"It is fitting that ye should eat meat afore ye ride out."
"Oh, you mean food. I'll eat when I get back. But there's no need for
you to wait." He took her into the supply room and showed her where
the vacuum tins were stored. "You open them like this," he explained,
pulling one out and activating the desealer. "Then, as soon as the
contents cool off a little, you sit down to dinner."
"But this be not meat," she objected.
"Maybe not, but it's a good substitute, and a lot better for you." A
thought struck him, and he took her into the lavatory and showed her
how to operate the hot and cold-water dispenser, ascribing the setup
to more of Merlin's magic. He debated on whether to explain the
function and purpose of the adjacent shower, decided not to. There was
a limit to all things, and an apparatus for washing one's whole body
was simply too farfetched for anyone living in the sixth-century to
take seriously.
Back in the rec-hall, he donned his helmet and gauntlets, reset the
gauntlet timepiece, picked up his spear and encephalopathed Easy Money
to his side. Mounting, he set the spear in the stirrup socket. Rowena
gazed up at him, plum-blue eyes round with awe and admiration--and
concern. "Wit ye well, fair sir," she said, "that Sir Launcelot, the
which is thy father, is a knight of many victories, and therefore ye
must take care."
Mallory grinned. "Dismay you not, fair damsel, I'll smite him from his
steed before he can say 'Queen Guinevere'." He straightened his sword
belt, activated the _Yore's_ lock, and rode across the mirage-moat and
entered the forest. The "portcullis" closed behind him.
* * * * *
Dusk had become darkness by the time he reached the highway.
Approximately half an hour later he would reach the highway again.
However, the seeming paradox did not disconcert him in the least: this
was far from being the first time he had backtracked himself on a job.
[Illustration]
As "before," he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches
and encephalopathed Easy Money to keep to the center of the lane. And,
as "before," no one was abroad. Probably King Pelles' wassail was
already in progress, or, if not, the goodly knights and gentlewomen
were still at evensong. In any event, he reached the lane that led to
the castle of Carbonek without mishap.
After entering the lane, he encephalopathed Easy Money into the
concealment of the shadows of the bordering trees and settled back in
the saddle to wait. Rowena's placing the time of the theft at "a
little while afore eight of the clock" had been a general estimate at
best; hence he had allowed himself plenty of leeway and had arrived on
the scene a little early. It was well that he had, for hardly a minute
passed before he heard hoofbeats approaching from the south, and
presently he saw a tall knight astride a resplendent steed turn into
the lane. His armor gleamed in the moonlight and bespoke a quality and
class that only a knight of Sir Launcelot's status would be able to
afford.
Mallory watched him ride down the lane to the lion-flanked entrance
and heard him announce himself as "Sir Launcelot". The portcullis was
raised without delay, and the knight rode through the gateway and
disappeared from view.
Mallory frowned in the darkness. Something about the incident had
failed to jibe. He thought back, but he could isolate nothing that, in
retrospect anyway, seemed in the least incongruous. He tried again,
with the same result, and at length he concluded that the note of
discord had originated in his imagination.
Again, he settled back to wait. He wasn't particularly worried about
the outcome of the forthcoming encounter--the superiority of the
weapons and armor should be more than enough to see him through--but
just the same he wished there was some way to avoid it. There wasn't,
of course. Sir Launcelot's theft of the Sangraal was already
incorporated in fact, and, as a _fait accompli_, could not be obviated
by a previous theft. All Mallory could do was to make his move after
the _fait acccompli_ in the hope that that was when he _had_ made his
move. A time-thief didn't have nearly as much leeway as his seeming
freedom of movement might lead the uninitiated to believe. About all
he could do was to play along with destiny and await his
opportunities. If destiny smiled, he succeeded; if destiny frowned, he
did not. However, Mallory was optimistic about his forthcoming bid for
the Grail, for if it wasn't in the books for him to wrest the Cup from
Sir Launcelot, the chances were he wouldn't have gotten as far as he
had.
He estimated that it would take the man five minutes to enter the
castle, proceed to the chamber, seize the Sangraal, return to the
courtyard and come riding back to the portcullis. Seven minutes proved
to be nearer the mark. In response to a hail from within the wall,
several of the warders bent to the windlass, whereupon the portcullis
scraped and groaned aloft, and the tall knight came riding out just as
the hands of Mallory's timepiece registered 7:43 p.m.
Mallory let him pass, straining his eyes in vain for a glimpse of the
Sangraal. He waited till Sir Launcelot was half a hundred yards down
the highway before he encephalopathed Easy Money to follow, and he
waited till a bend in the road hid the castle of Carbonek from view
before encephalopathing the command to charge. At this point, Sir
Launcelot became aware that he was no longer alone, and wheeled his
steed around. Without an instant's hesitation, he dressed his spear
and launched a counter-charge. All Mallory could think of was a
twentieth-century steam locomotive bearing down upon him.
He swallowed grimly, "aventred" his own spear, and upped Easy Money's
pace. Two could play at being locomotives. The approaching knight and
steed loomed larger; the sound of hoofbeats crescendoed into staccato
thunder. The spear pointing straight toward Mallory's breastplate had
something of the aspect of a jet-propelled flagpole. Hurriedly, he got
his shield into position. Maybe the man would spot the red cross,
realize its significance, and slow down.
If he spotted it, he gave no sign, and only came the faster. Mallory
braced himself for the forthcoming impact. However, the impact never
occurred. At the last moment his antagonist directed the spearpoint at
Mallory's helmet, did something that made it separate itself from the
shaft to the accompaniment of a gout of incandescence and come
streaking through the air like a little comet. Mallory tried to dodge,
but he would have been equally as successful if he had tried to dodge
a real comet. There was a deafening _clang!_ in the region of his left
audio-amplifier, and the whole left side of his face went numb. Just
before he blacked out he saw the oncoming knight veer his steed, wheel
it around, and ride off. A peal of all-too-familiar laughter drifted
back over the man's shoulder.
* * * * *
"Now," said the rent-a-robogogue, "you will try again: 'A' is for
'Atom', 'B' is for 'Bomb', 'C' is for 'Conform', 'D' is for 'Dollar',
'E' is for 'Economy', and 'F' is for 'Fun'. What comes after 'F'?"
The boy Mallory squirmed in his ABC chair. "I don't know what comes
next and I don't care!"
"I'll box your ears," the rent-a-robogogue threatened.
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Yes I would--I'm a physical-chastisement model, you know. Now, we'll
try once more: 'A' is for 'Atom', 'B' is for 'Bomb', 'C' is for
'Conform', 'D' is for 'Dollar', 'E' is for 'Economy', and 'F' is for
'Fun'. What comes after 'F'?"
"I told you that I didn't know and that I didn't care!"
"I warned you," said the rent-a-robogogue.
"Ow!" the boy Mallory cried.
"Ow!" the man Mallory groaned, sitting up in the weeds beside the
early sixth-century highway.
All was silence around him, if you discounted the stridulations of
insects and the _be-ke korak-korak-korak_ of frogs. A few yards away,
Easy Money stood immobile in the moonlight. Mallory raised his hand
to his helmet and felt the sizable dent that the spearpoint had made.
Gingerly, he took the helmet off. Who in the world would have dreamed
that they had jet-rifles in this day and age!
The absurdity of the thought snapped him back to full awareness. A
moment later he remembered the peal of familiar laughter.
Perfidion!
The man must have wanted the Grail desperately to have come after it
himself, which meant that it was probably worth much more than he had
let on. But how had he known when and where to essay the lift? More
specifically, how had he found out when and where to essay the lift on
such short notice?
Mallory thought back. He was reasonably certain that he had made no
slips of the tongue during his visit to the Perfidion Tower and during
the ensuing game of golp, and he was equally certain that he had let
fall no revealing references to the place-time he had so carefully
pinpointed. Where, then, had he gone astray?
Suddenly, way back in his mind, Perfidion said, "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 heard himself answer.
He swore. So that was it! All Perfidion had needed to do was to make
the rounds of the costumers who specialized in armor, and to shell out
a few Kennedees to the one Mallory had patronized last. Then, in
possession of the knowledge that Mallory was embarking into the past
as Sir Galahad, all Perfidion had had to do was to consult one of the
many experts he kept at his beck and call. The expert had undoubtedly
told him where Sir Galahad was supposed to have found the Grail before
taking it to Sarras, and, equally as important, approximately when the
event was supposed to have taken place. Further questions could not
have failed to elicit the additional information that Sir Launcelot
had come to the chamber of the Sangraal before Sir Galahad had, and
from this Perfidion had undoubtedly deduced that Sir Launcelot could
very well have been a time-thief in disguise, too, and that the man,
having arrived on the scene first, could very well have been
responsible for the Grail's so-called return to Heaven, despite what
legend said to the contrary. Certainly it had been a gamble worth
taking, and obviously Perfidion had taken it.
And won the jackpot.
But that didn't mean he was going to keep the jackpot. Not by a long
shot. Mallory encephalopathed Easy Money to his side and pulled
himself to his feet with the help of the left stirrup and hung his
helmet on the pommel. Then he picked up his spear and clambered into
the saddle. "We're not beat yet, Easy Money," he said. _Giddy-ap!_
Easy Money whinnied, stamped its feet, and started back toward the
_Yore_. A short while later they passed the lane that led to the
castle of Carbonek. Presently Mallory heard the _clip-clop_ of
approaching hoofbeats, and not wanting to risk an encounter in his
weakened condition, he encephalo-guided the rohorse off the highway
and into the deep shadows of a big oak. There was something
tantalizingly familiar about the horse and rider coming down the
highway. Small wonder: the "horse" was Easy Money and the rider was
himself. He was on his way to the castle of Carbonek to lift the Holy
Grail.
Mallory gazed after his retreating figure disgustedly. "Sucker!" he
said.