Times Without Number (19 page)

"Secundo: there is a particular clause in the Treaty under which you,
Don Rodrigo, are no doubt champing to frame an indictment. It states,
in sum, that neither signatory to the agreement will act in such a way in
past times as to cause a disadvantage to the other party discernible in
present time. It makes no reference to hypothetical future disadvantage,
and since mining operations have not even yet spread from this valley to
the adjacent one where the poachers dug their shafts, it is only future
disadvantage that's in question."
"Ridiculous!" fumed Don Rodrigo. "All right, they took their ore from
shafts dug in the next valley, not in the one we're at present mining --
nonetheless, the mine manager says his men have frequently found that
veins of ore stopped before they should have done, causing them to go
back and dig fresh galleries when they ought to have been able to extend
the existing ones for a long way yet. If that isn't 'disadvantage,'
I don't know what is!" He leaned back and concluded with bad grace,
"Much as it pains me to contradict an expert of your calibre, I feel
you're overlooking something."
"Nothing," the Jesuit murmured. "Or rather, not I but the experts in
disputation who have spent the better part of a century thrashing out
possible interpretations of the Treaty." He lifted a third finger. "I
say further that -- tertio disadvantage discernible in present time was
not caused to us because it was not at the present time of discovery
of these veins of ore that Don Miguel Navarro interpreted the facts to
indicate previous interference."
Even Don Felipe gaped at the appalling casuistry of that remark. As
for Don Miguel, he could not restrain himself from an explosive --
but fortunately wordless -- reaction. Father Ramón turned to him.
"I know what you're thinking, my son," he said. "You're wondering why,
if this is so, we should not ourselves systematically go and rifle the
prehistoric ages of the territory now occupied by the Confederacy, so as
to render their lands poor and barren. I can answer that immediately. It
wasn't done. And why should it be done? What profit is there in it? If
we did it to them, they'd do it to us, and each would wind up with the
other's resources at the cost of infinitely greater effort."
He switched his penetrating gaze back to Don Rodrigo. "What you've either
forgotten or never realised, my son, is that the Treaty of Prague is
unique. Alone among the agreements and covenants made between men or
nations throughout history, the punishment for breaking it is laid down
not by the men who drafted it, but by God who created the universe. And
for that reason it is worse than foolish to expend your efforts on showing
that a breach of it has been committed. It is very nearly sinful. Putting
it bluntly: the Treaty of Prague can be broken, but -- must -- not!"
He marked each word of the last phrase with a tap of his bony fist on
the table, and in rhythm with the sounds the colour in Don Rodrigo's
cheeks heightened until it was vivid as a sunset. Seeing him blush,
Don Arturo smiled for the first time that Don Miguel could remember
since the terrible New Year's Eve of the current year.
To save himself from having to dwell on his private recollections of
that dreadful night, Don Miguel said aloud, "But some action must be
taken, nonetheless!"
"Indubitably," the Jesuit agreed. "May we hear your own proposals
concerning it?"
Don Miguel stumbletongued. He said, "Why -- why, I have no definite
plan. Indeed, I've been wondering whether our action may not be
foreordained! Two Dogs suggested that we should step in and drive away
the poachers at the point where their work had resulted in exactly the
traces which he and his men discovered, and reflecting on the idea I
began to suspect that a closed causative loop must exist which gives
rise to precisely those traces we've found in the present."
"This is highly probable," agreed Father Ramón. "Evidently something
prevented the poachers from exhausting the entire mineral resources of
the area, and the likeliest explanation is that they were interrupted
and compelled to abandon their work."
"In that case," Don Rodrigo said, "our course of action is plain. We must
at once send back an armed party to effect this -- this compulsory
abandonment of their mines."
"Not at all," Father Ramón countered. "We must go back, certainly --
but to speak with them, learn who they are, and instruct them to depart."
"Speak with them?" Don Rodrigo echoed scornfully. "But they shot down
Roan Horse on his mere appearance!"
"I doubt if they will fire on an obvious extemporate. Especially if he
wears the cloth."
That took a moment to sink in. Brother Vasco was the first to react.
"Father, you're not thinking of going alone!" he exclaimed.
"No, indeed. By way of imprinting a little lesson on a certain party
who has -- not for the first time -- acted too impulsively, I shall go
in the company of . . . Don Miguel Navarro."
He did not switch his gaze to Don Miguel until he had finished speaking.
The latter, not much relishing the prospect of facing the poachers under
these circumstances, but resigned to the idea since it came from Father
Ramón, gave a shrug.
"As you say, Father. It appears that I've started a panic which isn't
justified by the legalities of the matter."
"Good." Father Ramón glanced at his watch, and stood up. "It's late,
and after my journey I'm somewhat weary. Tomorrow I'll require the use
of your time apparatus, and we'll settle the problem -- God willing --
once for all."
"What's been decided, Don Miguel?" came the soft question from Two Dogs.
He was sitting out late on his verandah; on the floor at his feet
Conchita, his serving-maid and mistress, was picking ethereal chords
from her cuatro, a small four-stringed guitar. He had offered her to Don
Miguel a couple of times when first the latter came to stay here, but
that was so far from the customs of home he had refused automatically,
and the offer had not been repeated. Subsequently he had looked again
at Conchita, who was slim, berry-brown and graceful as a dancer, and
regretted the fact. He would have welcomed the mere physical relief of
her company as a key to the sleep which worry had so often denied him
these past several weeks.
He sat down wearily in the guest-chair, and waited while Two Dogs dismissed
Conchira with a gesture; she went like a shadow, silently. Then he said,
"There's been no breach of the Treaty."
For a long moment Two Dogs did not comment. Finally he said in a tight,
controlled voice, "How's that possible? Surely they don't doubt there's
been interference with the past!"
"You're too practical a man to follow the casuistry of it." Don Miguel
shut his eyes and rubbed at them to relieve their tiredness. "I can barely
make it out myself. But what it comes down to is that instead of going
back and driving the poachers away, we're simply going to pay them a --
a sort of social call, Father Ramón and myself. What good that will do,
Lord knows."
Two Dogs laughed harshly. He said, "Indeed you Europeans are strange
beyond comprehension. There's no consistency in your behaviour! You
travelled half a world from home, risked your lives, drove away my
ancestors from their hunting-grounds for the sake of gold and silver --
and now, when someone is filching away what you spilled so much blood
to secure, you say you're going to have a little chat with the thieves!"
Don Miguel was too fatigued to frame a reply. There was a short silence.
At length Two Dogs rose to his feet.
"Well, I suppose it's a small consolation that your millstones won't
be grinding us after all. I'll bid you good night, then, and wish you
sharp wits in your discussion with the poachers. Though if it were up
to me I'd counsel more substantial weapons."
VI
As Don Miguel had expected, the valley had changed so little in a
thousand years that it was not incongruous to find a mining encampment
when they walked over the brow of the hill behind which, to escape
immediate observation, they had chosen to arrive. There had no doubt
been earth movements; there were subtle differences in the outlines of
some of the nearby slopes. But the identity of the landscape at the two
time-points was unmistakable.
He felt a stir of admiration for the magnificently simple stage-management
of Father Ramón's plan. When they emerged on the crest of the hill and
let the poachers see them, the impact was instantaneous. Watchful guards
raised guns to their shoulders -- checked -- and let the muzzles slowly
fall again, within the space of a dozen heartbeats. Indians such as were
to be expected at this moment of time would no doubt have been fired on
to drive them away, as had happened to Roan Horse. But the sight of Father
Ramón in his sombre habit and Don Miguel wearing -- at the Jesuit's
insistence -- the jewelted collar and star of the Order of the Scythe
and Hourglass conspicuously glittering on his plain shirt: this was a
message to inform the poachers without words that their presence and
their plans were known.
They waited, a light breeze touching their faces, while news of their
arrival spread. Don Miguel had his first chance to study the tented
settlement, the mouths of the galleries, the sluices and sedimentation
troughs and all the rest of the equipment, so like the mine which Two
Dogs managed that he had to keep forcibly reminding himself he was more
than a thousand years from home.
Work stopped. Harsh barking orders brought men out of the mine galleries
to blink in the sunlight. Overseers -- not a few of whom, Don Miguel was
dismayed to see, wore the uniform of the Temporal College -- snapped at
each other and their subordinates.
Still the newcomers waited on the crest of the hill, for fully five minutes
in the baking sun of late summer, until at last a big, burly man detached
himself from the ant-milling crowd and came to meet them, accompanied by
two of the uniformed overseers.
"Good day, sirs," he said in heavily accented Spanish. "I do not have to
inquire the reason for your presence. Permit me to present myself: the
Margrave Friedrich von Feuerstein, High Brother of the Temporal College
and Deputy Master of the Wenceslas Brigade. I presume your honour to be
Father Ramón of the Society of Time?"
The Jesuit inclined his head. "We've met before. Though it seems you've
forgotten the fact. In Rome, at the School of Casuistry. My class was
departing as yours arrived."
"Indeed, of course!" the Margrave exclaimed, and extended his hand.
"Strange that our acquaintance should be renewed here and now!"
Father Ramón ignored the proffered hand. He said, "No, it's far from
strange. Are you in charge of this -- this
venture
?"
The Margrave folded his arms across his chest and drew back a pace,
scowling. He said, "Yes, I'm in charge. Why?"
Father Ramón reached inside his habit and produced a rolled parchment.
With his bird-claw fingers he undid the fastening and shook it out;
from its bottom a heavy red seal swung on a ribbon. He seemed suddenly
to speak in a voice other than his own, holding the scroll up as though
to read from it but looking all the time at the Margrave.
"This," he said, "is a copy of a Papal bull. Do I have to tell you that
it is the bull
De tenebris temporalibus
?"
The Margrave smiled. He was a large-jowled man with grey hair; the smile
made plump hummocks of his cheeks, on the crest of each of which showed
a red network of broken veins. He said, "I defy you to show cause for
invoking that bull."
"I am not required to show cause." Father Ramón stared unblinkingly.
"You have twelve hours, present time, in which to remove your men, your
equipment and all traces of your presence here up to the point which we
decree, on pain of summary excommunication by the powers vested in us
under the aforesaid bull. I read!" He snapped the nail of a forefinger
against the stiff parchment so that it sounded like a beaten drum,
and still without looking away from the Margrave began to recite.
"De tenebris temporalibus et de itineribus per tempus leges instituendae
sunt. Deus Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctus dicimus affirmamusque
. . ."
The whole world seemed to hesitate to hear the rolling Latin syllables
ring out through the hot still air.
Concerning the shades of time past and concerning journeys through
time, laws are to be instituted. In the name of God the Father,
Son and Holy Ghost we say and affirm . . .
Don Miguel felt his lips move on the familiar words he had never before
heard invoked.
"We say and affirm that the means of travelling in time is a gift
bestowed by divine ordinance and therefore to be used only in
accordance with divine law, subject to regnlation by bodies of upright,
just and sober men, to conditions now or in the future,laid down by
Papal decree, and to the expedient judgment of those agents now or in
the future appointed by us for the enforcement of those conditions. Let
there be agreements between nations and before God to employ the means
of travelling in time for the benefit of humanity and the increase
of human knowledge that we may the better comprehend and admire our
Creator, and let there be penalties imposed upon those who for evil
ends pervert and misuse this mystery."
The Margrave waited patiently until Father Ramón re-rolled the parchment
with a crisp rustle, and then he said merely, "Tell me, Father -- where is
this 'evil' you're alleging?"
"A thousand years hence, and you're its victim, sir."
The words in themselves meant nothing to Don Miguel -- and little enough,
apparently, to the Margrave -- but the tone in which they were uttered
held a ring of indefinable menace, and he shivered. Noting his reaction,
Father Ramón gave a faint smile.
"Be easy in your mind, my son," he murmured, "it will be clear in a little
while." And to the Margrave he added, "Is there somewhere we can speak in
confidence?"
"Yes! Yes, in my pavilion below. I'll see we're not disturbed or overheard."
The Margrave made to turn, but lingered for a long moment trying to read
the expression on the Jesuit's face. Failing, he led the way down the
slope. The two overseers demanded what they should tell their men, and
he instructed them curtly to halt work until given further orders. It
was plain that they were puzzled by this, but glad of a rest, for the
heat was scorching.