Times Without Number (23 page)

Ragna Rökkr
, the twilight of the gods, where all the
nine worlds crashed into chaos and spawned a new creation.
But that line of thought led him to wistful memories of Kristina, and
it would be a long while before they both met again. He drove himself
back to contemplation of the mind of Two Dogs, and concluded that even
if the Society was compelled to put an end to his life, it would not
be murder, nor even assassination. It would be execution. It would be
justified because he, Don Miguel, had really been into the world where
his crime had been committed, and could swear on the cross that he had
seen . . . what he had seen.
And, on the subject of seeing: what was wrong with the bars surrounding
him? They were always misty and deformed in transit, but they should
have been growing clearer and better defined as he drew closer to the
present. Instead, they seemed to be more blurred than before.
He told hlmself it was a trick of the eyes, and went back to planning
his report to the General Officers. He dared not touch the semi-solid
bars to confirm what vision indicated; that was a quick way to die,
for vast energies were trapped in their configuration.
No, it was all going to come out right. Two Dogs would be stopped at
some convenient point before he could set out in search of Lord Barton,
and the world would return to normal, and there would be a fresh approach
to the Temporal College, and this idea of breaking up the alliance with
the Mohawks --
"Oh my
God!
" he cried aloud.
There had been a wrenching. It had acted on his bare brain, so that he
perceived it as pain, and as blinding light, and as a sound which made
his skull reverberate; as a blazing fire, as a dive for Arctic water,
as a headlong fall into illimitable abysses, one beyond the other,
without number or end.
That was the most terrible thing of all: that it was endless, and yet,
after an eternity, it was over.
He had sight, and hearing, and touch, and the awareness of his body.
He looked, listened, felt air and warm sunlight, knew he was physically
whole, knew he had weight and substance. And while his mind still echoed
with the scream of a dying universe he wanted more than anything to fall
down and weep like a little child.
But that, said a small voice far distant at the edge of his awareness,
is a foolish thing to do. It can be understood what has happened. Think!
Think that in less than one short century after Borromeo, the world
you thought of as ultimately real spawned not only Two Dogs, but others
beside who played with time-travel like a nursery toy. Think of the New
Year's Eve when a king was killed because of a silly quarrel. Think of the
avarice that led to the theft of the Aztec mask, and what had to be done
to set that right. Think why, in the world you imagined to be real, no
one had come back from the future to investigate that future's past . . .
True! Merciful God, as true as daylight, and never understood -- except
perhaps by bitter, downcast Borromeo, who once said he was disappointed
that no one from tomorrow had come to compliment him on his discovery. If
a span of under a century had brought about so many abortive interferences
with the past, why had not the future, with its incalculable toll of
years during which time-travel would be possible?
Because there
was
no future. Not rooted in his world. Don Miguel Navarro
drew breath deep into his throat and whispered the words, to make himself
accept the facts.
He could visualise the path of history in each of those innumerable
potential worlds where man had gained the power to travel through
time. (Perhaps they were all potential, none more "real" than any
other?) It would lead always back upon itself, like a snake swallowing
its own tail. Man being what he was, there would sooner or later come
a moment when the temptation to amend the past would lure someone into
tampering with the course of events which led to the actual discovery
of time apparatus. Whereupon a new universe would form.
But in that case, what had happened to him? He could almost grasp the
explanation but not quite. He must, he reasoned, have been trapped between
"actual" and "potential" during his journey; it must have been "after"
he left Cadiz in 1588, and "before" he reached New Madrid in 1989, that
the effects of Two Dog's interference became perceptible at the latter
date. In other words, he had crossed the ripple on the stream of time
. . . and here he was on the other side.
What then had become of all the people he had known? Felipe, who had
sat drinking with him last night, as it seemed; Kristina, who had made
him the unwitting instrument of just such a loop in time as he was
considering now -- and who might have been a lifetime companion; the
King, the Princess, the General Officers, the Margrave von Feuerstein,
even Two Dogs himself? Why should they have been abolished from the
total scheme of things, while he by a freak was left in possession of
his knowledge and his life?
Only such a man as Father Ramón might attempt the question -- and even
in the universe which Two Dogs had brought crashing down, Father Ramón
was dead.
Passive, he began to study his surroundings. He was in a sort of park,
apparently. People were coming towards him, no doubt attracted by what to
them was his extraordinary appearance, for they were dressed in outlandish
garb resembling none he had ever encountered. He saw young women among
them as well as men, hatless and with their legs bare above the knee,
clinging shamelessly to the bare arms of their companions. Behind them
he saw a city: towers of a tallness he had never dreamed of. And there
were sounds he could not identify, which seemed to have their source in
the sky.
He looked up. Something was passing, stiff-winged, far faster than a bird.
A mystery!
Now the people were gathering around him, a matter of a pace or two away.
A man of about his own age addressed him, presumably putting a question,
but the words meant nothing to Don Miguel. He countered with a question
of his own.
"Donde estoy?" Not that he needed to be told his geographical location;
this must be what corresponded to New Madrid in his own year 1988 or
1989, for if he had fallen short in time he would have fallen short in
space as well and more than likely drowned in the ocean. But what did
they call their city?
The man frowned. "Español! Ah! You are in New York!" He spoke slowly
and clearly, as to an idiot, and Don Miguel gave a solemn nod. Not
"New Madrid" but "Nueva Jorque" -- and they spoke a form of English,
the debased tongue which in his world barely survived among the peasants.
Well, what else would you expect from the defeat of the Armada?
Now, having decided that he wasn't dangerous, the rest of the onlookers
were relaxing and passing excited comments. Their agitation suggested that
in this world time-travel might not be known -- if it had been, it would
supply a ready-made explanation for the arrival of a strangely-clad man
out of thin air. The idea brought with it a sense of peace, a feeling of
security which he could not remember having enjoyed since Father Ramón
first admitted to him how dangerous Borromeo's legacy had become.
In that event, then, let them explain his presence how they would; let
them regard him as a madman, a simpleton, a foreign spy! He would never
-- he swore so silently to himself -- afford them an inkling of the
truth. He could describe the principle of time apparatus; given a ton
of iron and half a ton of silver, he could build one with his own hands
in a week. He would not. Whatever might be the faults of this world,
it was not for men to usurp the divine prerogative and alter the order
established by what had gone before.
The man who had first addressed him was beckoning, inviting him to come
away. Don Miguel gave a slow smile. For better or worse, without chance
of change, this was his reality now.
Don Miguel Navarro, formerly Licentiate in Ordinary of the Society of
Time, now the most isolated of all the outcasts the human race had ever
known, walked forward, into the real world.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Brunner was born in England in 1934 and educated at Cheltenham
College. He sold his first novel in 1951 and has been publishing sf
steadily since then. His books have won him international acclaim from
both mainstream and genre audiences. His most famous novel, the classic
Stand On Zanzibar, won the Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1969, the
British Science Fiction Award, and the Prix Apollo in France. Mr. Brunner
lives in Somerset, England.
MULTIPLY THE EARTH BY THREE . . .
AND THE FUTURE BY INFINITY!
Traveling backwards in time, Don Miguel had to undo the errors and
interruptions of other time-interlopers; he had to preserve the present.
Even the most insignificant nudging of the past could entirely alter
his world! And he suspected that this had already happened: that a
maniacal genius crazed with a desire for nationalist vindication had
plotted to alter the victorious outcome of the Spanish Armada of 1588 --
thus changing recorded history and perhaps even imperiling the mighty
Spanish Empire of 1988!
If Don Miguel did not successfully intercede, when he came back to the
present he might find a different world . . . a different time . . . a
time in which he probably didn't even exist!
John Brunner at his paradoxical best!