it's goodbye now, Jeff, and I hope if there's some better world after this one we'll meet again. Be happy and do right as you've been taught and as I trust and know you will."

His control held until the last few words.

### * * *

They landed at Newark for refueling and to let the pilots take a nap. The party wandered around the concourse for breakfast and—for those so inclined—liquid stimulants. Among the latter was Dimarico's chiropractor and erstwhile animal pathologist, _Doctor_ Robert Tobie, a last-minute addition to their group.

Dimarico and Kinnard escorted Tobie and a peevish Koskinen for breakfast and booze. Manaea and Sutton squired the women, Barry flirting furiously with Sheila so as to keep her clear of trouble while allowing her to add another man's scalp to her belt. Swann, with Gephart and Pierce, attempted to unobtrusively patrol the space between and around the two groups.

Tension remained high for the two leaders until they re-boarded.

Sutton insinuated himself next to Swann before takeoff. After the plane had been airborne for several minutes he turned and got a receptive glance from Swann.

"Do you think we're home free, Major?"

"We can hope. Yet if AWACS has an eye on us we'd hardly know it."

"I tried not to be obvious, but looking around I didn't see anything suspicious—assuming I could tell."

"Precisely. Who among us—including Dimarico—is experienced enough to detect professional surveillance? On the other hand, we might be paranoid. With all their other problems, do the feds care about crackpots with bows rather than bombs?"

After a pause Sutton flashed Sheila's book.

"She gave you that? You're getting rather cozy."

Sutton flushed slightly, craning his neck to make sure the girl wasn't within range.

"Well, it's my assignment. But Major, can you tell me if she has the right idea?"

"Which is?"

"We're going to help the Goths in the past. She thinks you told her part of the truth but misled her on the time part of it. So they're not there now but when we go back several hundred years or so...?"

"Well, Barry, it probably doesn't often pay to take her too seriously—on this or any subject."

"Do you know where and when, sir? Can you clue us in?"

Swann rubbed his chin before saying, "I believe I _do_ know what we're up to. But look—if I tell you and I'm wrong you'll be disappointed, and if I'm right I'll have spoiled Cameron's surprise. If everyone can wait a few more days it'll be clear."

After glancing into _History of the Goths_ , Sutton commented, "They _were_ a great people, weren't they? It's truly sad everything fell apart for them."

"Another of many nations and civilizations that went into the dustbin of history, as somebody called it. Don't you wonder when it'll be America's turn?"

Sutton's voice dropped.

"What we're planning to do—the trip—it's so..."

"Counter-intuitive, whacked-out?"

"I guess so. Don't you think Mister Dimarico...? I mean, sometimes it seems even he has doubts."

Swann considered the morale value of fobbing off the young man with a facile assurance, but the possible end of his life loomed too near to burden his conscience with unnecessary lies. Besides, this lad was one of his troopers, someone upon whom his own life and success might well depend.

"Barry, there's not a person among us who knows if this will work. Sure, we've seen several miracles occur but we have no more idea than the man in the moon of what has _truly_ happened. We're operating on hope and faith, from Koskinen down to LeeAnn, and we won't know for sure what will happen until it does."

"Mister Dimarico says we'll have a chance to withdraw. Do you think he means it?"

"I believe he does. And if not, after all his promises, I'll be mutineer number one."

·

After a nap Swann woke to find Pierce beside him.

"Where'd Barry go?"

"We switched."

"Your turn as interrogator?"

"Well..." His voice dropped to a plaintive mumble. "What _is_ the story, Jack? I mean, Barry says this is a real gamble. Be straight with me, can't you?"

Swann wondered if his recent excess of candor had been wise, but his course was set.

"I'll try to keep my creativity to a minimum. Here's the long and short of it. We _think_ this can be pulled off but mainly we _hope_ it can—you, me, Cameron and the rest. We're into unknown territory—like the first fliers, or the first caveguy who thought of a way to get from Morocco to Gibraltar."

Brian stared at him.

"Am I gutless to be scared of this?"

"Sensible."

"You... You're not making me... I don't know what to think."

"Are you a gambler, Brian?"

"With money? Not much. What're you...?"

"This is a gamble with your life. Dimarico is willing to do it. Manaea has the faith. I'm willing, I _think_. The Perfesser is willing, although he's looking more nervous by the hour. So... are _you_ willing? Only you can decide, Brian. Oh—Kinnard and Lachey are also willing. They're smart and knowledgeable enough to understand what we're up against and they seem to be at peace with it."

Pierce looked disoriented.

"My head's swimming, Jack. I don't understand the technology or theory. Before... Before I simply went along with everybody but now we're getting close. And I... and now I'm really confused with what to do."

"Join the club, Brian. I sympathize but I'm in the same boat."

"Barry said you wouldn't tell..."

"I don't know. I have some guesses, but why say until I'm sure?"

"Oh. Uh, Earl wants to..."

"Send him over—I've a slot open."

·

"Hi, Major."

"How's she goin', Earl."

"Okay, I guess. Er, the boys tell me..."

"How're you getting on with Pierce now? He over the fuss?"

"Oh, I ended up apologizin' to him and we shook. He told me how she got him half-drunk and into bed, then when he wanted to sleep she kept after him and... Well, I could see that happenin'. So, _What the heck_ , I said, _let's forget it_."

"Good. So what do you want to know?"

"Well, the boys say you ain't so sure of how we're going to end up."

"I can't say I am, Earl. We don't have any maps here. It's a new course across an uncharted sea, so to speak."

"So... Are you going or don't you want to?"

"I don't want to... but I'm going. At least, I'm fifty-one percent sure at this stage."

"Uh-huh. Well, those are kinda thin odds but I figure to follow you, one way or the other."

"You have to hang _that_ on me, too? I'm to decide _your_ fate as well as my own?"

"Well, look, Major, I don't know nothin' about this time stuff what never once entered my mind until you talked me into this deal. The whole adventure idea sounded good to me, fixed the way I was at work and all. But I'm takin' this on credit, so to speak, and I don't know if what we seen is magic or science or hallucinatin' or what. So anyways, I'll stick with you because I think you're a straight guy who never yet steered me wrong and always treated me okay."

Swann gulped, overwhelmed by this declaration of personal loyalty.

"Earl, I've been as honest with you as I could, and I intend to continue. Yet I can't take the ultimate responsibility for your life. I'll make my decision when the time comes, and it's up to you to do the same."

"Then I'm stickin' with you, Jack, if you don't mind my still callin' you that."

·

"I hear you're getting cold feet, Major Swanny."

Swann woke with a jerk. Sheila, unlike the others, was quite willing to keep her tone at a normal level.

"What?" He yawned, playing for time.

"Getting cold feet."

"Only one way to find if my feet are cold, Sheila—a way forever denied to you."

"Sure, as if you wouldn't jump at the chance."

"Don't worry your pretty little noggin regarding my feet or any other part of my anatomy."

"Well, _I'm_ not scared. If the boss is going, I'm going—never mind you or anybody."

"Hitched your wagon to a new star, eh?"

"What?"

"Chosen a guru, got a new leader, found a new compass, set your sights on a..."

"Why don't you _stuff it!_ "

"It's _Stuff it, Major_ , from you. But that's okay since I'd run short of metaphors anyhow."

"You're still scared, though, aren't you?"

"Find another pew, Private, this one's taken."

"Big bad Marine!" she gibed, and with that jumped up and left.

And now LeeAnn showed up, leaning over him and whispering, "Mister Dimarico wants to talk to you, Major," and she nodded toward the front of the cabin where Cameron had cleared the seats behind him so as to have more privacy.

Swann slid into the seat beside him without a word, while Dimarico glared.

"Are we going to have anyone left by the time we get there?"

"They're coming to me, Cam, because they can't get anything from you."

"And you're destroying their morale."

"Playing it straight, yes—it's my style."

"I'll let Brenneman know."

"With those I respect, that is."

Dimarico's eyes bored into his. "Am I among those privileged few, Major? Do I have your trust and respect?"

"So far you do, Cam, but there has got to be an accounting before we take the big step. The mysteries must end."

Dimarico kept silent for several minutes, looking stonily at the cabin wall. "Whatever comes, Jack, I'm going to take the jump."

"Plus Edith and, I assume, Saipele at the least."

"Unless you scare them off. Plus the good professor, even if Manaea has to tuck him under one arm. He's going whether he will or no."

"I'm surprised you even want him."

"What I don't want is to leave him behind to play with this technology—to wreak more havoc in the future."

"You know, Cam, you're a paradox. You fear, maybe hate, this whole concept—the making of all these alternative futures, these branches in the time-stream. And yet you're bound and determined to go ahead—a compulsion."

"Yes it is, since boyhood... Well, we needn't go into it. What I want to know is—are you coming with me, or have you chickened?"

"I want to see how your apparatus goes together, see where you plan to set up, hear your last-minute advocacy, sacrifice that chicken and check the auspices. Yet as of right this minute, I'm still on board."

Dimarico punched him on the shoulder, vastly encouraged.

"Good man! Now," His eyes sparkled. "have you figured out where and when we take off to?"

"Absolutely."

"So sure, eh? Tell me."

"When we came to England, I figured this must be it, what with Koskinen's _The nexus of transport is fundamentally fixed by geographical engagement_ , or whatever his spiel is. Which is a good thing, otherwise we'd end up a gazillion miles off in space somewhere. I figured even _your_ convoluted approach wouldn't have us skipping around somewhere else, although I wondered briefly when we jumped on the ferry to Ireland."

"And the period?"

"The coins. _Medieval_ is written all over them. So the single question is _where_ in the Medieval—or maybe Renaissance—would you choose?

"Save the last Plantagenet, Richard the third—a decent king falsely accused of doing in his nephews? No, there were plenty of archers at Bosworth. Save the life of the Lionheart, or maybe go on crusade and try to encourage him to take Jerusalem? I didn't see where you could be sure of attaining sufficient influence to do either. Go back further—help Alfred against the Northmen? Or into the mists of myth and find King Arthur?"

"C'mon, Jack, lay it out for me. Don't stall."

"Cam, this leaves us one key period in the history of England, and therefore in what is ultimately to become the history of America. One time which would stand the future of Western Europe on its head, should it be changed. One time, Cam, that generations of men have looked back on and asked, _What if this had been different?_ "

"Well, let's have it."

"The key time, Cam—the time which would vastly change history, the one incident a few trained and determined men could affect..."

"Will you _say_ it?"

"The question of who wrote Shakespeare's plays—Oxford or..."

Dimarico slammed his fist down on the armrest. "Blast you, Jack!"

The copilot peeked out from the front cabin. "Luton in twenty-five minutes, sir."

### §

### Chapter 14 - Things As They Are

"Lets get ready for action," Dimarico said, stepping over Swann into the aisle.

"Listen up, folks! We're going through British customs, which will be different from American. We'll have their officers come to us either on the asphalt or right inside the concourse, but because of recent security alerts there will probably be closer attention paid than usual. I want to rehearse you on what we're supposed to be doing in the UK and what you should say or avoid saying to get us through without problems."

### * * *

Misting rain fell as three customs men interviewed them on the tarmac beside their plane, an armed soldier in attendance. Dimarico handled the passports and dealt with the senior officer, while the rest of them fielded questions from the other two.

"The whole party will be traveling together, sir? And your itinerary?"

"It's not rigid but we'll head first for Stonehenge, where we have a tour planned, then perhaps through the Cotswolds, down to the southwest and a visit to Slapton Sands, among other places."

"Ah, the site of the Nazi sea attack?"

"Correct. And if we can set it up, we'll split off to meet with the Medieval Siege Society or Regia Anglorum or any other reenactment group of the proper period."

"Somewhat late in the season, wouldn't it be?"

"It certainly is but our plans firmed-up at the last minute so our preparations have been sketchy, to say the least. If we..."

Sheila sang out, "What's with this five pounds of plutonium?"

One of the officers strolled toward her, while she looked off into space, a sly smile showing.

The officer speaking to Dimarico raised his eyebrows but didn't move.

Dimarico said, "Inevitably, our type of organization attracts some people who enjoy being a continual center of attention."

"Have we any questions here?" the customs man asked in Sheila's general direction.

"Only kidding," she said, giving him her best come-hither look. As he continued to stare at her, she added, "Like my hat?" and tilted the decorated brim of her gaucho special, the little balls dancing.

"Quite fetching, Miss," he replied deadpan. "By the way, here in the UK we now use kilos rather than pounds and stones. We're rather strict over it, in fact."

"Thanks, mate—I'll try to remember." More grinning and head-tossing.

"Now, sir," asked Dimarico's inquisitor, "all these arrows."

"Arrow _shafts_ , mostly."

"Yes, but more than one thousand—quite an armory."

"In a FITA archery contest each person shoots one-hundred forty-four arrows. With four archers it amounts to nearly six hundred shots."

"Surely you retrieve them."

"The undamaged, of course—but in a re-enactment you can rain down hundreds of shots in a relatively short period, and they can't be retrieved until battle ends."

"Hmm... And the lack of points on most of them?"

"We couldn't be sure what type of blunt is acceptable over here—for safety, you realize—so we reckoned to obtain points locally."

### * * *

No tours were available next day, so they passed Stonehenge at a distance. A light rain began and they sought shelter early at a bed and breakfast. After tea, Dimarico and Swann discussed the potential fighting qualities of their personnel.

That is, Dimarico discussed them, since Swann hesitated to make predictions.

"I've seen too many feather merchants turn into crazed combat-Carls, too many tigers turn pussycat."

"Sheila?"

"Who knows? For all her bravado she might faint at the sight of blood or quail at the thought of a nasty slasher on horsie-back. Contrariwise, she might be cool as a cucumber, waiting for the whites of their eyes to show."

"Earl?"

"Probably steady with an example set for him."

"Saipele, then."

"Be surprised if he failed to stand like a rock."

"Okay, _you_."

"Frankly, I'm not sure."

"Two wars and you're not sure?"

Swann sighed.

"Look, Cam, this is almighty different from what I or Manaea have been through. For me, when a shot goes by or a shell goes off, I get a tremendous jolt of fear—my pulse skyrockets, my mouth goes dry, my bladder... Then as soon as I think, _Missed me again_ , it's back to normal and I gather my thoughts and go on."

"Ever hit?"

"Scratches—minor shrapnel. I've been plenty lucky."

"Any medals—Purple Hearts?"

"You don't get Hearts for band-aid wounds."

"So I take it you weren't planning a run for President."

Swann smiled. "When you can't see what's coming, it's one type of combat, although a screeching shell or an RPG lighting off can freeze your blood awhile. The question is, how will I or anyone react to seeing some character start toward me behind the point of a long sharp spear? How will one of us react if he looks up and sees hundreds of lethal missiles poised at the top of their trajectory, all aimed at him? Will he freeze, cower under his shield, run behind a tree?"

Dimarico grimaced.

"You're giving me a rather sobering analysis... Well, how do you think _I'll_ do?"

"Let me make you feel somewhat better. Probably you, I and Manaea will set an example like the Civil War general who paraded on the ramparts telling his troops, _Don't worry, men—they couldn't hit an elephant at this dist... Arhg!_ Plop."

Dimarico laughed rather too much, and when through asked, "So who leads the troops after we valiantly fall?"

"Now you're asking the right question, Cam."

### * * *

Next day the rain increased and reports predicted a storm. Dimarico was tight as piano wire.

"Our schedule is in danger. In two days we meet the Limeys and pick up our loot. I'm tempted..."

"What?"

"I'm tempted to jump back a year in order to get better conditions."

"Cam, don't even _think_ of making this any more complex. It's crazy talk!"

"Jack, we need to hit max low tide—that's key."

"Don't tell me you can't wait a day or two. Even Overlord was postponed a day."

Dimarico snapped, "One day, then two, then it's a month. How in God's name can we wait a month without the English chasing us down for overstaying our visit?"

"How can you even _dream_ of making a sonic boom like the Shuttle landing yet think no one will come a-looking? Besides, isn't it only two weeks to a max low? Or min low, or whatever it's called?"

"A spring tide. And we can't do this in the tail end of a storm, either. We can't have delicate electronic gear operating when it's raining and the waves are spraying seawater over everything."

"Good Lord, Cam! You want perfect conditions!—and at the start of the storm season."

"It gets worse. We need to set up quickly before the tide starts rushing in, and at spring tides there's minimal slack water. Plus we need to squeeze in a rehearsal."

Swann's spirits fell faster than Dimarico's.

"You might have to wait till next summer, you realize."

Dimarico began to pace.

"This is what I get for rushing—being overeager. Our plans peaked too early. I don't know if I can go through this again. Too many pieces of the puzzle could get lost in six or eight months, not to mention the possibility of the whole plot coming to light. What'll we do, Jack? Feed me a plan."

Swann tried to pull his thoughts together.

"I sensed this was going too slickly but... I can think of only one thing—we play it as it lies, wait for the right conditions as long as feasible then pull up stakes and try next year."

"God help me! I'll go nuts if I have to wait."

### * * *

At Swann's insistence, next day they rehearsed despite continuing rain and wind—an altogether nasty day. He argued that realistic conditions would be helpful. After all, the final erection would be taking place on a slippery seabed during who knew what weather conditions.

The three vans drove on main and side roads for over an hour before entering a walled property then cut off its main drive to follow a muddy track for a few hundred yards, coming to a modern barn on the edge of a wet meadow. Dimarico explained the situation to Swann.

"This is a contact set up almost two years ago through Randolph. The owner thinks it's an official project being developed under wraps."

"So he's half right."

"I paid for the construction and for a one-man continuous patrol. He gets to keep the building when we're done, and in the meantime his estate has extra protection. It's secure enough if no one suspects it's worth investigating."

"And the shekels?"

"Not here yet—still separate."

They unlocked and unbarred the main door. Under Kinnard's direction they began to remove and assemble the apparatus, everyone taking a hand. To Swann's surprise all parts were readily located but two problems quickly became apparent.

First, despite Kinnard's intimate familiarity with it—his conception and design and he'd monitored it's manufacture—organizing a construction crew wasn't foremost among his abilities. Second, for something needing to be assembled and adjusted in under two hours, it was satanically complex.

Swann wondered whether the design might have been rejected by Rube Goldberg before being picked up by Dale Kinnard.

Dimarico reasoned if they wanted to have a believable cover story for the back-time locals they must claim to have arrived by sea. Certainly they didn't wish to be branded as magicians after arriving in midair with a thunderclap. In order to minimize detection on arrival they needed to choose a deserted spot.

The topography of most places alters over the centuries—especially seashores—so they would pick the most stable beach available, and in an area unattractive to farmers and fishermen insofar as it could be estimated. Assuming even a stable beach would have eroded somewhat over the centuries, they would want to appear to seaward of the present shore and at a height sufficient to clear the past beach. Being transported into a solid rather than vaporous medium would result not in a sonic boom but an explosion similar to a meteor strike, with obvious deleterious effects upon those transported.

The fact they chose to materialize over water necessitated a buoyant device. Should the drop to either water or land be appreciable it required a sturdy vehicle with some cushioning. Lastly, the construction would need to lend itself to quick assembly. With all these requirements it was hardly surprising Dale Kinnard's design included severe compromises.

### * * *

Five or six hours after the barn had been opened—soaking wet, cold and, according to individual character, angry, bitter or despairing—they abandoned the effort with the setup no more than half done. They ate their cold lunches, sullenly commencing tear-down. Koskinen and Tobie—having declined to exit the barn—were the only dry ones.

Dimarico clenched his jaw and ignored the growls and gripes of his crew.

"We'll have a conference at the B and B after supper," he told Swann. "You, Dale and Edith."

"She won't contribute anything. And why not Koskinen?"

"He doesn't sully either hands or intellect with our petty concerns. Unless it's circuit design or basic concepts, he graciously allows us to labor unimpeded."

"And the amazing thing is, you hardly sound bitter."

Dimarico grimaced.

"I deal with things as they are, not as I would wish them."

"Sounds like a quote from someone."

"If it isn't it should be."

"You'd better consider nap time if you expect intelligent discussion. I'm near dead on my feet and Kinnard's worked himself half into a frenzy."

"You're right. Make it ten and tell everyone to get some rest."

"What of Manaea?"

"He'll need to keep an eye on the others. Besides, you can't expect much from him where technology is concerned."

### §

### Chapter 15 - Well Thought Out

A little past ten the others waited for Dimarico to start off but when he chose to be silent Swann spoke up.

"Okay, folks, at this point the leader is supposed to say, _Let's look upon this not as an obstacle but an opportunity_. Anyone see much?"

Kinnard jumped in. "I know we can do this with more practice, when the others are with us."

Dimarico remained silent, so Swann replied.

"How long would it have taken with our crowd today? Were we even half done?"

"Almost, almost."

"A mere twenty percent more labor..."

"Not so! The doctors didn't do anything, so it's ten compared to eight—twenty-five percent. And the women—with more men... Plus the learning curve. We can more than double the, the output..."

"You're kidding yourself."

"No—no! The organization—we can improve..."

"Wait a minute."

"We started, er... started badly but I can lay out the, the tasks..."

"Well..."

" _We can!_ You think you can do it—direct them better than I... You want to take over? My design—make the feet bigger..."

At this point Edith Lachey made her first contribution, looking a plea at Kinnard to stop making a fool of himself.

He immediately quieted and after a moment asked—almost begged, "What do _you_ think, Mr Dimarico?"

Eyes half shut, Dimarico still made no response.

Swann looked at each in turn while gathering his thoughts.

"In the service we're often faced with situations where we need to improvise, as was the case today. Could I have done a better job than you? Yes..." He held up his hand to forestall Kinnard. "...assuming I'd been familiar with the device. And you will certainly do better the next time. Our main question is, however, should there _be_ a next time."

_That_ woke Dimarico.

"Again," Swann continued, "in the service we train and train, and I have a good feel for how steep the learning curve is and how much effort we can get from people under poor conditions. The women today? Brenneman—give her credit—worked like a Trojan, albeit not always toward the proper ends. Dasczo stuck to it. Edith here, presumably because she's familiar with the design, put her hand to whatever was needed at the right time. So I don't see how two more men are going to much improve our output."

"It'll help," Kinnard muttered.

"Not enough. As I see it, had we continued today we'd have still been working next morning and probably need to be correcting mistakes brought on by fatigue. Realistically, I imagine four good men, well trained and rehearsed, working under Dale's direction could put this thing up in eight hours."

Kinnard looked ready to explode but Lachey touched his forearm and he immediately subsided.

Dimarico took this in without reaction, though Swann could easily imagine his feelings. Nonetheless he continued.

"Stating the obvious, we're in the position of the man who wanted a baby in one month, so he got nine women pregnant. In other words, there's no way this device, clever though the design is, can ever be set up in a couple hours time."

Dimarico said, "I won't call it off, no matter what. Think of something."

·

Kinnard's design was truly ingenious, Swann believed. Swiveling feet supported a triangular base sixteen feet on a side. Guide rods stabilized a similar upper stage, and four thirty-inch plastic bellows gave a ton and a half of lift for each pound of pressure.

Atop the upper frame sat a triangular _boat_ with four-foot gunwales, fabricated from double-walled fiberglass filled with foam, assembled of sections gasketed and bolted together. Ballast would be their boxed equipment, including the coin coffers.

The bellows would lift them beyond the presumed sea level of the previous time, then upon time-displacement the boat would fall into the sea, staying afloat to be rowed to land.

If the craft broke up on landing, the individual sections should remain buoyant and the travelers would in any case wear life jackets. Their gear would be buoyed and anchored or, if heavy enough, anchor itself. Should they be so unlucky as to descend onto soil or rocks, thick padding inside the boat—twenty-centimeter gymnastic mats—would help protect them.

Between frame and boat went the aluminum sheet. Only the boat and contents would displace, frame and components remaining to be destroyed by the sea or left behind for modern folk to puzzle over.

The air compressor would be jettisoned, while controls and power devices would make the trip along with a gasoline-powered generator, extra antennae and rolls of thick aluminum foil to form a diamagnetic shield for the return trip. Frame structures would be re-fabricated on the spot.

Everything had been thought of except for difficulty of assembly in an adverse environment. Working on the soft meadow, no sooner were the feet in place than adding trusses or guides would cause one or two of them to sink or slip, necessitating re-bolting and re-alignment of components.

This happened again and again, forcing Kinnard to run around with a long carpenter's level, calling for continual adjustments.

He correctly insisted a firm seabed would react differently though wet rocks would be slippery and might contain treacherous pockets of sand or clay. In addition they would be chased by the tide, while as soon as a wave washed over one of the feet the whole structure could well shift.

The discussion went on and on, alternately confrontational or composed, getting exactly nowhere until the designer resigned himself to the inevitable.

·

Kinnard, after calling himself an idiot in several different ways, slumped half conscious in his chair. Dimarico remained unmoving with his head on his hands, possibly asleep. Swann yawned almost continuously and Lachey stared dreamily off into space.

She said, as if speaking to herself, "If we pre-assembled it on a boat..."

Kinnard sat up alert then slumped back.

"Too unstable—it would roll all over the place with us several feet off the... off the deck. And we probably couldn't get close enough to shore."

He sat up again.

"Edith! Pre-assembly is the key. What if we pick it up with a really big helicopter? Drop it loaded at slack tide, a few people jump out to... to level it, then off we go." The excitement seeped from him as he continued. "But if the feet slip when we're leveling..."

Swann offered, tongue-in-cheek, "Tell the Marine Corps you're planning a movie about them and need a hovercraft. They'll ship one over the next day."

"What's the advantage?" asked Kinnard.

"Stable, go almost anywhere, transition from water to beach with no trouble, lots of capacity in the big ones. Only I don't think the Secretary of the Navy is quite ready to let one go."

"But don't they have them here?" Lachey asked. "To ferry people to the islands?"

Dimarico raised his head. "Go to bed, everyone. We'll think more clearly tomorrow."

### §

### §

### Chapter 16 - Worker Bees

" _This_ is the place you've chosen?"

Dimarico looked up and down the coast before replying.

"This beach is believed to have been deposited by the glaciers and has been stable for thousands of years. We're going to take off beyond where we think the shoreline existed, with our platform several feet above normal high tide."

"I want to know how the heck a notoriously stormy area, open to weather from south and east..."

"Listen, Jack—there's a nearby town which lost its protection a good while back. The sloping underwater part of the beach—the submerged area that slows down and diminishes the effects of waves and currents—was dredged and used for fill elsewhere. Within twenty years a storm and tide surge destroyed the village hanging below the cliff—a place quite similar to this one."

"Quite a confidence builder!"

"The point is, it _didn't_ wash away this one."

"Oh... Okay, but do you know where the shoreline was, compared with today?"

"As I say, it's believed to have been stable for millennia."

"For what period are there records?"

Dimarico frowned and looked away.

"Almost five hundred years."

"That is _so swell!_ And if I sound sarcastic, there's a reason."

Dimarico walked away to stand near Tobie and Koskinen then thought better of it and came back.

"You'll have your chance to chicken-out tomorrow if you want," he whispered, immediately turning again to Tobie.

Sheila strolled over, trailed as usual by LeeAnn.

"What'd the boss want, Maje?"

"To know whether I was chicken."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that nice... Where are the dork and dorkess—working on the boat?"

"Oh, Sheila!" LeeAnn chided her, "You are so mean."

But Sheila had other matters in mind than her shadow's concerns.

"Why'd they have to take Barry and Brian?" she complained.

"Not tall enough for you," Swann said.

"Ha ha, real funny. And the English guys—why them?"

"They need someone who speaks the native tongue."

"Man! You're a riot today. You ever give a straight answer?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."

"Say, Major," LeeAnn asked, "why _aren't_ we going there to help?"

"Cam only wanted worker bees, I imagine, and felt we'd be in the way. Or maybe we worked too hard the other day and need a rest."

"And get this place," Sheila scoffed, "speaking of bees—Bee-sand! Didja ever hear of anything more stupid? I don't think so."

"A beautiful place, though, Honey."

LeeAnn's _Honey_ set Sheila's teeth on edge.

"This whole country makes no sense to me. And look at those guys he hired! That Bricksley is a real idiot. Got a bigger ego than yours, Jack."

"Brixby, Honey—Ian Brixby," LeeAnn coached.

"Who cares! He's a jackass no matter how you say it. And the other one—so quiet he'd make a match with the Witch. And look at the honker he's got on him!"

Swann snorted and she glared at him.

"You think it's funny?"

"I think _you're_ funny," he said. "Does that count?"

Sheila turned away with a gesture of contempt, followed again by LeeAnn, who threw Swann a droll look of despair, valiantly performing her assigned duty.

He scanned the beach, a curving strand of coarse sand and pebbles stretching for miles, with cozy stone houses pressed to the cliff behind it—protected from the west and southwest by a prominent point with a classic lighthouse. It had some protection from the south, too, but lay wide open on the entire eastern quadrant. He couldn't help but think it must have eroded significantly over the thousands of years since the last ice age, particularly if weather patterns had differed from present-day prevailing westerlies.

A beautiful setting—LeeAnn was right. Had he a family and the necessary bucks, what a vacation they could have! But no advantage in churning-up that again.

### * * *

Master Sergeant Saipele Manaea stood watching the construction crew as they finished blocking and mounting the time transporter's upper frame to the deck of the AP1-88. Kinnard operated in high-frenzy mode, running back and forth to check every detail, shouting sometimes conflicting directions, becoming the target for increasingly common glares and jibes from his workers. Manaea stood at parade rest—feet spread, hands locked alternately behind or before him, amused and patiently waiting for an incident that would require his stepping in.

The peppery skipper of the craft—one Gerrard Hannaford—came toward him, a dyspeptic expression on his face.

"How long do you plan to let this Mister Kinnard run free, Sergeant? He seems to have quite an eccentric way of handling a project, jumping round reminiscent of a flea on a hot griddle."

Manaea gazed calmly down on him.

"Soon I will talk to him, Captain."

"Ah, yes!" Hannaford said with heavy irony. "Will that be before or after he damages the Petrel?"

"My business probably like yours, Mister Captain—timing important."

Hannaford responded with a disgusted look.

"And this Brixby fellow of yours—I don't mind telling you I'm well tired of being addressed as _Admiral Drake_ or _Captain Bligh_ and such. What do you plan to do regarding _that?_ I expected discipline in your unit but it's certainly not of the level I thought."

Manaea could agree with one concern of the Captain. Brixby considered himself a wit and had taken to addressing Manaea as Big Chief and Sitting Bull.

The Sergeant had nothing against American Indians—had served with a few—but he was Samoan, and to be deliberately mistaken for another race irked him. He had often been assumed to be Hawaiian or Tahitian, or even Black on a few occasions by foolish people such as Sheila, but to be misidentified by someone for the sake of humor was irritating. He decided to wait for Brixby to call him Pocahontas or Minnehaha—he'd make sure the man would think twice before erring again.

But to _this_ man he said, "Americans don't understand English jokes, I think."

Hannaford seemed to find this response unsatisfactory, turning on his heel to stalk away. Manaea repressed a chuckle. Think of the little captain's reaction tomorrow when, with a clap of thunder, passengers and all would disappear from under his nose.

As for himself, he could hardly believe it would happen, even after the demonstrations he'd seen, but Mister Dimarico had faith in it and the professor was a smart man, for certain. Major Swann, he knew, doubted—and he respected the major's judgment—but Mister Cam was his boss and had never yet let him down.

·

Gephart gave an impatient snort upon hearing the latest string of directions from Kinnard. Why the major hadn't been given charge of this operation he could not for the life of him understand. Not as if there was anything wrong with Sergeant Manaea, exactly, but the big stiff only stood there most of the time, letting Kinnard tie himself and the rest of them into knots. Perhaps it ran beyond the sergeant's understanding—too technical, maybe. One thing sure—it was too technical for Earl Gephart.

This Koskinen fellow looked to be a big con artist, however successful his experiments. If they ended up in the past instead of being blown to Kingdom Come, Gephart for one would be staggered.

Time travel without the complications seemed sorta possible—he'd seen movies make use of the idea. But the thought of branching time-streams or whatever—of a great number of alternate Earl Gepharts running off each in his own direction, none of them knowing what the others were doing—that purely seemed crazy.

The idea of a wild endeavor had seduced him, ordinarily the least adventurous of men. His life bored him to tears, almost. He didn't daydream, had no great plans for the future, was attached to no one. The idea of heading off to an exotic land, of risking his life—he who never risked anything—had immensely fired his imagination. He'd never read Don Quixote nor even knew the name but yearned for windmills and warlocks.

Archery had started him off. The primitive aspect intrigued him, plus the self-deprecating title of the club. Then at his first shoot—awkward among strangers—he bumped into the major, who gave him some advice and put him at ease.

He now counted Swann as a friend—maybe the only good one he had. Not that they socialized—he recognized they had little in common beyond archery—but the man had always been ready with a greeting, took an interest in Gephart's rapidly advancing skills, encouraged him to improve. When the major had asked if he might be interested in something exciting, worthwhile and dangerous, he'd jumped at the invitation.

Now he wondered whether he'd made the right choice. The Major himself had his doubts, he knew, and didn't attempt to hide them. Yet if Swann went he would honor his own word, never mind if Dimarico offered them a chance to renege. He would willingly follow Swann through hell, as the saying went.

As for his other companions... Pierce was just a punk kid, though he could see why the Major wanted him—a good shot, young and athletic and a good worker when in the mood. That Sheila, though! She didn't like him and he didn't think much of her, even though she was easy enough on the eyes. She'd be trouble—already had been.

Manaea seemed a solid old-timer, though he couldn't warm up to him. Sutton was a good kid and could even be a friend, despite being younger. Dimarico seemed honest and sharp though he couldn't quite bring himself to trust a rich man. Their fortunes were always their first worry.

And this one new jerk! Shooting off his mouth at every opportunity—already making smart cracks and slighting references to Gephart's name. Blabbing how he'd served in the toughest outfit in the world! He longed to wipe away the sneering laugh.

But here came Kinnard again, getting revved up over gluing the aluminum strips to the frame. Why didn't the sergeant take charge for awhile?

### §

### Chapter 17 - Nine Forty-two

At sea the day proved bright and clear. Swann stood alone at the aft end of the freight deck, his attitude announcing he wanted no company.

They zipped over three-foot waves at a good twenty or twenty-five knots, he estimated. The plan now was to transport at high tide so as to be on level sea rather than sloping beach, to position their craft as well as they could by observation of landmarks, and to fling themselves through the cosmos at exactly the right height to land safely on the ancient surface with a minimum drop.

Everything depended, of course, upon their knowing how high and where the surface was. The climate had been a few degrees warmer then and average sea level would have been higher. Tide might be in or out, and either storm or calm could greet them. Complicating matters further, ever since the retreat of the glaciers the southern end of the British Isles had been tilting downward while the north end rose. All in all there was no certainty where land and sea had interfaced in the past.

Dimarico paced back to talk to him—standing with lips almost touching his ear, the noise level was so high.

"I wasn't entirely sure you'd be coming with us."

"I'm not here as a true believer."

"None of us is. None, that is, who look on it as less than magic. What decided you to stick?"

Swann nodded toward the others, clustered in and around the boat.

"If they go, I have to go."

"You could have talked them out of it."

_Coulda, shoulda, woulda_. Yet he'd taken the king's shilling, so to speak, and didn't feel right about going back on his word. Had Brian or Earl chickened he might have talked the other into quitting and readily followed suit. As it stood...

"How did you manage to pull this together so quickly?" He waved his hand to indicate the hovercraft.

Dimarico rubbed thumb against first two fingers. "Money answereth all things."

"You bribed everyone?"

"No, no—don't get such an idea. It's simply that if you refuse to be slowed by obstacles that money will get you past... These people didn't want to let the Petrel go—it was still being refurbished. And you can see our skipper isn't too happy shipping with us. But once the owners became convinced I was willing to make it worth their while, after a couple of hours and a long wet lunch they came around. Of course, in other cases some greasing of palms has been necessary.

"I've been preparing this for more than two years now—the English end of it—the coins, the permits for scientific experimentation from the Home Office, the relationship with the fellow who rented us part of his estate. Without a generous application of cash many of these things wouldn't have happened, but bribes weren't a big part of it.

"Here's the thing, Jack—when people know you have money, you'd be surprised at how many of them become real helpful. It puts you in the position of the centurion in the Gospels. _I say to this man, go, and he goeth, and to this man, come, and he cometh_. It's almost enough to make you despise the human race. You can see why many of the rich—instant celebrities, more than any—get used to having their way at all times."

"The _Don't you know who I am?_ attitude."

"Precisely. There are several types of hangers-on—the poor saps who think a plea for help will be enough to gain them largess from your limitless store of wealth, the demanding types who resent the fact you won't shower them with gold simply because you have it and they don't, the flatterers who kiss up to you in the hopes of being offered a reward, and the plain thieves and con artists, of course.

"The most common, however, and in certain ways the most irritating, are those people who have no hope—maybe even no desire—for a handout, yet offer you undue respect by virtue of their adoration of wealth. They have no expectation of a payoff yet it's, _Yes, Mister D_ , and _No, Mister D_ , and _May I dust your shoes with my shirttail, Mister D?_ Irrational and discouraging and very, very useful."

This gave Swann his first laugh of the day.

"Fortunately, plenty of people are like you, Jack. They take it in stride and treat rich and poor pretty much the same."

"Like me, huh? That's where you're wrong. I envy and resent your wealth but it's evenly balanced by my hope of reward. In fact, I look upon you much as I did the Marine Corps. An unending supply—albeit metered—of the wherewithal to let me travel in style and play dangerous games."

Dimarico smiled, and for a while they studied the scenery before Swann started discussing personnel again.

"I'm surprised The Perfesser agreed to go. He doesn't quite seem to believe in this himself."

"I gave him no choice—made it clear he would go, willy-nilly, if Saipele had to carry him. Also, he wants to play the intellectual conqueror when he returns in glory."

"Who are you counting among the initiates—Lachey?"

"She's scared but game. Dale is pretty close to a true believer, I think. Sutton is following my lead as Pierce and Gephart are following yours. And Sheila, of course, wants to make sure we don't use the secret password to keep her out of the clubhouse."

"Tobie?"

"You'll have noticed he's always near half-soused. Probably doesn't believe anything's going to happen but in the meantime he's satisfied with the free booze."

"Why the devil do you want him?"

"Medical assistance. Oh, yes—don't be surprised. Might be a simple chiropractor but he has a surprising store of knowledge. Could have been an MD or DO if he'd been a teetotaler. He'll be useful if we can keep him fairly sober."

Swann simply shook his head.

"What do you think of our Englishmen?" Dimarico asked. "Small took it in stride but Brixby looked as if he'd swallowed his gum. What do you think of that one?"

"Better he hadn't come along, perhaps."

"I suspect he's skeptical enough to think it's all moonbeams, and we Yanks are going to have egg on our face."

"The problem is it can take one or two good men to cover for a bad one. We can't afford dissension in the ranks. I warn you now, Cam—we might have to get rid of him sooner or later, assuming the jump is successful and he's truly unhappy as a result."

They watched the coastline pass by. Swann had managed to get through to Jeff last night, and spoke briefly to Ashleigh. Her voice caught in her throat, proving to him she retained feelings for him. Had there been any way he could have honorably deserted he would have done it then. A sense of foreboding built in him and he toyed even now with the notion of diving overboard and swimming for shore.

Dimarico broke in on his thoughts. "Tell me how you figured this out—our destination."

"When we went to England, I figured even a mind as tortuous as yours wouldn't have us move again—so it must be here. And the coinage shouted Medieval. Simply a case of figuring the exact period. Therefore—as I said before—when could a few good archers have the most effect upon history? In other words, a process of elimination."

"So, can we do it? Can we turn around the course of history?"

"Assuming we make it and can raise a couple hundred archers, I give us a fighting chance."

"Good! I'll see to it you don't lack resources."

"Now you tell _me_ something, Cam. Why England and not Italy? Why not even the Ostrogoths in Italy?"

"Italy's a great nation, Jack—the Romans, the Renaissance cities, the music and culture of later times... Of course, the area my grandfather's people came from—the Sicilies—was one of the most backward and corrupt in Europe but that's not the point.

"The point is this—the US Constitution is the finest design for a government the world has yet known and the United States is arguably the best place to live in the world today. To whom do we owe it?—the English. Not the Scots nor the Welsh nor the Irish... certainly not the Italians, French or Spanish."

"And the Normans had nothing to do with it?"

Dimarico merely grimaced.

"You ha have plenty of gall, Cam, to try to change fundamental English history with all it means for the future United States."

"And to attempt to right a great historical wrong, as I see it. For better or worse, that's my goal... Well, there's the high-sign from our fierce little Captain Hannaford. Let's hop into the boat."

·

Swann stood rigid, braced hard against a stack of coffers, all too aware of the doubts and unknowns in this potential fiasco. A woman laughed softly—LeeAnn. He thought, _If you knew what I know, girl, you'd be sobbing instead_.

Dimarico said, tension plain in his voice, "Minus nine forty-two, Evan?"

"Nine forty-two it is, less one half and a whiff extra for luck."

Nothing but compressed exhilaration now from Koskinen, his hypothesis soon to be conclusively proven—or disastrously disproven—after years of struggle and frustration and professional disdain. The Professor looked round with an exultant grin, index finger poised.

Swann also glanced around but registered little beyond his own apprehension. The sun gleamed through thinning layers of cloud to dimly light waves and beach. A zephyr dried the sweat springing out on him, bringing a shiver. He stared fascinated at the control console, willing the finger never to reach its target.

·

Blind! His gut tightened and wrenched, twisting his torso. The platform plunged and side-slipped, an acute shock struck up through feet and knees and hips while somewhere someone shrieked...

### §

### Chapter 18 - When?

Swann's hands and knees and face hurt and he seemed to be kissing a boulder. Something hard and heavy pinned his left leg—a money coffer. He worked it loose. When he moved his right someone shouted in pain. He cautiously slid free and pulled himself to a sitting position.

In the dark he heard a chorus of groans, cries and profanity. Under him he felt nothing but rocks—dry rocks. While he'd been unconscious, the others had managed to beach the craft and drag him onto land.

The light increased as a sliver of late moon slid from behind broken cloud.

"Mister Cam?" Manaea called but Dimarico didn't answer.

"Sergeant," Swann called. "Take the roll. See who's conscious and who is hurt."

"Yes sir. Mister Dimarico?" Again no answer. "Doctor Koskinen?"

"I'm _here_ , you dullard!"

Swann came to his feet, ankles and knees protesting, then bent and felt for the person who'd lain on his leg.

"Who is it?"

"Me—Edith. My ankles... Don't think I can get up."

He knelt, hurting his knee anew, worked his arms under her and lifted—a light enough burden. He stumbled toward the black bulk of cliff, reached a smoother area and laid her down as gently as he could.

Manaea was still going through the roll, so Swann merely called out, "Whoever's able, grab a mat and drag it here."

In a few seconds Pierce arrived with a section of matting and Swann moved Lachey onto it.

"Where's Tobie?" he asked, but Pierce couldn't say.

A candle lantern flared. The beach had altered from the one they'd surveyed, this one consisting of rocks the size of softballs. From the feel of his knees and hands—not to mention his face—he must have been thrown onto it. He made it over to the wreck of their _boat_ right as Manaea ordered silence.

"Sergeant, who's with us and who's hurt?"

"Miss LeeAnn, she's fainted or something—was awake before. Mister Cam, he's there."

"And who's that?"

"With him? Doctor Tobie, Major."

"This beach—was there a current? How'd we get ashore?"

Manaea, his face a dark blob in the night, stared at Swann for a moment. "We're ashore all the time, Major. Something blows us up—like a mine, it felt."

Swann wondered if his mind was working right, or whether his half-joke about their brains being affected had some truth in it.

"You sure?"

"Yes sir, Major. We're either dropping onto these rocks or something blew us up, and I didn't feel no drop."

Conversation rose again, entirely too loud for Swann's comfort.

"Okay, Sergeant. Have the troops get their arms and let's start unloading. Find a spot near the cliff to put the gear."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Swann went to Tobie. "How's he doing?"

"Alright, I'd say... a light concussion, perhaps. Say, can you break out the supplies? I need a drink after this fiasco."

"Sorry, Doc—no time. You have to look at Miss Dasczo, and Miss Lachey's over by the cliff. She has a problem with her ankles."

"I'm alright now, Major," LeeAnn sang out. "I must have flopped from all the excitement."

"Hey, good! Okay, Doctor, you see Miss Lachey then we'll need to check everyone over for cuts and whatnot."

"I'm gonna need a drink," Tobie grumbled, as he headed for the cliff.

Swann said, "How do you feel, Cam?"

"Woozy and sick to my stomach but not too bad. I'm going to sit here awhile. And we need to burn this stuff—the boat and everything."

"Can you stand? How if you go lie down near Edith? We'll get a mat for you and you can take it easy."

He helped Dimarico rise and make his way over to the cliff, going back to drag another mat for him. Manaea sent Gephart and Pierce down the beach each way to stand guard, meanwhile ignoring a stream of demands from Koskinen.

The others carried equipment and supplies from the ruined boat up to the cliff base, Sheila and Brixby bickering all the while. Manaea went to help the workers, whereupon Koskinen tried to buttonhole Swann who brusquely ordered him away.

Swann broke out his bow and a sheaf of arrows, shucked off his life jacket and located his backpack. North on the beach he found Pierce standing a casual sort of guard duty. He ordered him to string his bow and nock an arrow, and asked where his pack was.

"Back at the boat, Jack."

"Great!—until you need it. Get it and keep it with you. _Not now_ , for God's sake!"

"I'm sorry, Jack," Pierce apologized, "I didn't..."

"Never mind—we didn't get around to some of the fundamentals. Now listen. Take your spot down near the tide line. Sit or kneel so you won't be silhouetted against the water. Have your weapon ready and keep your eyes on the beach, yes, but mainly on the skyline at the cliff. Shout if you see anything—call for Manaea or me. And don't simply say, _Hey, somebody's here_. Give us intelligence—how many and where. Got it?"

"What if they walk up to me? Do I say, _Who goes there?_ "

"Yeah, if you're in the movies. Simply say, _Who's there?_ Your most important command, though, is _Halt!_ "

"But... are they gonna understand?"

"Say it loud and firm—they'll catch your drift. Now, are you hurt anywhere?"

"Shook-up, maybe, but I'm okay."

"Good. Go on down there, and don't fall asleep on us."

Hurrying back, he found the main group loafing after having completed the unloading. Tobie leaned over a sleeping Dimarico, shaking and speaking to him.

"What are you doing?"

Tobie said in a husky whisper, "I need a drink."

Swann lost control but managed to keep his voice low.

"Get your worthless butt up and start doing your job, you stupid souse! I want you to examine every person here, and if you don't jump to it I'll throw every lousy bottle in the sea and kick your behind on top of it."

With a frightened yet half-defiant look Tobie slunk away.

"Start with... Who's hurt or cut up?"

"Not me," Sheila boasted, "I fell on top of fathead here."She indicated Brixby.

"Better a fat head than a fat bum, you stupid tart."

"I'm sure you both got a thrill," Swann interrupted. "Sheila, you make us something to drink. Brixby, go look for firewood."

"I didn't sign on to be a _cook_ , Jack."

"Oh, you _didn't!_ " He could feel his temper rising by the second.

"I'll do it, Major," LeeAnn said.

Swann let out a breath. "Good! Heat water for tea or chocolate. As for you, Brenneman, it's _Sir_ or _Major_ now—we're on alert. And if you won't cook you can collect firewood. You two head south and don't go far."

"Right-oh, Commodore, we're on our way," Brixby said—adding under his breath, "I reckon he needed a promotion, poor excitable chap."

Sheila giggled.

"Sergeant! Check on Gephart. Make sure he knows how to mount guard and have him keep a good eye on the cliff. Small, Sutton! Look for a path up the cliff. Stand guard at the top and let us know what you see. Professor, Kinnard! Head north for firewood. Let Pierce know you're coming up behind him."

Swann felt greatly on edge, dumped into an unknown environment with too few under-trained troops and missing the steadying influence of Dimarico.

Koskinen stalked over to him.

"You seem to be operating under a misconception, Swann. I'm not under your command and I don't fetch and carry at your whim."

Swann grabbed the shoulder of the man's jacket and pulled him closer, gritting his words between clenched teeth.

"Understand _this_ , Perfesser. I _am_ in command while Dimarico is down, and it is my judgment we need all hands working. If need be I'll assist you in obeying my orders by having Sergeant Manaea kick your sorry butt every step down the beach. Now you go over there and use your superior intellect to select the absolute best firewood you can."

He ended with a shove that sent the man stumbling.

Had looks been able to kill, Swann would have collapsed in his tracks.

"We'll see about this when Cameron recovers," Koskinen hissed.

The moon, flickering in and out of clouds, now disappeared behind a solid bank, dropping them into full darkness except for the lanterns.

"Tobie! Where are you? Who have you treated so far?"

"You've sent them all away," Tobie complained.

Swann mentally kicked himself. _Better slow down and think_.

"Right... Well, you assist with the drinks. Take water with tea bags and chocolate mix around to everyone. If they don't have their mess gear they'll need to wait until they get back here—everyone should be carrying his knapsack. As you see them, check for injuries and patch up as you go."

"Sure! Should I sprout a couple extra pair of hands while I'm at it?"

LeeAnn was heating a pot over a camp-stove, with another waiting beside her.

"LeeAnn?"

"I'll go with him, Major."

"Great!"

The moon broke from the clouds and a figure loomed up from the south—Manaea.

"Sir! Gephart's hurt—his ribs."

"How badly?"

"Can't use his weapon, I think."

_What next?_ "Small!" Swann yelled. "Where are you?"

"We've found a path, Major."

"Come on back—I'm going to need you. Barry! Give a shout when you get on top. Let either the Sergeant or me know what you see."

"What about that drink?" Tobie asked.

"Absolutely. When the water is ready, you and Miss Dasczo may have the very first hot drinks."

"You're a real smart-ass bully, aren't you? I'm going to ask Cameron to straighten you out good."

"Fine—but until he wakes you _will_ obey me. There'll be no drinking until the work is done and we're safe as we can be. Remember—we don't know where we are or even _when_ we are, or who we might be up against, so we _will_ treat this seriously."

"I could wake him right now," Tobie threatened.

"Don't do anything counter to good practice, I warn you. Why is he unconscious?"

"I told you—he has a concussion and sleep is common afterward."

"For how long?"

"Who knows, you blockhead! Could be an hour or ten hours. Find a hospital and maybe _they'll_ know." Tobie ranted on, detailing potential life-threatening outcomes, gradually becoming contrite. "I'm sorry—I really need a drink."

"First things first."

Swann was tense. The thought of losing the one man who knew what they were facing, the single person who might be able to communicate with the locals, the only one who could, in the long term, control Koskinen and Tobie sent a chill up his spine.

"What do you recommend we do?"

"We probably should wake him to see if he has any confusion or motor deficiencies."

"Forget the drink!"

"I'm not thinking of that," the little man spat. "We need to check to see if he needs further treatment."

"Such as?"

"Well, there's not much we can do for him except make sure he rests sufficiently, and if there are problems with coordination or weakness we should try to immobilize his neck and head in case of spinal cord injury. Give him some acetaminophen."

"This is just _great_ —more bad news! Let's see if he wakes up."

Blankets covered both figures. Dimarico seemed asleep but his eyes sprang open as Tobie touched him.

"Uh?"

"Lie still. Can you tell me your name?"

"I know my name," he grumbled.

"Well, what is it then, Cam'ron?"

"Cameron... Smith."

" _What?_ "

"Dimarico! What's going on? Are you organized, Swann? Where's the fire? How long have I been bonkers?"

"Maybe a half hour. We're getting ready now."

"Where are you, Cam'ron?" asked Tobie, trying to get his attention.

"Southern England, you'd better hope."

"And what day, er... what year is it?"

"The sixty-four dollar question, Bob. Jack, have you set guards? And where's all the equipment?"

Manaea now arrived with Gephart in tow. Tobie tried to test Dimarico's reactions and Dimarico tried to rise and get back in control while Koskinen attempted to gain his attention. Confusion briefly reigned until Dimarico shuffled off to organize the burning of the boat and mats, Koskinen trailing in his wake and talking a mile a minute. Tobie stood forlorn, not even having a chance to ask for a drink.

"Well," he said in resignation, "He seems alright."

"Take a look at this guy. Early-bird, how are you?"

It soon proved Gephart suffered at least one broken rib, not too severe according to Tobie, but needed pain killers and would be unable to use his left arm much for two weeks.

"Out of action two weeks?" Swann exclaimed.

"At least! Pushing on the bow would be a tremendous strain."

"Aren't you going to tape him up?" Swann asked.

"Just on the one side. Better to keep his lungs working—unless you prefer pneumonia. Of course he could have a slight internal injury. No way to tell yet without some kind of scan."

### §

### Chapter 19 - On the Beach

They waded thigh deep in the sea to present a suitably salt-stained appearance in line with the cover story of stranding. A bonfire of driftwood and plastic roared. From a distance it could have passed for a beach party, sans bikinis and surfboards.

Kinnard kept Sutton company up on the cliff while Brenneman and Brixby took over beach guard positions—Manaea regularly checking the three posts. The pads earlier used by Dimarico and Lachey had been consigned to the fire and she lay in a sleeping bag.

Dimarico and Koskinen concluded the breakup of the boat and their resultant tumbles had been caused by its regeneration in the same space as the tip of one or more of the higher rocks on the beach. Koskinen's delay circuitry assured rejection of the lighter object by the more massive rather than the potential high-order explosion which might have occurred with instantaneous transmission. They'd been catapulted with force equal to a drop of eight or ten feet. All in all, three injured was getting off lightly.

### * * *

Swann bent over Lachey. "How are you feeling now?"

Surprisingly, she smiled. "Pretty well. I've had cocoa and I'm nice and warm. Doctor Tobie gave me aspirin and wrapped my ankles."

"What's the prognosis—the outlook?"

"He said it's—the worse one—a grade two sprain and there might be minor fractures. We should have iced it but... So I have to stay off my feet for as long as possible and it might be as much as two months before I can do any real walking."

"Doesn't sound great but I think you're looking as happy as I've seen you."

"I was terribly scared. I never truly believed we'd make it safely."

"Ah! Another wise soul. I felt like a condemned man myself, waiting for the axe to fall. Next question—where and when are we?"

"Pretty certainly in the same location where we started but we don't know _when_ until we can check with the locals."

"And you plan to stay."

"Yes."

He knelt and spoke more quietly. "Go on."

"There's... there's not much for me back there. I wanted to get away from, from a lot of..." Her voice quavered.

"Never mind—I shouldn't have asked."

After a moment she said, "What of you? Are you staying or...?"

"Well, as I get it, by the time we get through screwing-up things around here it probably won't be worth returning. Besides, though my life wasn't bad, exactly, I was lonely. Not much to go back to."

"So you'll be staying, too. I wonder who else?"

"Wait a minute."

The discussion between Dimarico and the two doctors was getting animated as they tried to convince Dimarico of the need for immediate return—Tobie on the basis of required medical care, Koskinen arguing that having proved the concept, Dimarico could return at a time of his choosing, with more and better personnel and equipment.

Swann stepped in front of them and Koskinen glared.

"This thug of yours, Cameron," he snarled. "You'd better instruct him that while I might give _him_ orders, he is in no way to consider me one of his peons."

Dimarico declined. "When I'm compos mentis I'll be directing things, Evan but if I'm not then Major Swann is in charge. There's no other practical way."

This went over poorly.

"Let's be clear on one thing—I'm not going to be his hewer of wood and drawer of water, no matter what anyone says."

Dimarico made no reply. He stood and said, "Help me down to the water for my baptism, Jack. I don't want to slip and scramble my brains any further."

Koskinen lurched to his feet.

"What of the return?"

"No more tonight. When we find out whether we've made the right year we can discuss it but until then let's hear no more. We've gone over this from one end to the other, and none of it matters if we aren't in the right year—so _enough!_ "

They headed toward the water, Dimarico hanging onto Swann's arm.

"Everyone understood we'd be here at least six months," Swann said. "What difference does it make if he can set the return dial for whenever he wants?"

"Exactly. He could wait ten years yet return one minute after we left—in theory, of course—and land right on the deck of the Petrel. But he's in a hurry to get back to fame and fortune, as he sees it, so he wants to immediately start building a new and stronger boat. He wasn't thrilled at making the trip in the first place and now sees all sorts of drawbacks—sickness, discomfort, deterioration of equipment. He's right, of course, but I didn't come here for an evening excursion."

Coming to the high water mark they stepped cautiously over wet rocks.

When they reached the breakers Swann told him, "Squat down, Cam, so I can avoid another soaking. Uh! Okay, this should do it. Let's get back. Tell me, though—why is this so deserted? Don't they fish? There were houses right along the beach in our time."

"Think, Jack—any Vikings in two thousand eight?"

"Hmm, raiding. Should have realized. Well, let's go."

"Wait. Stop up here a ways." They cleared the tidal zone. "Look, Jack, I'm counting on you for support—can I expect it?"

"What's your concern?"

"Koskinen. Candidly, there's no reason for him to return unless he does so immediately—before we cause significant changes in history. But I can't afford to have him take his knowledge, because who knows what he'll get up to? You understand, don't you, he's a near sociopath—has no concern whatsoever for the damage he might do either to history or to us... I know I haven't much room to criticize—I'm planning a huge bit of damage myself."

"Yes, aren't we all guilty of history-cide? Except _he_ gives the impression of having no sense of responsibility at all. And you seem to despise the guy."

"Afraid so, though I try to control it. All he considers is his own ego and his urge for a kind of vengeance on his previous colleagues. He's going to show them up—triumph over them no matter what. They're the people who matter—his peers. The rest of us are pawns at best.

"The ironic thing—and it's according to his own theory—he might well return to an entirely different milieu where those colleagues don't even exist. What I fear is he'll then start bouncing around from year to year, decade to decade, always looking for a branch of history where Evan Koskinen can be a star. I hope I'm not treating him too unjustly out of spite, but the fact is I've loathed him since our second or third year of collaboration. Believe me, Jack, seven years with him equals a century in hell."

"And he knows the longer we stay here the less chance..."

"Certainly! He might be psychotic but he's far from stupid. If we succeed, he could return to a North America where they speak Icelandic or Cherokee and where electrical power hasn't been invented, making it impossible to recharge the capacitors with anything but the generator, for which there might be no fuel available."

"Is it even possible to go forward in time? I mean, have you proved it?"

"Well... there's that, of course."

" _Good Lord_ , Cam! None of you have any idea if this can work?"

"I've ignored the question, Jack, because I never intended to return. As far as Evan, I've no idea what his theory is, or whether he's overlooked this tiny detail."

" _Tiny detail!_ "

"He's somehow convinced himself it can be done. I don't know his basis for optimism. You can see the danger this poses, not to us alone but to the future."

"You've never tested this? Not at all?"

Dimarico paused. "In fact, we have."

"You sent stuff forward? How strange, I never thought to ask before. Too taken up with the idea of going back, I guess."

Dimarico didn't respond, so Swann repeated, "You sent things forward, right? What happened?"

"They disappeared.

"And...?

"That's it—they disappeared.

"And when did they reappear—on time?

"See, it's then we... This came fairly early on, right after we'd succeeded in sending things back—back from our point of view. Well, at any rate..."

"You didn't get them back, did you? They never showed."

"...No."

"You merely adapted your theory to take this into account, not having the slightest..."

"Keep your voice down, for God's sake!"

"So this is where we stand. _Man!_ I can't see how I could have been so careless, so thoughtless as to let you talk me into this hare-brained..."

"Wait a minute! You're here, aren't you? _That_ worked, didn't it?"

"Assuming we _are_ here—if _here_ isn't somewhere or some-when else. You guys didn't have two clues! You went ahead based on..."

"Now hold on, Jack—let me talk!... Okay, I agree the, uh, the experimental backing was weak—no denying it. Yet can't you see this ties in perfectly with the idea of branching timelines? In fact, it's what caused us to develop..."

"Us?"

"Primarily Koskinen. In other words, every operation of the transporter seemed to be... shielded, let's say, from our present timeline, as if mere use of the device was sufficient to change history. Think about it."

"I don't even _want_ to think about it. But I can see two things," Swann grumbled. "I see where this is leading and I see you preparing your justifications."

"I'm sure you can. I've said right along you were too logical for your own good... or maybe _my_ own good."

"You might at least have asked. I can't help but be frosted by this little surprise."

"I haven't actually lied to anyone, Jack."

"Nor killed yourself striving for candor, either... You've misled us all by omitting info. You ready for a mutiny?"

"I plan to be persuasive and I hope to have a few on my side—you, at least."

Swann's head spun with the implications of Dimarico's implied confession.

"I'm not happy with it but it's the only rational course. If we have no idea what might happen, how can we even _think_ of a return?"

"You didn't intend to go back."

"No, Cam, but the others... I can't help but feel responsible."

"Can you bring along your recruits?"

"Two will stick, I expect. But Brenneman and the English guys—they're another story. You have Lachey—what of Kinnard?"

"Passive acceptance, I imagine—and there's Saipele and Barry."

"LeeAnn?"

"Hysteria, perhaps. We'll need to see. Tobie—maybe I can quiet him with a good stiff drink before the confrontation."

"I'll tell you, Cam, I'm almost glad we didn't get additional recruits. This is a real poke in the eye. To have to convince even more people... And what if we aren't _when_ we want to be?"

"If so, we'll have to try again. Bet that thrills you."

"Then there _will_ be a mutiny, Cam—with me as ringleader."

### * * *

The fire still smoked as false dawn arrived. A few identifiable objects remained, scraps of plastic and partly-melted fiberglass. More wood was called for to make a better job of destruction, metal parts were collected for future use.

Tobie again examined Lachey's ankles but refused to express a definite opinion. Gephart hurt but was able to move, Dimarico showed no symptoms.

The women were to wear feminine clothing suitable for the era, but Sheila, not surprisingly, failed to do so. Swann had let her disobedience pass but now ordered her to change with LeeAnn's help, or to _be_ changed with the assistance of male volunteers. Cursing and sullen, she complied. In minutes she became the old Sheila, prancing and parading her finery, happy to be the center of attention one way or the other.

As day brightened they moved their gear to the top of the cliff. Their funds alone made up forty-eight small boxes weighing near forty pounds each, plus tenting, food and drink, weapons and the time console and capacitor rack. The path proved too difficult for heavy loads, so they hauled up what they could using ropes—two or more men heaving at the top and one person handling a guide-rope from beneath.

Gephart was helped up the path then sent forward through a growth of grass, bracken and shrubs for sentry duty on a small knoll. Beyond him was a range of hills, limiting his view to a mile in front, a couple to right and left—moorland with trees clustered in the folds. Sheep and a few cultivated fields decorated lower slopes.

Before they had finished—with Lachey and Dasczo still on the beach—Gephart signaled.

### §

### Chapter 20 - Preconceptions

"Get your gear! Line up here!" Swann swung his arm. As riders walked their horses down the knoll he got his crew armed and in order—the archers in line to one side, the others in a knot by the fire.

The Saxons reined in fifty yards off.

Some of Swann's preconceptions now proved faulty. Except in one case the Saxons were not bearded but mostly sported luxuriant mustaches. Far from the drab shades he'd recommended to his troops, their clothing was colorful, some garments woven in stripes or checks. They bore mostly spears and either round or kite shields, many with helms. A sturdy man near the center, dressed in a short reddish cloak over a _byrnie_ —mail vest—and with striped blue and gray leggings cross-strapped up to his knees, advanced his pony a few paces.

Dimarico, sheathed sword suspended from a baldric, strode forward a few steps. Manaea, spear in hand with the butt grounded, followed behind and to his right. Dimarico removed his hat and raised his right hand palm outward.

" _Hal_!" he called.

The lead Saxon dismounted and paced forward, calling a question.

Waving Manaea back, Dimarico spoke and advanced farther, as did the Saxon, until both were halfway between the forces, a few feet apart. The Saxon appeared cautious, faced by a considerably larger man and an armed array. The conversation continued for several minutes, Dimarico gesturing at the sea or his people and inland.

"Major! Ask Sheila to come up to me."

Swann called, "Brenneman, here's your chance to charm the Old World." In response to her gesture he said, "Yes, take your bow but don't look too Amazonian."

She strode forward, neither shy nor lacking courage. Dimarico barred her with an outstretched arm, speaking briefly. Holding her bow and nocked arrow in her left hand, she swept off her sombrero and pulled down the bandanna under it, shaking out her mane. A couple of comments came from the Saxon ranks and their commander showed a surprised smile.

Sheila grinned as she once again found herself the target of all eyes.

Dimarico turned again. "LeeAnn, too."

"Tobie," Swann decided, "go down to Lachey and send Dasczo up here—quickly."

"By myself?"

"Barry, escort the good doctor to the head of the path and, if need be, kick him down it. Call to Dasczo and make sure everything is okay. _Tobie!_ Hurry up, man!"

Sheila at his side, Dimarico and the Saxon waited. LeeAnn appeared on the crest and at Swann's signal advanced to Dimarico's other side. If the Saxon had doubts as to the pulchritude of Brenneman, carrying a weapon and towering over him by one or two husky inches, he need have none for the petite Dasczo, standing five-foot four and looking distinctly feminine.

She had ignored the recommendation to dress conservatively, wearing a Kelly green jumper over a frilly white blouse, topped by a fitted dark blue jacket and her white sombrero. She'd rid herself of studs before the trip, her tattoo hidden by a high collar.

On the other hand, the Saxons sported plenty of tattoos themselves.

·

Dimarico brought out wine for drinks all round. He offered ten pennies to the Saxon leader, which were accepted with thanks. Since warriors on fyrd were paid two pennies per day, this constituted a respectable bribe—or would it be considered a tip in this culture? Payment of a landing fee was postponed, in part because Sheila's status as warrior or woman couldn't be settled.

Dimarico claimed to argue this point to avoid being thought of as a soft touch but all knew how he hated to _waste_ money.

The date proved to be a month and a half after _Geol_ —Yule—late February in the first year's reign of the Godwinesson. In the opinion of the Saxon leader, one Ecglaf Pallissuna, they had arrived at an evil hour, since a _Francena eorl_ —French earl—was threatening war.

From Dimarico's point of view all was well—this was the moment he wanted.

The Saxon leader and three men rode off to obtain wagons, leaving the rest. By offer of another bottle, these were convinced to retire to the knoll to watch from a distance.

·

As a misty rain drifted off the sea they set a fire blazing. Kinnard connected the console and capacitor rack and started the generator. Manaea set down a cooking pot full of liquid then stood in watchful silence. The Professor renewed his arguments.

But it seemed Dimarico now had heard enough from him.

"Okay, Doctor, you've thoroughly made your point. We'll settle this shortly." He ordered Kinnard to detach the generator leads, then lifted the tarp off the console while Koskinen clutched at it.

"Wait, Cameron! Keep the protection on."

Dimarico nodded to Manaea and the big man grabbed Koskinen, pulling him back.

He demanded his release but Dimarico cut him off.

"Is this charged?"

"Not even half, man! What the devil are you after?"

Dimarico flicked the on-switch and waited a few seconds, ignoring Koskinen. With every pair of eyes now on him, he lifted the console's cover, then picked up the pot and dashed its contents—seawater—into the works. They were treated to a brief but intense display of sparks.

Koskinen bellowed while others added to an explosion of noise.

Dimarico slammed the console shut and roared, "Quiet! Shut up—all of you! You'll get your explanation soon enough."

Koskinen ranted on, struggling against Manaea's grip and yelling incoherently until Manaea swung around and propelled him away.

The Professor regained his composure, adding portentously, "You'll never prevent me, Cameron."

Dimarico stretched out a hand. Manaea reached into his jacket and brought out a large automatic pistol, a piece of supposedly proscribed gear. Before shocked eyes Dimarico ejected the magazine, checked and clicked it back in place then worked the slide.

Koskinen backed slowly away while all held their breaths.

Dimarico gazed at him for a moment before turning and placing a round through each of the four giant capacitors.

### §

### Chapter 21 - Crude

They distributed their gear among a wagon and two oxcarts, the Saxons escorting before and behind.

Beaten down by rain, fatigue and negative news, few were effusive despite new scenes striking the eye at every hilltop or turning. Except for the occasional animal path or skimpy set of wheel tracks, their way led over a rough moor dotted with bushes and trees growing in sheltered spots.

They topped a couple of rises and in the distance spied through dimming light the fields and huts of their destination for the night.

The oxen strained with the heavy load of silver plus the time console and other gear, so the group—excepting Tobie and Koskinen—put their shoulders to a cart or wagon when needed to help it out of a rut or over a rock. Though but a few miles to the settlement, both they and the beasts would be worn down getting there.

Dimarico and Swann walked apart from the rest, Swann speaking.

"Except for the cursing, screaming, crying, threats of violence and so forth, they took it better than I expected. Maybe you should have considered politics."

"Never fear, Jack, we'll be getting plenty of politics before we're through. I feel bad for LeeAnn and for Tobie, too, but I'm surprised at Dale. Thought he'd be up for the adventure. And Brian got somewhat excited, of course."

"I liked Brixby thinking you'd cheated him out of his money."

"His money is as untouchable by me as it is by him. What truly bothers him is the idea of his _old trollop_ getting it. Better he'd left it to his cat."

"What'd you work out with whatsisname?"

Duke William's claim to the English throne had intensified Saxon concern over raiders landing on their coasts. Dimarico's narrative was that his party were losers in a war far to the west of Britain, stranded on the English shore. Rather than bloodily fight his band, the winners offered exile but transported the Americans much farther than expected. Possibly the English—these _Englisc_ —had heard of Vinland, settled by the Norse for sixty years now, for the tale seemed to be accepted.

"I told him we wanted to head easterly to look for an estate to lease, and I volunteered we were willing to help defend the kingdom. He'll wait for instructions from the king's reeve regarding what to do with us."

"Does, er, Pallissuna know we're carrying a lot of money?"

"He guessed it, so I owned up. No point in trying to kid him about those heavy iron-bound boxes. He was surprised our enemies let us keep it."

"How'd you get around it?"

"Another tall tale, of course."

"Between the two of us, Cam, we've told enough lies to qualify for Congress."

"Maybe the UN. The money is one thing which has me worried, though. I'm sure we can give a good account of ourselves, but if we were to be hit by twenty or thirty men of the stripe of our escort, I'd be concerned for the outcome. Wish I'd accepted your offer to recruit Marines. Even if they couldn't handle a bow they could have learned the spear, and having more tough-looking guys might scare off robbers."

"Any doubts regarding these particular fellows?"

"Pallissuna strikes me as honest, and England in this era owned a reputation for good order—virgin traveling with a bag of gold, et cetera."

"You have the forty-fives for backup. Anything else?"

Dimarico's voice dropped. "An OD box slightly longer than the coffers, next to Edith. Double twelve-gage with buck and slugs. The stock has to be mounted, but I can get it into action in a quick minute."

Swann gave a low whistle.

"I don't want to use firearms unless it's an absolute necessity. For one thing, they'd probably want to hang us for witchcraft."

"Are these Pallissuna-troopers trained soldiers, do you think?"

"Semi-trained. National guardsmen and sheriff's posse rolled into one. The great men— _eorles_ and _ealdormannes_ and the king, of course—have the equivalent of an army, the _huscarles_ or _heorthwerod_ —hearth-men. Same social rank as the _thegnes_ —thanes—but employed by the higher-ups. Full-time soldiers and state policemen, tax collectors and so forth. They formed the core of Harold's forces at both Hastings and Stamford Bridge."

"What's his job, exactly?"

"Pallissuna? I gather he's a hundred ealdor—the leader of the folk from an area of one hundred hides. You know what a hide is?—land measure for taxing. Each five hides is supposed to pay for the upkeep of one man-at-arms and one backup, plus their horses and weapons. Probably this is a pickup group for our reception."

"Hmm. What of our mission and what's happening here?"

"We didn't go into it much. You could probably see that even with my so-called knowledge of Anglo-Saxon, communication wasn't easy. Partly dialect, I imagine, since we're a good distance from _Witanceaster_ —Winchester. Also my skills aren't the absolute highest, and back uptime we only _think_ we know what pronunciation was back here, based on deductions from poetry and analogies with other Germanic languages and later versions of English."

"Are we likely to be drawing pay or expenses from the state or king?"

"I've no idea at this point."

"Will we be an official part of the English army?"

"Doubtful."

"Can we recruit trained warriors?"

"We'll know when we try."

"You've no clue as to where we'll settle nor how we'll be received?"

"Not as yet."

"Is our transportation going to stay with us?"

"Hasn't been negotiated."

Swann mulled this. "So all we know is the approximate date and that William is presumably due several months from now when we'll be facing the fight of our lives."

"Uh... Right."

### * * *

LeeAnn felt sick at heart at the idea of abandoning her companion, Tony. She loved him and felt he loved her, despite some of his behavior. He needed her for support and assistance, because he just _couldn't_ hold a job and ran through his public assistance money too quickly.

Sure, Mister D meant well—she acknowledged that. But he'd no right—no right at all! What would Tony do without her?

She knew exactly what had brought this on, despite the fairytale about escorting Sheila. He knew Tony got physical with her. Even long sleeves and high collars let bruises show from time to time, and Mister D had seen them.

She'd said nothing—ever. Then came the time Tony lost control and marked her face. Her fault, in a way, because she'd taken a stand against giving him drug money.

Next day had been Friday, so she needed to go in to pick up her check. Dimarico saw the damage and got so angry! Of course _he_ hadn't lost control—he never did, no matter what. Still, he insisted on taking her to the emergency room for treatment. Ridiculous!

He'd given her a big lecture, wanting take her home and have Tony arrested or toss him through the window. A knight in shining armor! Exactly what she needed— _not!_

Tony would one day improve, she knew. Certainly he looked better since she'd taken him in and made him eat regular meals—and made him cut back on the alky. The one serious problem was drugs. Poor Tony was a sucker for any new sensation, always looking for a magic potion to make him feel on top of the world with no bad side effects. Cockamamie, of course.

But Tony needed her—that was the critical thing. And she needed someone to cherish. She was as bad off as he, in a way.

·

As they trudged along her mood lifted, despite rain and the wet brush they struggled through, and she began to criticize herself for being so involved in her own problems, neglecting the needs of others. Poor Edith, for instance—in pain, riding in a horribly bumpy wagon under a jury-rigged tent she couldn't see out of, with no one to talk to.

LeeAnn worked her way over to the tail of the wagon and tried to jump up. The English guy, Small, gave her a boost with his hand on her butt, probably trying to get a free feel. She didn't much mind and gave him a quick grin of thanks.

"Edie! Is there room for me in here? Let me get away from the rain for awhile. How are you feeling? I'm so sorry for you, cooped up in here. What do you think of these Saxon guys, huh? Kinda crude, I think. Did you notice how they blow their noses? Eeww! I used my handkerchief in front of one of them and you'd think I pulled a magic trick."

Lachey gave a wan smile and LeeAnn's heart bounded. It felt so good to help someone who was hurting.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Honey? Well, let me know. And if I'm blathering too much, say so. I know it's my weakness."

### * * *

The townsfolk—if one could call this hamlet a town—were informed they'd be supplying food and shelter for the party. The Saxons took over the largest house, allotting a modest-sized barn to the uptime men. For the women, they peremptorily displaced a family.

LeeAnn ran up. "Mister D! We can't kick those people out—where can they go?"

"With someone else or into a barn."

"Well, that's not fair!"

"Don't worry, they'll be compensated. In fact..." He handed her some silver. "I intended to give everyone a few pennies for pocket money."

"Five dimes!" she wailed. "I can't offer them this!"

"Right, LeeAnn—you'll give them only one or two of these _peninges_. Money here is worth a lot more than you think. Go on, hand it to them."

She doubted, but upon slipping two pennies into the hand of the wife she received smiles and bobbing that in turn buoyed her up. After hugging the children she skipped back to Dimarico.

"Did you see that? What gratitude!"

"Sure. You probably gave them the equivalent of a week's wages."

### * * *

Darkness closed in, and while they ate in the drizzle Dimarico gathered them round the wagon. The townsfolk had retired but from the sound of it Ecglaf and his merry men had a drinking party going in the big house.

"I'm going to give you each five _peninges_ —silver pennies—for walking-around money."

A few jokes and satirical looks met this distribution.

"You may laugh, but this is significant money here and now. This stew and tomorrow's breakfast cost me two and a half, plus a half I gave as a tip. I've rented the barn and whatever other services and usages we'll need for two pennies more. Try that in London or LA. I advise you to make it last and don't let these people take advantage once they see you're rich... Yes, I mean _rich..._ by their standards. LeeAnn, here's the two you spent."

Manaea caught his attention and flicked a finger toward one side. Dimarico looked and saw one of the Saxons peering at them with a rapt expression.

" _Ic greet the_ —I greet you," Dimarico said. " _Hwaet eart thu_ —Who are you?"

The man stalked rapidly away, Dimarico staring after him.

"Okay, back to business. I realize you're tired and want to sleep—no surprise, so do I—but first Doctor Tobie will give us some good advice."

Tobie advanced with an expression compounded of resentment and irritation. His evening drink depended upon completion of this duty, and he didn't care for the compulsion one bit. Plus the blasted rain!

He handed out small cardboard shakers.

"Flea powder!" someone exclaimed.

"Yeah, it's flea powder. Whadja expect—sachet? Sprinkle this around where you plan to sleep and where you put your clothes. Also, you'd better rub a little on your pants up to the knees, cause they can jump a foot. What? No, I am _not_ kidding. And you'd better also remember they can carry bubonic plague and a couple other diseases."

"Plague!"

"Lucky for us plague hasn't appeared in Europe yet, far as I know, but you got typhus and tularemia. Well, mostly irritation from the bites is the problem, but..."

"We'll spray the buildings before you settle in, to thin the wildlife," Dimarico said. "Jack, I'd like someone to check on this—see it's done right."

Swann passed the buck. "Sergeant, will you and Kinnard take care of the spraying and see things are orderly? Keep the cans hidden from the locals."

"Aye-aye, sir."

"You better not waste these, either," Tobie went on, "cause there's not much more than what you have."

Some muttering greeted this remark.

"Folks," Dimarico interjected, "we have some long-term flea preventative as well—rotenone and such. Still—waste not, want not. Go on, Doctor."

Tobie grimaced at the interruption. "Better remember lice are another problem and flea powder won't do anything for _them_. Think of that the next time you're hugging and kissing these people."

With a little sneer he looked at Dasczo.

"You're mean!" she exclaimed.

"I'm only..."

"You're only trying to be obnoxious and mean! You're mad because you didn't want to be here and now you're taking it out on us."

"I'm only... What I said..."

"I heard what you said, and you're mean and sneaky and obnoxious!"

Tobie's discomfiture drew laughs. Quite willing to cross swords with Dimarico or Swann, he was at a loss when attacked by a woman, particularly one with justice on her side.

He looked to Dimarico. "Cam'ron...?"

"Go on, Doctor. Keep to the script."

Glancing at LeeAnn then down at the ground, he began again.

"The, er—the water here—you'd better not drink it. Either boil it or... well, you can use those pills but boiling is better. If you put a pill in your canteen make sure it dissolves and don't drink any for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. And... and make sure the water looks clean. I mean, if you get water from somewhere, make sure there's no mud or anything in it—and if muddy water's all there is, let it settle before you fill your canteen, cause disinfectant won't work so well in dirty water.

"You might be tempted to drink from a nice clean-looking pond or stream—well, don't! I bet there's not a quart of water anywhere here uncontaminated with E coli and God knows what else, and you can't tell by looking at it. You'll come across a little rill trickling over moss and rocks, looking pristine but sure as anything there's some shepherd upstream who's squatted down next to it. Or if he hasn't, his sheep have, or maybe a deer or duck or turtle. And you'd better believe me, every one of them is a reservoir for intestinal disease."

"What about the meat?" someone asked.

"Make sure it's well-cooked—pork above all. In fact, don't eat anything that hasn't been cooked good and hot clear through. Don't drink fresh milk. Stick to cheese and butter—and aged cheese is safer than new. If it's a fresh vegetable or fruit, you'd better peel it yourself rather than let these people do it—there's precious little in the way of hand sanitizer here."

"Don't they even have soap?" Brian asked.

"No."

"Yes, they do," Dimarico corrected. "They should have soft soap but how common it is I don't know. We'll look into it soon as possible."

"Soapwort, too."

"What, Edith?"

"A plant you can make suds with."

"Okay, better yet. Go on, Bob."

"Well, er, guess that's it. All I can say is, don't get sick. I only got horse antibiotics to treat you with, plus disinfectant and painkillers and such."

He seemed to take pleasure in giving out this bad news.

"Why in Christ's name haven't you brought some decent pharms?" Brixby said.

"You think it's simple to get these things? I can't write prescriptions like an allopath or osteo! Same thing with insecticide. Best thing would have been DDT but try to lay your hands on that! And I wasn't expecting to spend forever in this Godforsaken barbaric hole."

He was becoming maudlin, in need of his drink.

"Okay, good enough," Dimarico said. "Major, your turn."

Swann stepped forward as Tobie, still muttering defensively, edged away to his accustomed place beside Koskinen.

"Our gear, except for what the women need, goes into the barn." Some groans attended this announcement. "Also, we'll put... say, eight coffers into their hut so they can block the door. You and Brenneman can handle them—right, LeeAnn?

"We'll mount guard duty tonight—two hours per. How many of you, in direct contravention of our instructions, kept your watches?" Several hands tentatively rose. "I figured—and with luminous dials, I hope. Gephart and I will take the first, Sutton and Brixby the next, the Sergeant and Kinnard, Small and Pierce, Gephart and me again and so on."

"What about me?" Sheila asked.

He ignored her. "We'll watch from inside unless we need to check the women's hut for any reason."

"Jack! Why aren't you including me?"

"It's _Major_ , Sheila. And you'll be guarding your own hut. Take a spear. Stay awake until the others drop off, and I'll expect you to wake at first light. Sleep with your clothes and shoes on. If anything startles you—regardless of what—you are to come awake completely, sit up and grab your weapon and listen for a few minutes before lying down again. If anyone tries to break in, raise a shout so we can hear it—make it loud. That clear?"

"Yeah, whatever."

"You other gals are to arm yourselves but can take your shoes off, at least."

Sheila didn't respond to the humor.

"All this is serious. Security is not some useless caper."

"You don't want me to take a turn?" Dimarico asked.

"Old men are exempt," Swann joked. "You'll be immediately wakened if anything needs your attention.

"By the way, all of you, if anything happens on your watches—other than a direct attack, of course—you are to wake me or the Sergeant before attempting any action. We'll pass judgment on whatever it is. Night guard is going to be standard operating procedure while we're on this trip, so get used to it."

### * * *

Kinnard hated the loss of sleep. Besides, this idea of scanning for trouble was a farce. He couldn't see a thing on this dark cloudy night, and he couldn't hear anything except rain dripping from the eaves and the snoring of those enjoying delicious sleep.

The idea of Dimarico pulling this trick! Pretending they could go back to 2008 when all along it wasn't going to happen. This wasn't the future he'd planned. He already felt homesick for his previous life, even having to abandon his poor dog, good old Plugger. Well, _dogs_ , actually.

He enjoyed his hobbies and he'd dealt with a new library aide whom he might try to talk to one day. Pretty sure she was single, and she didn't seem an outgoing and popular type of girl with whom he'd never have a chance. Plus the friendly clerk at the convenience store...

Now he had something else to worry him. Bad enough he'd abandoned his models—and surely someone would break in and smash them for the fun of it—but he'd forgot his last library books. Why the devil hadn't he thought to take them back? The girl would think him a real fool when they stayed overdue for months and years.

But here came Manaea whispering something concerning staying awake. Have to stand up straight and not slump over the boxes they'd stacked up in the opening. He'd try to think about the present to pass the time and take his mind off his troubles.

The Saxons seemed interesting, he guessed. The carts and wagon were crude, although he'd been surprised by the running gear of the wagon—the front axle pivoted. Somehow he hadn't expected it back here. The wheels appeared odd, though—tilted out at the top and the spokes not square between hub and tire. He couldn't make sense of it. Badly made? Seemed unlikely.

The carts were clumsy—wheels made from boards held together by cross pieces. And screech to wake the dead. But the wagon's wheels? What was going on there? He tried to make a comparison to autos—caster, camber, toe-in. The wagon seemed to have only camber.

_Good grief_ —here came Manaea to bother him again. Oh! His shift was up.

### §

### Chapter 22 - Better Than None

Before sunup, Manaea came to Swann as he supervised loading.

"Major, you notice the escort?"

Swann took another look at the Saxons moving back and forth from their quarters.

"They've added spare mounts and some horse-holders."

"One's missing."

Swann didn't ask whether Manaea was sure. "Which one and why?"

"The one guy who spied on us last night, pretty sure."

"Is Cameron aware? Has he questioned the Saxon?"

"Came to you first, sir."

"Tell him, and ask him to ask Ecglaf what the reason is. Suggest he observe him closely, because in case he sent someone off to get help in dealing with us a clue would be useful. Understand?"

"Absolutely, Major."

"Take a good gander at the others. See if they're on edge—getting nerved up for something, or arming up. For now, don't let on to our troops."

"Aye-aye, sir."

The sergeant strode off and Swann tried to keep his mind on the job at hand but couldn't keep his eyes away from their escort. He saw Manaea converse with Dimarico then stroll toward the Saxons, head swiveling to take everything in. After a suitable pause, Dimarico walked toward the Saxon chief, calling a greeting.

Sutton and Small now carried Lachey to the wagon, handing her up to Pierce, who helped her into her shelter. As the men walked away to help load other gear, Swann stuck his head over the side and whispered to her as she lay with her head by the open end of the tent.

"How do you feel? Enjoy your first night in a hut?"

"Pretty well—it wasn't bad."

"No fleas?"

She gave a thin smile. "I didn't feel any bites."

"Do you know how to use a firearm?"

"What! Are you expecting trouble?"

"Maybe—but don't let on to anyone yet."

"I've never fired a gun—do you want to teach me?"

He liked this apparent show of spirit. "No. Take too long and we don't want to display them. What do you have for a weapon?"

"Only this camp knife I was given."

"Well... Look, it's not raining today yet. And if this mist cooks off... Can you sit up comfortably?"

"I think so, if I can prop my legs on something."

"After everything is loaded, I'll have Small and Pierce—they'll be the guards up here—arrange the boxes and such. I want you to sit facing backwards so you can keep an eye to the rear and sides. If there's trouble it'll probably be from behind, while everyone else will be facing forward. Okay?"

"Yes, I can do it."

"If you see something, direct your call to me or Saipele or Cameron. Raise your voice so we can hear, but don't screech and get everyone shook up."

"Yes, I... Yes."

"Call out a name, and when you have his attention briefly describe what you see—such as, _Two men on the hill at eight o'clock_. You know the clock system?"

"I think so."

"Which way's twelve? Yeah, head of the parade. What about six? Good. Where's four-thirty? Okay, that's a trick question—use whole hours."

She nodded, face tight with concentration.

"I'll talk to you again and you can call me over anytime I'm not busy."

He noticed Dimarico had left Ecglaf's side.

"See you."

He started to jog toward Dimarico but immediately dropped into a walk. No need to excite the spectators.

### * * *

More oxen pulled each vehicle, so they needn't push today. Dimarico walked on the left side of the treasure cart, conversing with Ecglaf. Swann gave the Saxon a sharp look but saw nothing threatening as yet. The _fyrding_ —militia band—trailed loosely behind, while last came a dozen or so ponies led by three youths.

Dimarico, Sutton and Manaea—the latter walking on the near side of the column—each wore hauberk and helm with a shield slung over the shoulders by a strap round the neck.

He started with the rear cart and its guard—Brenneman and Brixby with bows, Gephart and Kinnard carrying spears. What a crew! He hoped Brixby's military experience and Gephart's natural phlegmatism would keep them cool in an emergency. Once again he longed for men with combat experience.

"We think there might be trouble today though we don't know from whom or where. Without making it too obvious, I want you to keep your eyes open for any movement off our flanks."

He drilled them briefly in clock orientation and signals.

"After ten minutes or so I want somebody sitting on the cart-tail at all times, ostensibly taking a rest but actually watching our rear. Take it in turns, starting with you, Dale. And watch our escort back there. At this point we don't know whom we can trust, so we won't trust anyone. String your bows whenever there's potential ambush concealment within a couple-hundred yards—even when we halt to eat. Don't relax or let your guard down if nothing happens for awhile.

"If a fight looks to start, get behind the cart or oxen—don't leave yourself open to direct attack. If they come round the cart at you, Dale and Earl with their spears will have to keep them away while the archers pick them off, even though you two don't have armor or shields. That's an oversight we'll correct as soon as we can. Stay together and don't run—you'll be picked off individually if you do."

"Major, have you noticed the wagon wheels?" Kinnard asked.

"What?"

"The wheels on the wagon—they're crooked. Did you notice?"

"No time for that now."

He moved up the column, easily passing the slow oxen. He merely nodded at Manaea—they'd gone over contingencies before leaving camp.

According to what Ecglaf had told Dimarico the missing man was Wulfnoth Aelfcild—the nickname translating to Elf's Heir, signifying he was weird and unpredictable. A landless thegn, he'd lost his property after getting crosswise with a deacon or some such in a quarrel over the rights to fish in a stream bordering their two properties.

Regardless of whose part ideal justice might have taken, Aelfcild's defense of his claims included an attack upon the deacon's men, so the hundred court laid a heavy fine. He'd lost his land and nearly lost his freedom. Resentment hung heavily on him. Ecglaf reckoned theft of Dimarico's treasure might be a way for Aelfcild to recoup his fortune, even at the risk of outlawry.

This, at least, was the story he told. To Swann's suspicious mind, the Saxon chief might instead have sent his minion away to gather reinforcements before both attacked the American column.

At the wagon, LeeAnn now sat next to Lachey.

"How's it going here?"

"Real swell, Major, but I can't get her to face around frontwise. She wants to look at those English guys. Must be sweet on one of them."

Swann felt a rush of warmth toward Lachey. Told to keep things to herself, she'd obviously obeyed.

"That's because, young Miss Dasczo, we're expecting trouble and you two are our rear lookouts."

"We are?" LeeAnn's eyes bugged wide. "How do we...?"

Swann turned away to avoid laughing in her face.

"Sit here and look normal while keeping a good eye to the rear and on either side—say from four to eight o'clock. Do you know...? Well, you explain it to her, Edith. The main thing is to watch those behind us but also to the sides in case someone joins them. I'm worried these guys—our escort—plan to make their fortunes as pirates."

"You're kidding, aren't you? Oh my God! This is so exciting! Edie, did you know this? What'll we do if they come after our scalps?"

This time he did laugh. She showed no fear, only enthusiasm. "Edith'll explain," he said, reaching up to give Dasczo's cheek a little pinch—she looked so cute in her excitement—then continuing toward the front of the column.

LeeAnn leaned toward Lachey. "Oh dear—I think I've been sexually harassed."

Lachey's eyes widened. "What! Did that bother you?"

"Hardly ever does, Honey." She winked roguishly.

### * * *

Tobie and Koskinen sauntered along in advance of the lead oxen. As Swann neared they stopped talking but ignored his presence.

"Listen up, you two."

Koskinen sneered, " Don't involve me in your directives, Generalissimo."

Tired from lack of sleep and stressed by the responsibility of attempting to organize their protection, this impertinence enraged Swann. He grabbed Koskinen by the shoulder.

" _Listen_ to me, smart-ass, or I'll tie and gag you and drag you behind a cart." Koskinen hardly flinched but Tobie attempted to interfere, earning a shove that sent him staggering.

While the two glared with indignation, Swann growled, "We're expecting to be attacked. If you have half the brains you think you have, you'll move back into the column. These people," He flicked a thumb toward the Saxons. "...would happily cut your throat in order to strip the clothes from your body."

"Do you expect us to believe..."

"Believe what you want! And believe this, too—my job is to protect the column. If you want protection, you'd better be in it!"

He stomped off.

### * * *

They rolled steadily for two hours through open country offering little concealment for a large party. The track ahead, however, led across a stream and beside it through a wooded pass between two hills. Swann moved next to Dimarico.

"Cam, when we pass the stream, let's stop for a break. See if your boy is willing to scout the wooded area for bandidos."

"As suspicious as you are, you'll trust him to give an honest report?"

"Let's see how he reacts. We've nothing to lose, and if their plan is to trail behind us I'd prefer to force them in front. Whereas if he doesn't want to go..."

"Fair enough—when we reach the stream."

"Where's the smoke-pole?"

"Under the air mattress in the tent."

"Assembled and loaded?"

"Of course."

"Anyone see you?"

"Edith—I did it in the tent."

"She know what to do?"

"Hand it to me, you, or Saipele when we ask."

"Better you or him, since I'm not familiar with it."

"Two triggers. Safety lever on the left side—down is safe, up is shooting. You'll see red when it's up."

"Okay, back on patrol."

"You're going to be worn out, Jack. Sure you don't want Saipele to do the prowling?"

"I want three Saipeles—one for each cart. But either this or the last cart is bound to be the main target, and I think having you two together will be more effective than if spread out. You holding up alright under the armor?"

"It's not too bad, but hot with the padding. The main irritation is the skirts dragging on my thighs. We ought to be able to pin them back the way soldiers' coats were in Revolutionary War days."

"And paint them in contrasting colors, I suppose."

When Swann reached the rear he evicted Sheila from the cart-tail and rode it himself until they reached the stream.

### * * *

As the Englisc jogged slowly away, leaving their horse-handlers behind the column, the uptimers reconnoitered the stream then forded and camped to brew tea. Dimarico invited the three young Saxons to join them but those worthies declined to break from their duties.

Showed good discipline, Swann supposed. Either that, or squeamishness about socializing with future victims.

Kinnard moped around as if he hadn't a friend in the world and Swann recalled not simply snubbing him this morning but giving him a hard time before making the jump. He mulled exchanging the interest of a discussion with Dimarico for the boredom of a lecture from Kinnard.

"What were you getting at with the wheels?"

Kinnard brightened and jumped to his feet.

"Look at them, Major. Notice how the spokes are at an angle to the plane of the rim—like dished in—and how the tops of the wheels tip out?"

Swann failed to share the enthusiasm. "Don't they all, more or less?"

"Hmm? What do you mean by _all?_ "

"I haven't exactly made a study of this but I've seen carts and such in backward countries before and kind of remember the same thing. That is, when they have spoked wheels instead of boards."

Kinnard was struck by this. "What did they use to do in America? If we knew that, we could at least know whether it's on purpose or bad workmanship."

Swann shrugged. "Bet they have a reason. Good luck figuring it out."

He escaped to get a cup of tea with Dimarico.

### * * *

"Sit, Jack. You still convinced we need to take wagons with us to the big one?"

"Sure am. This idea of going to war with a bag of flour, a jug of ale and a chaw of jerky might be romantic, but we're looking forward to a day-long battle, tired hungry thirsty wounded troops and probably thousands of arrows shot."

"Why so many arrows? William's expected to have barely six or eight thousand troops and you aren't going to be responsible for all them."

"Look, Cam—in an archery contest, it's at least seventy-two arrows. If we manage to recruit as few as a hundred men, it would take more than seven thousand arrows."

" _If!_ And if it were a contest."

"And on future marches we won't want to be wearing armor and carrying knapsacks and blanket rolls and shields, so they'll go in wagons. We'll also want to take our own food and drink rather than depend on buying or stealing it."

"Still..."

"And firewood—because the countryside will be stripped bare by those ahead of us. Plus medical equipment and extra tack and fodder for the horses."

"You plan to take hay? Can't they get by on grass for a few days?"

"The old-timers took horse-feed. It was a limiting factor as much as food for the men. I'm telling you, Cam, good logistics is what makes for success on campaign."

"Several _thousand_ arrows?"

"This battle, assuming it goes according to history, will last from near sunup to after sundown—maybe ten hours. During that time William is supposed to make what—four, six, eight attacks? Say he makes only four—I'm being conservative—and let's say each lasts half an hour—ten minutes each for archers, infantry and cavalry. A hundred-twenty minutes, and a good archer is capable of making eight or ten aimed shots per minute."

Dimarico snorted.

"Oh, I agree. His arms would fall off if his fingers didn't go first. So let's say, due to lack of good targets, fatigue, need to replace bowstrings... instead of one shot every six seconds he makes one every twenty—a lifetime during battle. Still three hundred-sixty arrows!"

"But Jack," Dimarico said in a deceptively mild tone, "that's umm... thirty-six thousand shots for a hundred archers. Wouldn't you think when half his army is down, the Duke might be inclined to call it a day?"

"Ah! Now I see your problem. How many shots do you think it'll take to put an enemy out of action?"

"You tell _me_."

"Okay. Let's say one of three hits its target."

"I hope you're kidding and you mean _two_ of three."

"Nope. The excitement of battle, moving targets, a lot of shots at maximum range or beyond. Next, figure most of those will get stopped—or at least slowed—by shields and armor, simply inflicting nicks and cuts which won't sufficiently injure a man."

"You think a minor wound won't at least slow a man down?"

"Oh, maybe. But there have been modern cases... One I can think of at Chosin, where our guy took five bullets while running around barefoot in the snow—took his boots off while sleeping—and still kept fighting."

"Good Lord!"

"None of those shots hit the head or abdominal cavity, I imagine, but you can see why the occasional flesh wound isn't going to take an adrenalin-loaded man down, particularly using these bodkin tips. And how many rounds do you think it takes to cause a severe casualty in modern combat?"

"Go on."

"I've seen—taken part in—combats where a whole platoon empties its weapons, perhaps more than once. And when you take the objective all you find is one or two bodies... or sometimes none. Sure, maybe the wounded were helped to escape. Maybe they even carried off some of their dead. Still—a thousand rounds or more, counting automatic weapons, and that's what you have to show for it."

Dimarico shook his head, saying, "Well, I'll tell you one thing, we can't use these lousy slow oxcarts that look ready to break down and hardly go two miles an hour. We need to have draft horses and the best wagons we can find."

"I agree—Conestogas or similar. And if they don't know how to make them, we have to show them."

Dimarico laughed. "Do you realize what you're asking? Poor Dale is going to have to sharpen his pencil and go to work. No computer or CAD—he'll be a nervous wreck!"

Considering Kinnard's recent enthusiasm, he might be fine. But before Swann could share this insight, the Saxons came into sight.

### * * *

Ecglaf grinned as he spoke to Dimarico.

"He says they found nothing, Jack—no signs. And he adds you needn't be scared—he'll take care of us. I'm not sure whether he means to be insulting or merely boastful."

Swann frowned. "You tell him it's better to look and find nothing, than not to look and have something find you."

Dimarico composed this then passed it on. Ecglaf listened and broke into loud laughter, adding a phrase.

" _You speak truly_ , Jack—that's what he says."

Swann gave a grim smile as he took his place on the right side of the column. The stream offered many potential hiding places as it cut a deeper ravine nearing the hills.

In time they entered a low pass. The trail compressed between hillside and gully, becoming steeper and rougher. Many places needed attentive monitoring—copses and small woods, patches of rocks and bushes, folds and cuts in the hillsides—but nothing seemed likely to hide a large group of men and their horses.

Swann relaxed slightly. Perhaps it would take more than one day to organize an attack, while every day gained meant increased experience for his force. And who knew? Perhaps there would be no attack—perhaps this elf-heir had simply gone AWOL.

Yet he wouldn't be passing such a hopeful thought to the troops.

Early afternoon they neared the top of the pass, negotiated their way around a bog which sourced the stream, and started a gradual climb leading to a heavily wooded area. On this nearly level stretch they stopped to rest and eat again. The fyrd had ridden before them since rejoining, although the horse-holders still trailed.

The two parties mingled at this lunch as Dimarico broke out his stores of food.

Swann stayed alert and counseled the others to do likewise. Some, at least, heeded his advice. A thought came, and he told his two shield-less spearmen to wrap cloaks around their left arms once travel resumed—poor protection but better than none.

### §

### Chapter 23 - It Won't Kill You

"A few miles and we'll sight Ecglaf's village," Dimarico announced. "Perhaps three hours, considering how the oxen are dragging."

Ecglaf ranged ahead reconnoitering the wooded area. An excellent place for an ambush, Swann thought, but the nearness of the settlement reassured him.

At the end cart Brixby greeted him with raised arm.

"Hail, Caesar! _Morituri te salutamus!_ "

Sheila gave a big guffaw and Kinnard tittered nervously.

_I wish!_ Swann muttered, thinking of the _mori_ part but otherwise ignoring him.

"Let's continue to stay alert, folks—we're not home yet."

"And likely never to be," Brixby added.

More laughter from the two main suspects but Gephart's face stayed stony. He didn't like Brixby and sure didn't want to see the Major putting up with the clown. As for himself, he treated this as serious business the way Jack wanted. Why couldn't these fools stick to it for a few more hours? His arm felt hot and heavy under the blanket and his side hurt plenty—must have strained it more during the uphill march.

And look at Kinnard, the dork, undoing his blanket again to give his arm some relief. _Put up with it—it won't kill you!_ What if somebody came running at them right now? Probably drop the thing and trip over it.

### * * *

As they approached the wooded area the fyrding formed in front of them but it was plain they hadn't gone far into the forest—too thick.

Swann examined either side. They marched on a slightly raised path while trees filled the lower areas to right and left. Elm, beech, ash, linden and others towered above. The track, a good sixty feet wide here, showed evidence of long maintenance, at least in the cutting back of weeds and bushes. Branches were trimmed high on the trunks, perhaps to supply firewood, and giant limbs drooped to hedge in the sky.

To the right the woods were open. To the left—which faced southerly—saplings and brush grew thickly between. Most were leafless but some appeared half evergreen. Others—the beeches at least—retained many of last year's faded leaves. In this tree-lined corridor the breeze hardly blew but scattered clouds scudded across the sky, shadows mottling the caravan. The effect was beautiful yet hinted a threat.

Down the wide aisle they silently plodded, oppressed by the lowering sun's dim light, peering apprehensively from side to side, their rear-viewing sentinels—the two women, at least—straining their eyes toward where the remounts maintained position.

A couple of hundred yards from the end of this mile-long passage Dimarico noticed a stir ahead as the Saxons reined in. Other horsemen moved to block the path where it entered a clearing. The Saxons moved forward again, Ecglaf shouting a challenge. The strangers turned and raced away, their escort charging after with a roar, abandoning the Americans.

Dimarico looked for instructions. "Jack!"

"Keep moving," Swann replied. He shouted to the convoy, "Nock arrows! Everyone draw your weapons and get ready." His instincts shouted ambush. The escort had either been suckered or were part of the plot.

On they went. Two hundred yards to the open, one fifty, one hundred—Swann began to hope.

From bushes on the left at the opening plunged an armed man—byrnie, helm, sword and shield. Two bowmen followed while the chieftain flourished his sword and shouted. The lead wagon halted, and although the other carters had been instructed to close up, their instincts took over—they stopped and took cover.

"Jack!" Dimarico yelled. "He says our lives are worth more than our wealth and we should..."

"Brian—kill that man for me."

Pierce raised and drew but as he released could predict a miss, the swordsman already running for the bushes. The two bowmen replied.

Swann shrank within himself at the sight of arrows arcing down but shot simultaneously with Small. One of the swing oxen on the treasure cart plunged and bellowed, struck in its hindquarters. As Swann nocked and drew again the one of the attacking bowman doubled over and staggered toward cover. The second enemy released an un-aimed arrow and leaped behind the brush.

Sutton heard rather than saw the attack from the side, his attention riveted on the drama at the head of the column. By instinct he raised his shield in time to intercept a javelin, the shock startling him with its force. He hacked at the shaft in an attempt to rid his shield of the drag but spearmen were charging and there was no time. He backpedaled until he struck a cart, realizing how frighteningly this differed from their games back in the US.

The move saved his life, for he faced three enemies. Ideas of scientific swordplay evaporated.

When Gephart saw attackers pouring from the woods near the last cart he stepped toward them and raised his spear. Immediately recollecting the major's instructions, he pivoted and ran around the rear of the cart. As Kinnard moved off the cart-tail like a man in a dream Gephart grabbed him with his left hand, encumbered though it was by the blanket, dragging him behind the cart and dropping him at his feet. A mis-aimed spear snaked across the cart at him.

Brixby was too battle-wise to direct all his attention to the action at front, managing to glimpse the start of the Saxon charge at their cart. He drew and released a quick shot then turned to run around the oxen to the right side, nocking another arrow as he went. As he reached the lead ox a man armored in leather, one of Sutton's attackers, spotted him and turned, raising his spear. Should he continue his run, Brixby would be forced to turn his back on a likely attack. He froze.

A sudden realization shocked Brenneman. Swann was right—they were in a serious situation and she should have been paying attention. When the side attack started she crouched down near the front of the cart, unsure what to do. As Gephart and Kinnard appeared and stood at bay she rose to peek over the cart sides. What she saw didn't encourage her—several men were reaching for Gephart with their spears. And here came one running wide around the back of the cart!

At the challenge in front Lachey and Dasczo turned to see the action. As the bandit arrows rose Dasczo yelled, "Duck!" and they slid off the boxes to cower on the floor. Lachey's feet struck the tailgate and she groaned in pain.

Dimarico sensed the Saxon charge in time to duck a javelin which flew over his head. He started toward the front of the string so as to get behind the wagon per Swann's orders but the attackers closed in—he would be cut off and speared from the back. He tried to get between the wheel and swing oxen to jump the cart tongue but the plunging of the hurt ox on the other side prevented it. He turned at bay, shield and sword raised, his backside precariously nestled between the head of one ox and the rump of another.

Immediately judging the Saxon arrows would strike nowhere near, Manaea tore his eyes from the front to scan his side for a threat from the right. Shouts and a javelin striking nearby spun him around to left where he saw half a dozen men racing toward Sutton and Dimarico. Although ordered to defend from behind the train, the situation had changed and he bolted for the front of the ox string to come to his employer's aid.

Pierce cursed himself for his bad shot. To the front he saw nothing. He spun left toward the attackers, unsure what to do—they were too mingled with his own people to pick a clear target. He looked to Swann for guidance but gained none and pivoted back to the front, his bow half drawn. An arrow came from behind the bush where the Saxons had gone to earth, striking a high stalk and deflecting wide. He drew and shot back, knowing as he did it was another wasted missile.

Small, his attention on the frontal attack, was surprised when men burst out of the wood near the treasure cart. He raised and drew but could see no clear shot, took a couple of hesitant steps away from the column to get a better angle, drew again... Wait! Here came the big Sergeant charging past and blocking his view.

Swann caught the action starting at the treasure cart and stepped that way, drawing full for a careful shot. As he did a movement from the tail caught his eye—one of the attackers swinging wide to come down the near side of the column, threatening to take their defense in the flank. He turned to this more critical threat, aimed and released. To his horror he saw Sheila jump out as his arrow left the bow, and feared she might take it in the back.

Brixby shot on the run without drawing fully. The arrow took the Saxon in the hip and he stumbled, spearpoint dropping. Brixby scampered past the oxen and halted, irresolute whether to move forward to the treasure cart or back to help the rear.

Sutton managed to deflect a couple of thrusts with shield and sword-flat but one from the left drove through his shield and pricked his forearm. He quickly pivoted to his right, trapping the spear before the point could be withdrawn. He deflected another thrust from his right, sliding his sword down the spear-shaft. A weak stroke but the tip gained sufficient momentum to cut through his attacker's gauntlet, slashing knuckles and almost severing the man's little finger. The fellow leaped back.

But no joy. _My God!_ Sutton thought as he struggled with the man whose spear stuck in his shield, _Here comes another one!_

Kinnard, sprawling next to Gephart's legs, scrambled to his feet, almost losing his grip on the spear. The enemy facing Gephart saw an easier target and aimed a thrust at him. He tried to dodge but bumped into Gephart, the point grazing his head. The Saxon thrust again, this time tangling his spearpoint in the blanket trailing from Kinnard's arm.

Stung by his wounds, with some of the desperate courage of his Highland ancestors Kinnard scythed at the man's unprotected legs, slashing him at the knee.

With sudden inspiration Brenneman hopped from behind the two men and shot full at the Saxon running to get behind them. The attacker took two more steps before veering off the track, stumbling and tripping to sprawl on his side. _Yes!_ she exulted, skipping back behind the men. Peeking over the cart while nocking, she ducked to avoid a spear thrust aimed right at her face—a weird thrill ran down her spine.

Dimarico found his hands full with an attack by an armored swordsman and two spearmen. The swordsman alternated strokes at his head and legs while the spears drove at his head and chest. A spear caught him with startling force on the right side of his coif, almost knocking him out. He stumbled against the wheel ox, which flicked its head, pushing him toward his enemies. He retained enough poise to take two quick steps and thrust at the nearest spearman, catching him in the forearm, then recovered to drive the swordsman back with a heavy cut into his shield. He saw the second spearman pull away to the right, giving him time to take a breath before the two remaining renewed their attacks.

The thrusts over top of the cart no more than inconvenienced Gephart. He had stepped far enough away so they barely reached him at the limit of their strokes, dealing light pricks at worst. The Saxon to his fore, however, got partly-blocked thrusts past his flimsy blanket shield, cutting his upper arm and chest—making it difficult to keep his guard up.

The man now stumbled from Kinnard's slash, stretching his shield out in an effort to retain balance. Gephart thrust full force. His spearpoint glanced off the shield to strike the man's leather helm, snapping his head back. He fell flat but another stepped up to take his place.

Manaea charged down beside the ox string. A Saxon turned to face him, lifting his shield to cover his face and thrusting blindly. Manaea brushed aside the spearpoint and crashed down an overhand blow, cleaving the shield and crushing the man's helm.

Without missing a stride he went for the next spearman, who backed rapidly away, his spear still extended from the last strike at Dimarico. Manaea cut at the shaft then drove into him, forearm and sword hilt smashing the man's shield into his face. The Saxon lurched back and fell.

Brixby saw an opening for a shot at a couple of the Saxons who were thrusting across the cart at Gephart. Checking to see his right side was clear, he stood upright, quickly aimed and released then bent down to use the oxen for cover once more, glancing yet again toward his right to be sure he wasn't being flanked by a crafty opponent. Something was developing there.

Weapons glinted as several men thrust and slashed, shrank back and advanced. Closely watching the action, Brixby retreated to be sure no one could come round and flank him.

Sheila crept farther from the cart then stood and peeked once more. A spear again flashed toward her and she ducked. She drew as far as she could while bent over, then stood again to tempt the spear thrust. It came, falling nearly a foot short. She instantly raised her bow, releasing while the man recovered. She ducked once more and missed the result but when she re-nocked and looked again, no thrust came.

Sutton took a hard spear strike on his shoulder, not penetrating his mail but temporarily numbing his sword arm. The Saxon raised his spear to thrust again but whirled to his left as Manaea charged toward him. He staggered from a blow that knocked the boss off his round shield, breaking the handle. He drew his spear back to ward Manaea's next cut but it was hacked down, the sword slashing into his biceps. He backpedaled and dropped to his knees in surrender, his shield rolling away.

Sutton managed to get inside the guard of his remaining assailant and with his arm coming back to life, slashed at the man's legs. The fellow jumped back. Seeing the odds, the man turned and fled into the trees. Barry sagged in relief.

Dimarico thrust at his assailant, recovered and cut deeply into the man's shield, freeing his sword with difficulty. His opponent slashed back, cleaving Dimarico's shield, the sword only stopping when it struck his chain-mailed arm. Dimarico thrust at the man's face then again, pricking the arm. The Saxon scrambled back and stood on guard, shield up and sword raised. Dimarico, feeling sick from the effects of the blow to his face, declined to pursue, lowering his sword-point.

The Saxon turned and slipped away between the trees. Brixby shot at him as he ran off, the arrow zipping past Manaea with inches to spare. He received a hard look from the Sergeant but nothing else for his effort.

Across from the wagon two more Saxons burst from the woods, a full-armed man and a bowman—the ones who had earlier blocked the track. The bowman stopped against a trunk and shot, the arrow striking Dimarico's uplifted shield. Small and Swann replied, the next arrow slipping from the man's fingers. The swordsman ran a few steps into the clear while assessing the situation, halted and immediately turned. As he scuttled back into the trees an arrow from Pierce followed, piercing his hauberk and striking through to his buttock. The wounded bowman joined him in retreat.

Gephart still faced three enemies, trading thrusts with one of them. Brixby shot at the two Saxons behind the cart, striking the shield of one. They looked at one another, came to a decision and quickly departed. Kinnard dashed blood from his eye and began to circle Gephart's opponent, his spear held underhand and stuck out as far as it would go. The man stepped back, undecided whether to attack or run. Gephart retreated, leaning on the cartwheel and lowering his spearpoint, Kinnard following his lead.

Quick as a flash the Saxon flung away his spear and shield. Leaping forward, he grabbed a coffer from the cart and ran toward the woods, cradling the heavy box. Swann drew and took aim, taking care to apply the proper lead. He loosed and the arrow sank to its fletching in the man's near thigh.

The Saxon tripped and he fell hard on the box. Getting to his knees he again gripped the box, rose and tripped once more. A third time he struggled and tripped again, sprawling over the coffer.

Brixby shot and the arrow skipped off the coffer's banding. This finished it.

Dropping the box, the man leaped to his feet, flapping his arms and taking prodigious spread-legged jumps to clear the arrow stub, like a startled ostrich with the gout. Sheila raised her bow but broke into laughter and couldn't aim. The would-be thief disappeared into the dim forest.

Swann lowered his bow and shook his head. The attack seemed to have ceased. He felt drained, though he doubted this concentrated display of violence had taken three minutes.

He'd not thought once of the shotgun.

### {END of Book I}

But read on.

### §

### **Conflict Resolution for Mercenaries** [excerpt]

"Let me in, let me in!"

LeeAnn ran to the door and Kinnard pushed past her.

"Dale! What's the matter?"

"They're attacking the hall. Saemod—your gar!"

"Who is? Who's attacking?"

"Sheila, Ian and some Saxons."

"I shall go, young lord."

Despite the foreign words, Saemod had understood and was eager for battle.

Kinnard hesitated. "Have you two gars? No? Then I go." To LeeAnn: "Give me a blanket."

She ran to get it for him. "I'm going, too."

Lachey clutched her arm. "No."

"I'll stay back. I won't fight."

"Don't be crazy, LeeAnn."

"Only to watch, Edie—to spy."

"Oh... I'll take Hildi and go for help—most of these folks have weapons. _Hildi!_ Leave Pup."

Kinnard and Saemod charged out, followed by Dasczo. Up the trail they ran, crouching low, Saemod losing ground. As they neared the hall they slowed, skulking behind buildings and bushes. They hardly needed to worry—the renegades were fully intent on their attempt to cut an entry—arrows being shot, axes hacking. The shutter quivered at every blow, seemingly ready to fall but its heavy bar holding firm.

Stepping back and downing his axe, Grimbeald puffed, "Once again."

Brixby and Sheila drew but before they could release Saemod recognized his son.

"Freotta! What do you here?" he cried.

Kinnard stepped into the open. "Sheila, Ian—for God's sake!"

Those two hesitated to act against this least antagonistic American but Grimbeald had no such scruples. With a roar he charged toward Kinnard, axe upraised for a killing stroke.

Kinnard stepped up and thrust. The Saxon changed his cut into a parry, knocking the spear aside and following with a backhand that would have dismembered Kinnard had the American not jumped away. Grimbeald pursued, swinging two-handed right and left. Kinnard could only skip backwards, unable to set up for another thrust.

The end came when Grimbeald, with a forehand, knocked away Kinnard's final attempt at a thrust then aimed an up-sweeping backhand at the American's temple. His swing trapped the spear and drove its shaft against his own neck. The axe twisted in his hands and he barely managed a glancing slap with the flat, high on Kinnard's head.

It was enough. Kinnard stumbled a few steps before falling on his back, the spear flying loose. Grimbeald took a few deep breaths before striding forward, debating whether to take the head or cleave it to the teeth. He raised his axe.

"Halt!" Sheila cried.

Grimbeald turned to see her with an arrow drawn to her cheek. He sneered full-face, taking another step.

»«

### Appendix

For more information on Old Englisc:

http://www.ling.upenn.edu/~kurisuto/germanic/oe_bosworthtoller_about.html

http://www.ucalgary.ca/UofC/eduweb/engl401/lessons/pronunc1.hhtm

* * *

For more concerning England circa 1066:

HAROLD The Last Anglo-Saxon King by Ian W. Walker

§

Note: TMfM and its sequels are primarily interested in following the fortunes of modern English and Americans in Medieval life as we understand it from the viewpoint of a millennium later.

In this series of books I deliberately leave interaction with Saxon royalty to a minimum and make only a minor attempt to accurately portray ordinary Anglo-Saxons and their society. In the first place, society at that time is by no means fully known to us. People in the Middle Ages, even in a relatively enlightened land such as England, had strange customs and laws and were excruciatingly superstitious even in their approach to Christianity. I wished to avoid speculating on that as well as matters.

With regard to royalty and high nobility we are again faced with guesswork as to their intimate political and social views, and the justifications of their actions they made to themselves and others. Most novels covering the period are too prone, in my view, to treat these power-wielders as if they were modern men and women.

In real Germanic societies of the time local lords and leaders in positions such as those of Dimarico and Swann would have been closely involved in local government. Again, we can only speculate to what degree. I chose to avoid cluttering the story with speculations along those lines as well.

BTW: Lord comes from an older form meaning loaf-warden, and lady from loaf-kneader. Perhaps this gives some increased insight into even earlier Germanic society.

* * *

Internal sketches: These were dashed off by the designer while waiting for his computer to redraw. He claimed they were too crude to use but I chose to include them as one individual's impressions of how some of the characters might appear.

§

Thank you for reading this book of the Mercenaries series. Please leave a review if you wish.

Feel free to comment or criticize, or to inform me of typos or other errors.

Visit my website to read excerpts and free content.

·

Other books in the series are listed below.

·

Conflict Resolution for Mercenaries -2nd in series

·

Community Organizing for Mercenaries -3rd in series

·

Retirement Planning for Mercenaries -4th in series [in process]

·

For something different yet also exciting, take a squint at:

Blood & Dirt

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In my works there is nothing supernatural nor any superheroes—merely ordinary people, similar to you and me, caught up in extraordinary situations.

Dai Alanye
