Dr. Futurity (1960) (15 page)

Catching hold, he crept down, step by step. Below, the Pacific seemed perfectly flat, spread out as far as the eye could see; the ocean and the cliffs--nothing else. The blue of the water, the crumbling rock in his hands as he clawed his way down. Now, for an instant, he caught sight of the small boat once more. The men rowing. Ribbon of sand, with foam and breakers, driftwood washed up. The disorderly collections of seaweed . . .

He stumbled and almost fell. Head-first, he hung, clutching at roots. Rocks and bits of shrubbery rained past him, falling somewhere. He could hear the sound echo.

Far below, the boat continued on. Silently. None of the tiny figures seemed to hear or notice.

Parsons, by degrees, righted himself. Facing the cliff, not looking at the ocean below, he again descended.

When next he halted, getting his wind, he saw that the boat had come closer to shore. Two of the men had gotten out and were wading in the surf.

Had they seen him?

Swiftly, he made his way down. The rock surface became smooth; he clung for an interval, and then, taking a deep, prayerful breath, he released his grip and dropped. Beneath him, the sand rose. He struck and fell, his legs thrashing with pain. Rolling, he slid down among the seaweed and lay, wheezing, enduring the gradually declining numbness of impact.

The boat had been dragged up onto the shore. The men were searching for something on the beach, kicking at the sand. Some lost tool or instrument, Parsons thought. He lay stretched out, watching.

One of the men came toward him. And, after him, Drake. Both men passed directly in front of Parsons, and, as Drake turned, Parsons saw his face clearly, outlined against the sky.

Scrambling up, Parsons said, "Stenog!"

The bearded man turned. His mouth fell open with astonishment. The other men froze.

"You
are
Stenog," Parsons said. It was true. The man stared at him without recognition. "Don't you remember me?" Parsons said grimly. "The doctor who cured the girl, Icara."

Now recognition came. The expression on the bearded man's face changed.

Stenog smiled.

Why? Parsons wondered. Why is he smiling?

"They got you out of the prison rocket, did they?" Stenog said. "We thought so. One dead
shupo
and two unidentified corpses out of nowhere, sealed in and traveling back and forth." His smile grew, a knowing, confident smile. "I'm surprised to see you--you completely threw me off. How interesting . . . you here." His white, even teeth showed; he had begun to laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" Parsons demanded.

"Let's see your friend," Stenog said. "The one who's going to do the killing. Send him down." He put his hands on his hips, his legs wide apart. "I'm waiting."

FOURTEEN

Like a voice in a nightmare, the laughter followed after Parsons as he raced along the base of the cliff.

I was right,
he thought.

Pausing once, he looked back. There on the beach, Stenog and his men waited for Corith. From the sand they had fished up what they had been searching for, a deadly, gleaming little weapon.

They had managed to complete the time-travel experiments.

Catching hold of roots and branches, Parsons scrambled up the cliff wall. I have to get to him first, he thought. I have to warn him. Rocks tumbled away; he sprawled and rolled back, clutching.

The figures below became smaller. They made no move to follow him.

Why don't they shoot me? he asked himself.

Now a ledge of rock came between him and Stenog. Gasping, he rested for a minute, out of sight, protected. But he had to go on. Struggling up, he seized a tree root and continued on up.

Don't they think I can stop him? he wondered. Is it fore-ordained that he will go through his cycle, be killed no matter what I do?

Am I going to fail?

Now, reaching out, he managed to catch hold of the turf at the crest of the cliff. He was able to pitch himself up onto the level ground. But at once he was up again, on his feet.

Where was Corith?

Somewhere. Not far off.

Trees grew ahead, a grove of wind-bent pines. He entered the grove, panting for breath. Back and forth he ran, searching among the trees.

I can't blame Stenog, he thought. He's protecting his society. It's his job.

And this is my job, he realized. To save my patient. The man I was called on to heal.

He stopped now, winded, unable to go on. Sinking down, he sat in the damp grass, in the shadows, resting and recovering. His fur garments were torn from scrambling up the cliff. Drops of blood oozed from his arm; he wiped it off on the grass.

Strange, he thought. Stenog, with his dark skin dyed white, masquerading as a white man. And myself, with my white skin dyed dark, masquerading as an Indian.

And--a white man struggling to help Corith kill Drake. And Stenog on the other, taking Drake's place.

Or not taking Drake's place. But actually Drake. Is there an authentic Drake? Or is Stenog Drake? Was there another man, actually born in England in the early sixteenth century, named Francis Drake? Or has Stenog always been Drake? And there is no other person.

If there is another Drake, a real Drake, then where is he?

One thing he knew: the engraving and portrait had been made of Al Stenog, with beard and white skin, in Drake's place. So Stenog, not Drake, had come back to England from the New World with the plunder, and been knighted by the Queen. But had Stenog then continued to be Drake for the rest of his life?

Had that been Stenog who fought the Spanish warships, later on, in the war against Spain?

Who had been the great navigator? Drake or Stenog?

An intuition . . . the exploits of those explorers. The fantastic navigation and courage. Each of them: Cortez, Pizarro, Cabrillo . . . each of them a man transplanted from the future, an imposter. Using equipment from the future.

No wonder a handful of men had conquered Peru. And another handful, Mexico.

But he did not know. If Corith died while trying to reach Drake, there would be no reason for Stenog, for the government of the future, to go on. The man could die only once.

Parsons got shakily to his feet. He began to walk, preserving his strength. The man is here somewhere, he told himself. If I keep looking, I'll eventually find him. There's no need for a panic reaction; it's only a question of time.

Ahead of him, among the trees, someone moved.

Cautiously, he approached. He saw several figures . . . reddish skin, furs. Had he found him? Reaching out, he spread apart the foliage.

On the far side of a rise the metallic sphere of a time ship caught the afternoon sun.

One of them, he realized. But which one?

Not the one he himself had come in; that was hidden elsewhere, disguised with mud and branches. This one sat out in the open.

There would be at least four time ships.

Assuming that this trip was the last.

I wonder if I will ever make any more, he thought. If, like Loris and Nixina, I will come again. Like a ghost. Haunting this spot, seeking a way to change the flow of past events.

One of the figures turned, and Parsons saw--who? A woman he did not recognize. A handsome woman, in her thirties . . . like Loris, but not Loris. The woman's black hair tumbled down her bare shoulders, her strong chin raised as she stood listening. She wore a skirt of hide around her waist, an animal pelt. Her naked breasts glistened, swayed as she turned her body. A wild-eyed, fierce woman who now dropped, crouching, alert.

A second woman appeared. Elderly and frail. Hesitantly stepping from the time ship. Wrapped in heavy robes.

The younger woman was Jepthe. Loris' mother. At an earlier time. When she was here before.

Nixina said, in a voice familiar to Parsons, "Why did you let him get out of sight?"

"You know how he is," Jepthe shot back in a husky voice. "How could I stop him?" She leaped up, tossing her mane of hair back. "Maybe we should go to the cliff. We might find him again there."

I am back thirty-five years, Parsons realized. Loris has not been born.

Barefoot, Jepthe hurried from the ship, into the trees. Her long legs carried her quickly; she vanished almost at once, leaving the old woman to catch up.

"Wait for me!" Nixina called anxiously.

Reappearing, Jepthe said, "Hurry." She emerged from the trees to help her mother. "You shouldn't have come."

Watching the supple body, the energetic loins, Parsons thought,
But she has already conceived. Loris is in her womb
now, as I'm looking at her. And one day she will nurse at those
superb breasts.

He began to hurry through the trees, back in the direction of the cliff. Corith had left his time ship; at least he knew that. The man was on his way, approaching what he imagined to be Drake.

Ahead of him, he saw the Pacific. He emerged on the cliff once more. The sunlight momentarily blinded him and he halted, shielding his eyes.

Far off, also on the cliff edge, he saw a single figure. A man, standing on the edge.

The man wore a loincloth. On his head a horned buffalo skull jutted up, covering him almost to his eyes. Black hair hung down from beneath the buffalo skull.

Parsons ran toward him.

The man did not seem aware of him. He bent down, gazing over the edge of the cliff, at the ship below. His enormous copper-colored body was splashed with paint streaks of blue and black and orange and yellow across his chest, his thighs, his shoulders, even his face. Over his back a pelt-covered mass was tied to him by a thong that passed over his chest and strapped beneath his armpits. Weapons there, Parsons decided. And binoculars. The man whipped a pair of binoculars from the pack on his back, and, squatting down, studied the beach.

Of all of them, Parsons thought, Corith had by far the best disguise. It was worthy of his great preparation, his months of secret effort. The magnificent buffalo skull, with tatters of skin flapping in the ocean wind. The blazing bands of paint slashed across his body. A warrior in the prime of life.

Now, lifting his head, Corith noticed him. Their eyes met. Parsons was face to face with him--with the living man. For the first time.

And, he wondered, the last?

Seeing him, Corith stuck the binoculars back into his pack. He did not seem alarmed; there was no fear on his face. His eyes flashed. The man's mouth was set, the teeth showing, almost a grin. Suddenly he sprang to the edge of the cliff. In an instant he had gone over the side; he had vanished.

"Corith!" Parsons shouted. The wind whipped his voice back at him. His lungs labored as he reached the spot, dropped down, saw the loose rock sliding where Corith had gone. The fanatic, cunning assassin had gotten away. Without knowing--or caring--who Parsons was or why he wanted him. Or how he had known his name.

Corith did not intend to stop for anything. He could not take the chance.

Making his way down, Parsons thought,
I've lost him
. The man had already gotten past him. Down the cliff side.

Why did I think I could stop him? he asked himself. When they failed. His mother, his son, his wife, his daughter--the family itself, the Wolf Tribe.

Sliding, half-falling, he reached a projection and halted. He could see no sign of the man.

On the beach, the small boat was still drawn up in the surf. The five men had collected by their weapon, concealing it. The bearded man wandered away, glanced up, continued to roam. Pretending that he doesn't know, Parsons thought. The decoy.

Taking hold of an outcropping, Parsons started cautiously on. He turned about, to face the cliff . . .

A few feet from him, Corith crouched. The relentless eyes bored at him; the face, inflamed with conviction, glowed. Corith held a tube in his hands. An elongated version of the weapon familiar to Parsons. With this, no doubt, he intended to kill Drake.

"You called me by name," Corith said.

Parsons said, "Don't go down there."

"How do you know my name?"

"I know your mother," he said. "Nixina. Your wife, Jepthe."

"I've never seen you before," Corith said. His eyes flickered; he studied Parsons, licking at his lower lip. Poised to spring, Parsons realized. Ready to leap away and on down the cliff. But, he thought, he will kill me first. With that tube.

"I want to warn you," Parsons said. He felt dizzy; for a moment black flecks passed in front of him, and the cliff wavered and began receding. The glare of the sun, the stark white sand, the ocean . . . he sat listening to the noise of the surf. Over it he could hear Corith's breathing. The rapid, constricted spasms.

"Who are you?" Corith said.

"You don't know me," he said.

"Why shouldn't I go down there?"

"It's a trap. They're waiting for you."

The massive face quivered. Corith raised the tube that he held. "It doesn't matter."

"They have the same weapons you have," Parsons said.

"No," Corith said. "Wheel-lock rifles."

"That's not Drake down there."

Now the black eyes flamed furiously; the face became distorted.

Parsons said, "The man down there is Al Stenog."

To that, Corith said nothing. He did not seem to react.

"The Director of the Fountain," Parsons said.

After a long time, Corith said, "The Director of the Fountain is a woman named Lu Farns."

At that, Parsons stared.

Corith said, "You're lying to me. I've never heard of anybody named Stenog."

They sat crouched against the rock surface of the cliff, facing each other silently.

"Your speech," Corith said. "You have an accent."

Parsons' mind raced. The whole thing had a ring of madness in it. Who was Lu Farns? Why had Corith never heard of Stenog? And then he understood.

Thirty-five years had passed since Corith's death. Stenog was a young man, no more than twenty. He had not become Director until long after Corith's death; in fact, he had not even been alive when Corith died. The woman, Lu Farns, was undoubtedly the Director of the Fountain during Corith's lifetime.

Relaxing a little, Parsons said, "I'm from the future." His hands were still haking; he tried to quiet them. "Your daughter--"