She was staring at the contents of the cube and apparently did not
hear him. "I said," he repeated, "that you may go, Miss Tyler."
"Oh. Yes ... yes sir."
* * * * *
When the lift-tube door closed behind her, Perfidion turned to
Mallory. For a fraction of a second the predator was visible behind
the smoky windowpanes of his eyes; then, quickly, it ducked out of
sight. "Where was this taken, Tom?"
"It's a distance-shot," Mallory said. "I took it through one of the
windows of the church Joseph of Arimathea built in Glastonbury."
"But how did you know--"
"That it was there? Because it _had_ to be there. Some time ago, while
escorting a group of tourists around ancient Britain, I happened to
witness Joseph of Arimathea's landing--and happened to catch a glimpse
of what he brought with him. I used to think that the Grail was a pipe
dream, too, but when I saw it with my own eyes, I knew that it
couldn't have been. However, I knew I'd need evidence to convince you,
so I jumped back to a later place-time and got a shot of it."
"But why a shot, Tom? Why didn't you lift it then and there?"
"You concede that it is the Grail then?"
"Of course it's the Grail--there's not the slightest question about
it. Why didn't you lift it?"
"Well, for one thing, I wanted to make sure that lifting it would be
worth my while, and for another, Glastonbury wasn't the logical
place-time from which to lift it, because, assuming that the rest of
the legend is also true, it was seen after that place-time. No
time-thief ever bucked destiny yet and came out the winner, Jason; I
play my percentages."
"I know you do, Tom. You're one of the best time-lift men in the
business, and the Past Police would be the first to admit it.... I
daresay you've already pinpointed the key place-time?"
Mallory grinned, showing his white teeth. "I certainly have, but if
you think I'm going to divulge it, you're sadly mistaken, Jason. And
stop looking at my hair--it won't tell you anything beyond the fact
that I've been using Hair-haste. Shoulder-length hair was the rage in
more eras than one."
Perfidion smiled warmly, and clapped Mallory on the back. "I'm not
trying to ferret out your secret, Tom. I know better than that.
Lifting is your line, fencing mine. You bring me the Grail, I'll sell
it, take my cut, and everything will be fine. You know me, Tom."
"I sure do," Mallory said, taking the stereophoto out of the projector
and returning it to his breast pocket.
Perfidion snapped his fingers. "A happy thought just occurred to me!
I've got a golp date with Rowley of Puriproducts, so why don't you
join us, Tom? You play a pretty good game, as I recall."
Mollified, Mallory said, "I'll have to borrow a set of your
jetsticks."
"I'll get them for you on the way down. Come on, Tom."
Mallory accompanied him across the room. "Keep mum about this to
Rowley now," Perfidion said confidentially. "He's a potential
customer, but we don't want to let the cat out of the bag yet, do we?
Or should I say 'the Grail'." He took time out to grin at his little
joke, then, "By the way, Tom, I take it you're all set as regards
costume, equipment and the like."
"I've got the sweetest little suit of armor you ever laid eyes on,"
Mallory said.
"Fine--no need for me to offer any advice in that respect then."
Perfidion opened the lift door. "After you, Tom."
They plummeted down the tube together.
* * * * *
It had been a good game of golp--from Mallory's standpoint, anyway. He
had trounced Rowley roundly, and he would have inflicted similar
ignominy upon Perfidion had not the latter been called away in the
middle of the game and been unable to return till it was nearly over.
Oh well, Mallory thought, encephalo-guiding his rohorse through the
ancient forest, there'll be other chances. Aloud, he said, "Step
lively now, Easy Money, and let's get this caper over with so we can
return to civilization and start feeling what it's like to be rich."
In response to the encephalo-waves that had accompanied his words,
Easy Money increased its pace, the infra-red rays of its eye units
illumining its way. In places, light from the rising moon seeped
through the foliage, but otherwise darkness was the rule. The air was
cool and damp--the sea was not far distant--and the sound of frogs and
insects was omnipresent and now and then there was the rustling sound
of some small and fleeing forest creature.
Presently the ground began to rise, and not long afterward the trees
thinned out temporarily and rohorse and rider emerged on the moonlit
crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys. In the distance
Mallory made out the moon-gilt towers and turrets of a large castle,
and knew it to be Carbonek beyond a doubt. He sighed with relief. He
was all set now--provided his masquerade went over. Conversely, if it
didn't go over he was finished: his sword and his spear were his only
weapons, and his shield and his armor, his only protection. True, each
article was superior in quality and durability to its corresponding
article in the Age of Chivalry, but otherwise none of them was
anything more than what it seemed. Mallory might be a time-thief; but
within the framework of his profession he believed in playing fair.
In response to his encephalopathed directions, Easy Money picked its
way down the slope of the ridge and re-entered the forest. Not long
afterward it stepped onto what was euphemistically referred to in that
day and age as a "highway" but which in reality was little more than a
wide, hoof-trampled lane. As Mallory's entire plan of action was based
on boldness, he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches
and encephalopathed the rohorse to keep to the center of the lane. He
met no one, however, despite the earliness of the hour, nor had he
really expected to. It was highly improbable that any freemen would be
abroad after dark, and as for the knight-errants who happened to be in
the neighborhood, it was highly improbable that any of them would be
abroad after dark either.
He grinned. To read _Le Morte d'Arthur,_ you'd think that the chivalry
boys had been in business twenty-four hours a day, slaying ogres,
rescuing fair damosels, and searching for the Sangraal; but not if you
read between the lines. Mallory had read "Arthur" only cursorily, but
he had had a hunch all along that in the majority of cases the quest
for the Sangraal had served as an out, and that the knights of the
Table Round had spent more time wenching and wassailing than they had
conducting their so-called dedicated search, and the hunch had played
an important role in the shaping of his strategy.
The highway turned this way and that, never pursuing a straight course
unless such a logical procedure was unavoidable. Once, he thought he
heard hoofbeats up ahead, but he met no one, and not long afterward he
saw the pale pile of Carbonek looming above the trees to his left, and
encephalo-guided Easy Money into the lane that led to the entrance.
There was no moat, but the portcullis was an imposing one. Flanking it
on either side was a huge stone lion, and framing it were flaming
torches in regularly-spaced niches. Warders in hauberk and helmet
looked down from the lofty wall, their halberds gleaming in the
dancing torchlight. Mallory swallowed: the moment of truth had
arrived.
He halted Easy Money and canted his white shield so that the red
cross in its center would be visible from above. Then he marshalled
his smattering of Old English. "I hight Sir Galahad of the Table
Round," he called out in as bold a voice as he could muster. "I would
rest my eyes upon the Sangraal."
* * * * *
Instantly, confusion reigned upon the wall as the warders vied with
one another for the privilege of operating the cumbersome windlass
that raised and lowered the portcullis, and presently, to the
accompaniment of a chorus of creaks and groans and scrapings, the
ponderous iron grating began to rise. Mallory forced himself to wait
until it had risen to a height befitting a knight of Sir Galahad's
caliber, then he rode through the gateway and into the courtyard,
congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his impersonation.
"Ye will come unto the chamber of the Sangraal sixty paces down the
corridor to thy left eftsoon ye enter the chief fortress, sir knight,"
one of the warders called down. "An ye had arrived a little while
afore, ye had encountered Sir Launcelot du Lake, the which did come
unto the fortress and enter in, wherefrom he came out anon and
departed."
Mallory would have wiped his forehead if his forehead had been
accessible and if his hands had not been encased in metal gloves.
Fooling the warders was one thing, but passing himself off as Sir
Galahad to the man who was Sir Galahad's father would have been quite
another. He had learned from the pages of his near-namesake's "Arthur"
that Sir Launcelot had visited Carbonek before Sir Galahad had, but
the pages had not revealed whether the time-lapse had involved
minutes, hours, or years, and for that matter, Mallory wasn't
altogether certain whether the second visit they described had been
the real Sir Galahad's, which meant failure, or a romanticized version
of his own, which meant success. His near-namesake was murky at best,
and reading him you were never sure where anybody was, or when any
given event was taking place.
The courtyard was empty, and after crossing it, Mallory dismounted,
encephalopathed Easy Money to stay put, and climbed the series of
stone steps that led to the castle proper. Entering the building
unchallenged, he found himself at the junction of three corridors. The
main one stretched straight ahead and debouched into a large hall. The
other two led off at right angles, one to the left and one to the
right. Boisterous laughter emanated from the hall, and he could see
knights and other nobles sitting at a long banquet table. Scattered
among them were gentlewomen in rich silks, and hovering behind them
were servants bearing large demijohns. He grinned. Just as he had
figured--King Pelles was throwing a whingding.
Quickly, Mallory turned down the left-hand corridor and started along
it, counting his footsteps. Rushes rustled beneath his feet, and the
flickering light of wall-torches gave him a series of grotesque
shadows. He saw no one: all the servants were in the banquet hall,
pouring wine and mead. He laughed aloud.
Forty-eight paces sufficed to see him to the chamber door. It was a
perfectly ordinary door. Opening it, he thought at first that the room
beyond was ordinary, too. Then he saw the burning candles arranged
along the walls, and beneath them, standing in the center of the
floor, the table of silver. The table of the Sangraal....
There was no Sangraal on the table, however. There was no Sangraal in
the room, for that matter. There was a girl, though. She was huddled
forlornly in a corner, and she was crying.