Cryptozoic! (17 page)

"What are
you
doing here?"
"I've had a terrible time!" She motioned to the nearest room and they passed
in. It was a little over-furnished room with an over-ornate grate in which
a coal fire crackled, burning in a cold morning fashion without the glowing
coals underneath which would support it when it was less freshly laid. Her
back to the blue-and-yellow flames, a plump woman with a bunch of keys
chained round her waist sat at a little escritoire, writing out a list
of articles.
"What have we come here for?"
"That's the housekeeper. This is one of the rooms attached to the Stewards'
Room, where visiting ladies-maids and valets are entertained. Relax, Eddie!
Anyone would think you weren't pleased to see me again."
He didn't like it. She had been completely indifferent to her surroundings
when last he had seen her. The slice of gratuitous information she supplied
made him immediately suspicious. He began to take his pack off. He wanted to
get at his gun.
"You left me at The Amniote Egg back in the Jurassic. Where did you get to?"
"Sweetie, I did not leave you. I went back in the place a dozen times
after you, and kept asking that friend of yours -- the neat guy --
if he'd seen you, but you cleared off and left me."
"That doesn't explain why you dodged off in the first place." He felt
the light-gun in a compartment of his pack and slid it into his pocket,
hoping Ann did not gather what he was doing.
"I ran into my old boy friend, Lenny, and a couple of his pals. They marched
me off and I couldn't get away till they were asleep."
"It could be an explanation."
"Damn you, it
is
an explanation! Besides, I meant nothing to you. I was
just one more girl. At least Lenny needed me."
He said flatly, "I needed you -- then. Now it appears you need me here.
How come you're in 1851?" He had not enjoyed the reference to Lenny,
recalling him lying in the foetal position bloody on the torture room
floor. If she knew about that, how would she feel?
Her spiky manner was back. She flung her maid's cap at a nearby table;
it fell through and lay on the floor.
"I don't have to answer your questions, you know. If you don't want to help,
okay, but there's no point asking me things if you aren't going to believe
a word I tell you. I can see by your manner you're miffed about something,
aren't you?"
"I asked you what you're doing in 1851."
"You know what things are like, back in the present. The new government
is getting tough, trying to round up all mind-travelers, take their CSD
away, and confine them to their own epoch. All minders in the Jurassic
were rounded up -- the army works in civilian clothes, so you don't
watch out for them till they get you. They took Lenny and his boys back
to the present, but I got away -- I told you I'm an expert minder --
and I came here, where I thought I'd be safest. Now are you satisfied?"
The housekeeper was moving about her room. Although he was satisfied
she was of her time and could not affect him in any way, Bush found that
her movements made him jumpy.
He whipped the light-gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Ann.
"No, I'm not satisfied" he said. "You're hiding something. How did you know
I'd been back to 2093?"
She looked seared. She peered at him with an anguished stare, her mouth
distorted.
"What are you up to? You're mad, aren't you, Bush? I didn't know you'd
been back to 2093. I never said you had been, did I?"
"You said I would know what things were like there."
"You don't have to go back to know how things are. You don't trust me
an inch! I haven't been back and l know."
He had to admit it sounded feasible. But there was something else.
"You say they got Lenny and the other tershers. Which ones?"
"Their names, you mean? Pete, Jacky, Josie . . ." She rattled off
their names.
"Stein?"
She licked her lips. "Eddie, please, you frighten me!"
He left the gun pointing at her. "Stein?"
"I didn't see Stein in the Jurassic. Did you?"
"Where's Stein now?"
"Eddie, I don't know!"
"Why did you come here?"
"I thought I'd be safe -- I told you!"
He grabbed her arm, staring into her face, feeling her body against
his. "Listen, you know I'm a bastard! Tell me, is Stein here?"
She turned anxiously to him. "Eddie, Eddie, don't be cruel to me! I know
you're a cruel man, but I would never hurt you -- "
He rattled her. "Is bloody Stein here, I asked you?"
"Yes, yes, he is -- under his real name."
"Silverstone?"
"Yes."
He started to search her. Under her apron, she wore an old-fashioned
gas-gun. The feel of her roused his emotions; and he could smell her --
the first thing he had smelled for a long while; but he kept his mind on
what he was doing. As he stared at her, the housekeeper walked through
them and into an inner room.
"You came here to kill him, didn't you, Eddie? They're employing you as
an agent, aren't they?"
She dropped her eyes, fearing to hear his answer. He saw how frail she
was, really no stronger than Joan Bush despite her different spirit; he
saw she was as much caught up in time's circumstances as Joan. Although
he could never love her, he regretted the way he treated her.
"Ann -- I was sent here -- I was sent here to knock Silverstone off.
You have to take me to him. You know where he is, don't you?"
She was agitated, biting her lips, glancing out of the window as if the
dull nineteenth-century sunshine held a message for her.
"Look, Eddie, I guess you are a bastard like you say but -- well, please
trust me just for five minutes. Can you just wait here? I promise I'll be
back. I know you don't trust me, but I promise."
"Silverstone is here, isn't he? I can tell."
"Yes, yes, he is."
"I'll give you five minutes then. Bring Silverstone back here. Don't say
who it is, don't bring anyone else, don't tell anyone else I'm here.
Just bring Silverstone. Got that?"
"Yes, yes, Eddie. Please trust me!"
"As I trust my mother."
She stared at him, suspecting a concealed meaning in what he said. Then
she turned and left.
Whatever she was up to, it was not good. He thought he detected in her
manner some restraint, as if someone had inflicted on her a purpose
not her own -- and Bush knew who that someone was, or believed he did.
If Action's strong-arm men had coralled her when they caught up with
Lenny, she had probably been sent to some sort of training course, much
as he and Lenny had. Once they found out her shiftless disposition,
her ability to mind far and wide, they could have trained her for the
job of killing Silverstone, as he had been trained. For this reason, he
had not revealed his intentions to her. His brain was working rapidly,
he saw the web of the present stretching back over the unknowing past.
When the regime found he had disappeared into the centuries, they would
not send her back alone. She would have someone with her -- of course
she would, for good at minding although Ann was, she needed someone to
travel with, as she had previously traveled with Lenny and Bush.
By the same token, she would be coming back with someone else in five
minutes. There would be several Action agents in the palace; she'd be sure
to bring one of them along too, even if she also brought Silverstone.
Perhaps they would wait to see if he shot Silverstone; perhaps that would
be his only way of avoiding his own execution. The initial advantage was
his: they would not be sure what he was going to do; he knew; he was going
to do all he could to rescue Silverstone.
And he was not planning to stand here and be captured in this cluttered
ante-room. He did not trust Ann, never had; even when he lay with her,
it had been more in sport, in challenge, than in fondness. She was a
tersher, as unstable as he was.
Thrusting the gas-gun into his left pocket, grasping the light-gun in his
right hand, he moved through the door.
On the opposite side of the corridor stood the housekeeper's cupboard,
its door open. It was a large room. Two elderly matrons in white starched
aprons were ironing linen, heating massive irons on a range -- one quick
disinterested look showed him the red monograms "VR" and the crowns in
the corners of the sheets. He backed into the doorway, keeping watch on
the dark passage. He found he was looking forward to trouble. It was a
way of staying in contact.
The waiting sapped his nervous elation. Of course, he could always mind
back to 2093; but they would be waiting for him there; and if he sank
unresistingly back into the past, back into the Devonian, the Cambrian,
his new-found sense of purpose would still be there, bearing him timeless
company. How long was time, even human time! On the whole, he preferred
to shoot it out in Buckingham Palace.
Someone was running down the corridor. Bush heard the quick steps and
thought, "God, he's mad!" He shrank back from whomever it was into the
dark alcove.
A man appeared, short fair hair flapping on his head, his face split
in a contagious grin. He reached out an open hand to Bush. The gesture
was so spontaneously friendly that Bush was smiling and responding even
before he realized who the man was: the friendliest of strangers!
"You!"
"I!"
It was he himself, swooping godlike out of time to bless his enterprise!
This was a sort of exchange of love; he was overcome by emotion at the
look and feel of this extension of himself, and could bring out no words.
But the vision was there only for a moment before -- as if taking fright
-- it slipped away into mid-mind before his eyes. The sight was gone
from his retina, the feel of another hand from his hand. The alcove
was deserted again, and his future self shuffling somewhere through the
stacked deck of other hours.
He felt the sobs heaving up in his throat, and stinging tears at his eyes.
Almost before he had time to control himself, other noises came down
the corridor.
In the utter soundlessness, he heard the padding footsteps of people
walking in mind-travel. He shrank back, so that his silhouette did not
show against the light from the open door beyond which the women plied
their irons.
It would be satisfying to jump out on Silverstone as the man had jumped
out on him in the Jurassic -- no doubt mistaking Bush then, by a curious
sort of pre-cognitive error, for an assassin trained by Stanhope, Howes
and company.
Two figures appeared, halting within a yard of Bush. He saw at once that
they were from his own time, although both wore period disguises. One was
Ann, still in her maid's uniform. The other was a gentleman in morning
coat and waistcoat. Bush could not make out his face as he glanced sharply
at Ann, beyond noticing smooth mutton chop whiskers, but he saw at once
that it was not Silverstone.
The two of them stepped through into the ante-chamber to the stewards' room.
Bush followed, raising the light-gun.
Put your hands up!" he said.
They swung round in surprise. He saw the man's face then. Even under the
whiskers, there was no failing to recognize it. The fellow had a wig,
too, covering his bald head. He had once bribed Bush with a bottle of
Black Wombat Special. He had given Bush his orders for the assassination
mission. He would be one of the men who most wanted to kill Bush for
failing in that mission. His name was Howes.
So, thought Bush, if Ann had brought him, then Ann had betrayed him.
Like all women, she couldn't be trusted, she didn't love him. He fired at
her. She was no more than four feet away, and she dropped as the pencil
of light cut into her.
As Bush swung the gun onto Howes, he saw the captain draw his gun.
Time went out of kilter again. He watched the gun come up and aim at him,
he saw the expression change on Howes' face as he squeezed the button. And
all the time Bush's arm was coming up slowly, slowly, like a dead man's
underwater and Ann was still rolling at his feet, her fair hair veiling
her face.
He saw Howes' gun go off, and then he was stumbling across Ann, joining
her in oblivion.
Chapter 3
UNDER THE QUEEN'S SKIRTS
"You were quoting Wordsworth," Howes said coldly. "Get up!"
The retching had brought Bush round, jerking him from a messy and tumbled
unconsciousness. He sat up, still heaving slightly. Howes had used a
gas-gun on him, the effects of which were unpleasant but not lethal;
clutching his forehead, Bush almost wished it were vice versa.
Howes had hauled him into a bedroom, a gigantic chamber somewhat
eccentrically furnished even for Victorian times, with a brass bed at
one end and, at the other, a massive grate executed in mock
cinque
cento
style, supporting two mourning ladies and a surprising number
of lesser cherubs in black lead. Bush stared at it in horrid surprise;
it seemed to be all that was needed to complete his disorientation. He
was looking at it close to, sprawling on a large polar bear rug, the
fur of which was inaccessible to his touch.
"Oh, God, I killed Ann!" he said, wiping his face.
Howes stood over him and said, "I've been looking for you, Bush. What have
you got to say for yourself?"
"I'll talk to you when I'm able to get up, not before."
Howes grasped him by the arm and pulled him up. As he came, Bush brought
his fist round. But the effects of the gas had not yet worn off. He could
put no force into the blow and Howes blocked it easily.
"Right then, Bush -- you're on your feet! There's trouble here, and I want to
know where you've been hiding since you left 2093. Come on, start talking!"
"I've nothing to say to you or any of your regime."
"I suspect you don't know which side I'm on, or which side you yourself
are on."
"I'm clear enough about myself, thanks. Lick your own wounds!"
"Right, then, let's start with you. Why did you shoot Ann?"
It was a question he could not bear to brush aside.
"You know why I shot her! I shot her because she betrayed me! She brought
you along here to kill me, and don't tell me otherwise."
"Why didn't you shoot me first, if I was the danger to you?" Seeing Bush's
hesitation, Howes went on, "I'll tell you why! I read up on your dossier
at the Wenlock Institute long before I sent you after Silverstone. You're
all mixed up about women because you believe your mother betrayed you in
some way; from then on, you've always had a compulsion to betray women
before they could betray you."