The muscles of Halliday's jaw tightened. "I see," he said stiffly.
"When do I leave?"
"We'll prepare you immediately. It's going to be a touchy job to get
both of them out of there, so watch yourself."
"Don't worry," Halliday said quietly. "I'll manage it." He walked out,
eyes hot with rage, thinking of Dori in Sagginer's clutches. His hands
slowly clenched and unclenched as he headed down the long hall.
* * * * *
A Time Patrolman's first step in any excursion to the past is to learn
the language and the history so well that he can pass as a native. For
three days, Brek Halliday lay in the padded tank of a hypnorobot while
information was poured into him.
Then he was given his clothes. They consisted of a pair of high-heeled
boots made of treated animal skin, a pair of tight trousers woven
of blue-dyed vegetable fiber, a shirt of similar material, and a
broad-brimmed hat. Other clothing and equipment went into a pack, and
a money-belt around Brek's waist carried gold coins that not even an
expert could have told from the originals.
The thing that Brek liked best was the fact that he would be allowed to
carry weapons openly. Some civilizations of the past didn't permit a
citizen to carry guns, but where Brek was going, a man with a pair of
six-guns at his hips wouldn't look odd at all.
Brek had ridden a horse three times--once in the Battle of Agincourt,
once at Chickamaugua, and once during a trip from Rome to Ravenna in
the Sixth Century. His fourth horse was saddled a little differently,
but he found it easy to handle. He trotted it onto the platform and
signalled the operator. There was a brief hum as the chronokinetic
projector warmed up. Then there was a sudden surge of power.
Brek's surroundings seemed to vanish into greyness.
Moments later, light swirled around him....
* * * * *
Plata City, New Mexico, was enjoying a warm, lazy summer day. No one
paid much attention to the stranger who came into town on a very
ordinary-looking cayuse, pulled up before the Casa Loma Saloon, and
dismounted. He hitched his horse to the rail, looked up and down the
street casually, and then strode into the saloon.
"What'll it be, mister?" asked the fat, mustachioed bartender.
"Whiskey," Brek said. "And a little cold beer to follow it. That road
from El Paso is hot."
The barman filled the order. "El Paso, eh? That's a right smart ride.
Been on the road long?"
"'Bout a week. I don't believe in rushin' nothin'."
"Hey, barkeep!" yelled someone down at the far end. The bartender went,
and Brek downed his whiskey. He sipped the beer reflectively, thinking
long and hard.
Jon Sagginer had been convicted once for illegal use of a time machine,
and had been sentenced to ten years on Luna. Somehow, he'd managed to
escape and, by bluff and daring, actually get control of a Time Patrol
Chronokinetic Projector long enough to use it and kidnap the operator,
Dori Clayton.
It was bad enough to use the machine, Brek thought darkly, but to take
Dori--
Brek clenched his fists. For kidnapping Dori, Sagginer would take his
punishment from Brek, not the law.
The first thing to do was find him. Reading the power flow of a
Chronokinetic Projector could only give an approximate location.
Sagginer had landed within fifty miles of this spot, and at some time
within the past five years--but where was he now?
And, Brek asked himself--did he still have Dori with him? _Five years
is a long time._
In the course of a year or two, Sagginer could be a long way from Plata
City, but Brek had a hunch that this was his goal. He didn't know he
could be traced, and he wasn't prepared for travel.