Times Without Number (3 page)
Read Times Without Number Online
Authors: John Brunner
"Why do you not say anything?" the Marquesa cried.
Don Miguel found his voice and heard it creak like the rusty hinges of
a cellar-door.
"All I can say, my lady, is this. I hope to high heaven that it's forged."
"What?" She took an astonished pace towards him. "No, of course ifs not
a forgery!"
"I tell you it had better be. For if it is not . . ." He could not complete
the utterance; his mind quailed bofore the implications.
"But why do you say such a thing?"
"Because this is perfect, my lady. As perfect as though the goldsmith
finished work today. Therefore it is not a buried relic dug up from the
ground and restored. No restorer of the present time could so precisely
adopt the Aztec style. A forger might -- just -- achieve a uniform
pseudo-Aztec style over the whole of a work like this, if he had long
steeped himself in the period."
"But I don't want it to be a forgery!" The Marquesa was almost in tears
all of a sudden. "No, I'm certain that it's genuine!"
"In that case," Don. Miguel said ruthlessly, "I must take possession
of it in the name of the Society of Time, as contraband mass illegally
imported to the present!"
How much does that thing weigh? Twelve pounds? Fifteen?
When every single grain of dust gathered by a time-traveller had to
be beaten and shaken from his clothing before he made his return, what
might not a theft of that size from the past mean in terms of changes
in history?
"Where did you get it?" he pressed. The Marquesa, stunned, glared at
him and ignored his question.
"You're joking!" she accused. "It's a cruel joke!"
"No, my lady, it's a long way from joking, I'm afraid. It's as well for you
that the first Licentiate of the Society to hear about this thing is under
your roof as a guest and obligated by your hospitality. Otherwise I can't
guess the consequences. Don't you realise that offences concerning
temporal contraband come directly under the jurisdiction of the Holy
Office?"
All the colour drained out of the Marquesa's face bar the artificial
smears of rouge on lips and cheeks. She said faintly, "But how can one
be -- be punished for accepting a gift?"
Ah. The words made it clear to Don Miguel that she had in fact suspected
the mask might be contraband; it would have been surprising if she had
not, since anyone with the intelligence of an average two-year-old would
have jumped to that conclusion. It could only have been a combination
of vanity and alcohol which led her to show the thing off to him. Now
she was deeply regretting the impulse.
"A gift!" he repeated. "Did you inquire about this
gift
at the Society's
office here in Jorque? Did you check whether it had been licensed for
importation?"
"No, of course not! Why should I?"
Don Miguel bit back the answer which rose to his lips; there was no point
in angering her further. Adopting a more conciliatory tone, he said,
"I see. You realised it was an import, but you took the existence of
the license for granted?"
"Why -- why, yes!" She put her hands to her temples and swayed.
"Who gave it to you, then?"
"A -- a friendl"
"My lady, it would be better to tell me than an Inquisitor . . . wouldn't
it?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"No, you are threatening me, and the existence of our entire world!
Get that fact into your head, my lady -- there's plenty of room for it,
since your skull's so empty!" Don Miguel didn't enjoy this descent to
crude insult, but there seemed to be no alternative.
"Don -- Don Arcimboldo Ruiz!" She choked over the name. Don Miguel
whirled, his cloak flying, and snapped at the tall slave waiting by
the door.
"Find him! Bring him here -- and quickly!"
Upon the slave's departure, the Marquesa threw herself across the
bed and dissolved into ostentatious weeping. Don Miguel ignored her,
and passed the time until Don Arcimboldo's arrival in inspecting
the mask more closely. Everything pointed to the conclusion he had
already reached, particularly the freshness of the marks left by the
goldsmith's hammer. Nothing buried in the earth and recovered -- not
even incorruptible gold -- could have retained this condition throughout
the centuries.
"Heaven preserve us," Don Miguel whispered under his breath.
Abruptly the door was flung back again, and the freckled man whom he'd
encountered earlier came hurrying into the room, wearing a puzzled
expression.
"Don Miguel!" he exclaimed. "You desired my presence?" And appended
a bow to the Marquesa, who had sat up again at the intrusion and was
desperately wiping away the trace of tears.
Don Miguel wasted no time on formality. "She says you gave her this mask --
is that true?"
"Why . . . Yes, certainly I did. Is something wrong?"
"Where did you get it?"
"I bought it openly enough, from a merchant in the market beyond the
city wall. From a man named Higgins, to be precise, with whom I've done
much business in the past."
"Did you check that it was licensed for importation?"
"No, what reason would I have to do such a thing?" A look of awe spread
across Don Arcimboldo's face. "Oh no! You're not implying that it's . . . ?"
"Contraband? It certainly seems to be." Don Miguel passed a worried
hand through his hair, ruining the careful pre-party endeavours of his
barber. "I don't doubt you acted in good faith, but . . . Oh, honestly,
Don Arcimboldo! Look at that thing, will you? It must weigh more than
twelve pounds; it's so finely wrought it must have been famous in its
own period, and it would certainly have come to my notice if the Society
had licensed it for importation. Anyway, we wouldn't dispose of something
like that -- we'd donate it to the Imperial Museum, or the Mexicological
Institute in New Madrid. Didn't its mere condition make you suspect
something might be wrong?"
"Ah . . . Well, frankly, no." Don Arcimboldo shifted from foot to foot,
but in his position, Don Miguel told himself, he too would have been
embarrassed. "I'm afraid I'm not much of an expert on New World artefacts;
I collect Saxon, Irish and Norse work. Which is why I didn't hang on to
the mask, of course."
"But surely anyone with an interest in any kind of . . . "
Don Miguel let the words trail away. There was no point in arguing. Far
more important was to put right the consequences of this disaster,
if -- and he shivered a little at the implications of the proviso --
it were still possible to detect them.
"Is there anything I can do?" Don Arcimboldo inquired anxiously.
"Yes. Yes, there is. Find a couple of slaves and send them to the local
branches of the Holy Office and the Society of Time, and get someone
discreet and capable here as fast as possible. It's going to spoil the
party somewhat, I'm afraid, but better a party than the world!"
Even as he spoke he was aware that from his own point of view it would
be as bad to be shown wrong as to be shown right -- the Society did
not take kindly to people who cried wolf in public about its private
affairs. But there was no help for that now; to employ the image he'd
used earlier in explaining temporal paradox to the Marquesa, there was
a key stone for every avalanche, and in this particular case he'd just
knocked it loose and it was rolling.
Imaginary thunder grumbled in his ears.
IV
When, a week later, he was bidden to attend at a meeting in the Chamber
of Full Council of the Society of Time -- the first occasion he had set
foot within it -- Don Miguel had still not been informed whether his
inspired deductions had been correct. It was therefore with considerable
apprehension that he took his place and looked around.
The atmosphere of the Chamber was rich with a sense of authority and
ritual, like the interior of a great cathedral -- which in many ways it
resembled. It was panelled with fine dark woods inlaid with gold; most of
its floor-space was occupied by four tables arranged in the shape of two
capital L's, with gaps at diagonally opposite corners. These tables were
draped with dark red velvet; chairs ranged along them were upholstered
in the same material, except for one which was still vacant. That was
purple, the prince's colour, and it stood at the eastern end of the
room, transfixed like a butterfly on a pin by a shaft of pure white
light stabbing down from the ceiling. Another shaft of light, focused
horizontally, completed a cross at twice a man's height from the floor.
Along the northern table, robed, cowled, and in shadow, were ranged
five persons whom Don Miguel knew to be the General Officers of
the Society. But at present he was unable to tell which of them was
which. Behind them, immobile, their private secretaries stood dutifully
awaiting their masters' orders.
He himself was seated in the middle of the western side of the oblong
formed by the tables, while on the southern side, opposite the General
Officers, were . . . What to call them? One could hardly say they were
prisoners, even if they had been brought here under guard, for as yet
there had been no trial nor even any official charges. Perhaps one could
call them "the witnesses' -- but then he too was a witness.
At all events, they comprised the Marquesa, attended by two of her
personal maids, Don Arcimboldo, who was alone, and the merchant Higgins
from whom the Aztec mask had been purchased. The Marquesa had been
weeping, Higgins was plainly terrified to the point of petrifaction,
but Don Arcimboldo had an air of puzzled boredom, as though he was
certain that this stupid misunderstanding would shortly be regulated.
And, on the velvet-covered table in front of the vacant purple chair,
the mask itself rested like a great golden toad.
Suddenly there was a ring of trumpets, and the air seemed to grow tense.
There was movement behind the empty chair, at the eastern doorway of the
Chamber. A herald garbed in cloth-of-gold strode forward and spoke in
a voice much resembling the tone of the trumpets which had just sounded.
"Be upstanding for His Highness the Prince of New Castile, by His Majesty's
direction Commander of the Society of Time!"
All those present in the room rose to their feet and bowed.
When they were told in a grunting voice to sit down again, the Prince
had already taken his place. Previously Don Miguel had only seen the
Commander of the Society from a distance, at official functions in public
where he was surrounded by his enormous retinue and there was small chance
of a mere Licentiate getting to close quarters with him. Accordingly he
studied him with interest, seeing a round man with stubby limbs and a
short black beard; a ring of baldness was spreading on his scalp. He wore
the full-dress uniform of a Knight of the Holy Roman Empire, and his
chest glittered with the stars of all the orders which he as a Prince
of the Blood had accumulated. The total effect was impressive; it was
meant to be.
His face was partly in shadow because the light was above him, but it
was possible to discern that his eyes had turned at once in Don Miguel's
direction, and after a few seconds the latter began to feel uncomfortable,
as though he were under the scrutiny of an inquisitor. He resisted the
temptation to fidget in his chair.
At last the grunting voice came again, like a saw rasping into fresh
oak-planks.
"You're Navarro, are you?"
"I am, sir," said Don Miguel, finding that his mouth was dry. Having
reviewed his actions many times during the past few days, he was convinced
he had acted correctly according to the strict rules of the Society. Yet
there still remained the nagging possibility that the General Officers
might put a different interpretation on the facts . . .
"And this bauble in front of me is the thing that all the fuss is about,
I suppose? Hah!" The Prince leaned forward and stretched out his thick
fingers, that sprouted coarse black hair along their backs. His touch
on the mask was almost a caress. Plainly, he liked it -- or he liked
the fine gold of which it was made.
At last he sat back and shot a keen glance in the direction of the prisoners
before turning to the cowled and shadowed line of General Officers.
"This is for you, I think, Father Ramón," he said.
Don Miguel watched to see which of the hitherto anonymous officers
would reply. He had never met, but he had heard over and over since
childhoood about, Father Ramón the Jesuit, the master-theoretician of
the Society and the greatest living expert on the nature of time and
the philosophical implications of travelling through it.
"I have inspected the object," said the figure on the Prince's immediate
right in a dry, precise voice. "It is of Aztec workmanship and Mexican
gold -- of that there is no doubt at all. And it has not been licensed
by the Society for importation."
Don Miguel felt a surge of relief. At least he had been correct on that
score, then.
"The consequences of this temporal contraband cannot as yet be fully
assessed," the Jesuit continued. "We are attempting to establish the
mask's provenance to within a few years -- its condition is so good, we
should have little difficulty in assigning it to at least its city of
origin and perhaps even to one particular workshop in that city. Once
we've identified it we must then proceed to investigate the effects of
its removal. If we find none, we are faced with a serious dilemma."
"How so?" demanded the Prince, leaning back and twisting a little sideways
in his chair.
"Imprimis," said Father Ramón, and thrust forward a thin finger from out
of darkness to lay it on the table, "we shall have to determine whether we
have in fact replaced it where it came from. And if we have replaced it,
then we shall have to establish the time at which it was replaced, and the
circumstances. And secundo, we shall have to determine -- if it has not
been replaced -- whether we have in fact a case of history being changed."
Shorn of much of its complexity by this cleanly logic, the problem
nonetheless struck Don Miguel as terrifying.
"You mean" -- it startled him to find that he was speaking, but since all
present were turning towards him, he ploughed on -- "you mean, Father,
that we may find its disappearance incorporated in our new history as
an accomplished fact, with no record of the history which the theft
has altered?"
Don Miguel found his voice and heard it creak like the rusty hinges of
a cellar-door.
"All I can say, my lady, is this. I hope to high heaven that it's forged."
"What?" She took an astonished pace towards him. "No, of course ifs not
a forgery!"
"I tell you it had better be. For if it is not . . ." He could not complete
the utterance; his mind quailed bofore the implications.
"But why do you say such a thing?"
"Because this is perfect, my lady. As perfect as though the goldsmith
finished work today. Therefore it is not a buried relic dug up from the
ground and restored. No restorer of the present time could so precisely
adopt the Aztec style. A forger might -- just -- achieve a uniform
pseudo-Aztec style over the whole of a work like this, if he had long
steeped himself in the period."
"But I don't want it to be a forgery!" The Marquesa was almost in tears
all of a sudden. "No, I'm certain that it's genuine!"
"In that case," Don. Miguel said ruthlessly, "I must take possession
of it in the name of the Society of Time, as contraband mass illegally
imported to the present!"
How much does that thing weigh? Twelve pounds? Fifteen?
When every single grain of dust gathered by a time-traveller had to
be beaten and shaken from his clothing before he made his return, what
might not a theft of that size from the past mean in terms of changes
in history?
"Where did you get it?" he pressed. The Marquesa, stunned, glared at
him and ignored his question.
"You're joking!" she accused. "It's a cruel joke!"
"No, my lady, it's a long way from joking, I'm afraid. It's as well for you
that the first Licentiate of the Society to hear about this thing is under
your roof as a guest and obligated by your hospitality. Otherwise I can't
guess the consequences. Don't you realise that offences concerning
temporal contraband come directly under the jurisdiction of the Holy
Office?"
All the colour drained out of the Marquesa's face bar the artificial
smears of rouge on lips and cheeks. She said faintly, "But how can one
be -- be punished for accepting a gift?"
Ah. The words made it clear to Don Miguel that she had in fact suspected
the mask might be contraband; it would have been surprising if she had
not, since anyone with the intelligence of an average two-year-old would
have jumped to that conclusion. It could only have been a combination
of vanity and alcohol which led her to show the thing off to him. Now
she was deeply regretting the impulse.
"A gift!" he repeated. "Did you inquire about this
gift
at the Society's
office here in Jorque? Did you check whether it had been licensed for
importation?"
"No, of course not! Why should I?"
Don Miguel bit back the answer which rose to his lips; there was no point
in angering her further. Adopting a more conciliatory tone, he said,
"I see. You realised it was an import, but you took the existence of
the license for granted?"
"Why -- why, yes!" She put her hands to her temples and swayed.
"Who gave it to you, then?"
"A -- a friendl"
"My lady, it would be better to tell me than an Inquisitor . . . wouldn't
it?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"No, you are threatening me, and the existence of our entire world!
Get that fact into your head, my lady -- there's plenty of room for it,
since your skull's so empty!" Don Miguel didn't enjoy this descent to
crude insult, but there seemed to be no alternative.
"Don -- Don Arcimboldo Ruiz!" She choked over the name. Don Miguel
whirled, his cloak flying, and snapped at the tall slave waiting by
the door.
"Find him! Bring him here -- and quickly!"
Upon the slave's departure, the Marquesa threw herself across the
bed and dissolved into ostentatious weeping. Don Miguel ignored her,
and passed the time until Don Arcimboldo's arrival in inspecting
the mask more closely. Everything pointed to the conclusion he had
already reached, particularly the freshness of the marks left by the
goldsmith's hammer. Nothing buried in the earth and recovered -- not
even incorruptible gold -- could have retained this condition throughout
the centuries.
"Heaven preserve us," Don Miguel whispered under his breath.
Abruptly the door was flung back again, and the freckled man whom he'd
encountered earlier came hurrying into the room, wearing a puzzled
expression.
"Don Miguel!" he exclaimed. "You desired my presence?" And appended
a bow to the Marquesa, who had sat up again at the intrusion and was
desperately wiping away the trace of tears.
Don Miguel wasted no time on formality. "She says you gave her this mask --
is that true?"
"Why . . . Yes, certainly I did. Is something wrong?"
"Where did you get it?"
"I bought it openly enough, from a merchant in the market beyond the
city wall. From a man named Higgins, to be precise, with whom I've done
much business in the past."
"Did you check that it was licensed for importation?"
"No, what reason would I have to do such a thing?" A look of awe spread
across Don Arcimboldo's face. "Oh no! You're not implying that it's . . . ?"
"Contraband? It certainly seems to be." Don Miguel passed a worried
hand through his hair, ruining the careful pre-party endeavours of his
barber. "I don't doubt you acted in good faith, but . . . Oh, honestly,
Don Arcimboldo! Look at that thing, will you? It must weigh more than
twelve pounds; it's so finely wrought it must have been famous in its
own period, and it would certainly have come to my notice if the Society
had licensed it for importation. Anyway, we wouldn't dispose of something
like that -- we'd donate it to the Imperial Museum, or the Mexicological
Institute in New Madrid. Didn't its mere condition make you suspect
something might be wrong?"
"Ah . . . Well, frankly, no." Don Arcimboldo shifted from foot to foot,
but in his position, Don Miguel told himself, he too would have been
embarrassed. "I'm afraid I'm not much of an expert on New World artefacts;
I collect Saxon, Irish and Norse work. Which is why I didn't hang on to
the mask, of course."
"But surely anyone with an interest in any kind of . . . "
Don Miguel let the words trail away. There was no point in arguing. Far
more important was to put right the consequences of this disaster,
if -- and he shivered a little at the implications of the proviso --
it were still possible to detect them.
"Is there anything I can do?" Don Arcimboldo inquired anxiously.
"Yes. Yes, there is. Find a couple of slaves and send them to the local
branches of the Holy Office and the Society of Time, and get someone
discreet and capable here as fast as possible. It's going to spoil the
party somewhat, I'm afraid, but better a party than the world!"
Even as he spoke he was aware that from his own point of view it would
be as bad to be shown wrong as to be shown right -- the Society did
not take kindly to people who cried wolf in public about its private
affairs. But there was no help for that now; to employ the image he'd
used earlier in explaining temporal paradox to the Marquesa, there was
a key stone for every avalanche, and in this particular case he'd just
knocked it loose and it was rolling.
Imaginary thunder grumbled in his ears.
IV
When, a week later, he was bidden to attend at a meeting in the Chamber
of Full Council of the Society of Time -- the first occasion he had set
foot within it -- Don Miguel had still not been informed whether his
inspired deductions had been correct. It was therefore with considerable
apprehension that he took his place and looked around.
The atmosphere of the Chamber was rich with a sense of authority and
ritual, like the interior of a great cathedral -- which in many ways it
resembled. It was panelled with fine dark woods inlaid with gold; most of
its floor-space was occupied by four tables arranged in the shape of two
capital L's, with gaps at diagonally opposite corners. These tables were
draped with dark red velvet; chairs ranged along them were upholstered
in the same material, except for one which was still vacant. That was
purple, the prince's colour, and it stood at the eastern end of the
room, transfixed like a butterfly on a pin by a shaft of pure white
light stabbing down from the ceiling. Another shaft of light, focused
horizontally, completed a cross at twice a man's height from the floor.
Along the northern table, robed, cowled, and in shadow, were ranged
five persons whom Don Miguel knew to be the General Officers of
the Society. But at present he was unable to tell which of them was
which. Behind them, immobile, their private secretaries stood dutifully
awaiting their masters' orders.
He himself was seated in the middle of the western side of the oblong
formed by the tables, while on the southern side, opposite the General
Officers, were . . . What to call them? One could hardly say they were
prisoners, even if they had been brought here under guard, for as yet
there had been no trial nor even any official charges. Perhaps one could
call them "the witnesses' -- but then he too was a witness.
At all events, they comprised the Marquesa, attended by two of her
personal maids, Don Arcimboldo, who was alone, and the merchant Higgins
from whom the Aztec mask had been purchased. The Marquesa had been
weeping, Higgins was plainly terrified to the point of petrifaction,
but Don Arcimboldo had an air of puzzled boredom, as though he was
certain that this stupid misunderstanding would shortly be regulated.
And, on the velvet-covered table in front of the vacant purple chair,
the mask itself rested like a great golden toad.
Suddenly there was a ring of trumpets, and the air seemed to grow tense.
There was movement behind the empty chair, at the eastern doorway of the
Chamber. A herald garbed in cloth-of-gold strode forward and spoke in
a voice much resembling the tone of the trumpets which had just sounded.
"Be upstanding for His Highness the Prince of New Castile, by His Majesty's
direction Commander of the Society of Time!"
All those present in the room rose to their feet and bowed.
When they were told in a grunting voice to sit down again, the Prince
had already taken his place. Previously Don Miguel had only seen the
Commander of the Society from a distance, at official functions in public
where he was surrounded by his enormous retinue and there was small chance
of a mere Licentiate getting to close quarters with him. Accordingly he
studied him with interest, seeing a round man with stubby limbs and a
short black beard; a ring of baldness was spreading on his scalp. He wore
the full-dress uniform of a Knight of the Holy Roman Empire, and his
chest glittered with the stars of all the orders which he as a Prince
of the Blood had accumulated. The total effect was impressive; it was
meant to be.
His face was partly in shadow because the light was above him, but it
was possible to discern that his eyes had turned at once in Don Miguel's
direction, and after a few seconds the latter began to feel uncomfortable,
as though he were under the scrutiny of an inquisitor. He resisted the
temptation to fidget in his chair.
At last the grunting voice came again, like a saw rasping into fresh
oak-planks.
"You're Navarro, are you?"
"I am, sir," said Don Miguel, finding that his mouth was dry. Having
reviewed his actions many times during the past few days, he was convinced
he had acted correctly according to the strict rules of the Society. Yet
there still remained the nagging possibility that the General Officers
might put a different interpretation on the facts . . .
"And this bauble in front of me is the thing that all the fuss is about,
I suppose? Hah!" The Prince leaned forward and stretched out his thick
fingers, that sprouted coarse black hair along their backs. His touch
on the mask was almost a caress. Plainly, he liked it -- or he liked
the fine gold of which it was made.
At last he sat back and shot a keen glance in the direction of the prisoners
before turning to the cowled and shadowed line of General Officers.
"This is for you, I think, Father Ramón," he said.
Don Miguel watched to see which of the hitherto anonymous officers
would reply. He had never met, but he had heard over and over since
childhoood about, Father Ramón the Jesuit, the master-theoretician of
the Society and the greatest living expert on the nature of time and
the philosophical implications of travelling through it.
"I have inspected the object," said the figure on the Prince's immediate
right in a dry, precise voice. "It is of Aztec workmanship and Mexican
gold -- of that there is no doubt at all. And it has not been licensed
by the Society for importation."
Don Miguel felt a surge of relief. At least he had been correct on that
score, then.
"The consequences of this temporal contraband cannot as yet be fully
assessed," the Jesuit continued. "We are attempting to establish the
mask's provenance to within a few years -- its condition is so good, we
should have little difficulty in assigning it to at least its city of
origin and perhaps even to one particular workshop in that city. Once
we've identified it we must then proceed to investigate the effects of
its removal. If we find none, we are faced with a serious dilemma."
"How so?" demanded the Prince, leaning back and twisting a little sideways
in his chair.
"Imprimis," said Father Ramón, and thrust forward a thin finger from out
of darkness to lay it on the table, "we shall have to determine whether we
have in fact replaced it where it came from. And if we have replaced it,
then we shall have to establish the time at which it was replaced, and the
circumstances. And secundo, we shall have to determine -- if it has not
been replaced -- whether we have in fact a case of history being changed."
Shorn of much of its complexity by this cleanly logic, the problem
nonetheless struck Don Miguel as terrifying.
"You mean" -- it startled him to find that he was speaking, but since all
present were turning towards him, he ploughed on -- "you mean, Father,
that we may find its disappearance incorporated in our new history as
an accomplished fact, with no record of the history which the theft
has altered?"
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