Time Travel Omnibus Volume 1 Page 11

  He sat back in the chair and waited. Finally Hamilton spoke.

  “Sleuthing is a bit out of your line, isn’t it? You should have come to us right away.”

  “And suppose I’d been wrong? I’d have brought the woman I loved under suspicion, unnecessarily. I figured if the receivers didn’t pick up anything, she was clear.”

  “Well, you did it and you know. But one thing first. Are you sure those transmissions came from her? Were there other cars that came through between the times you placed the receivers and retrieved them?”

  “Don’t try to give me false hope. Of course there were a few other cars. Two or three, anyway. I picked time slots as close to hers as I could get, but some closer ones were already taken. But look at the time the burst was recorded. It matches the time slot when she went through, not when someone else went through.”

  “Very well, we’ll look into it. If she’s done this several times, we’ll check on each time. Also, we’ll have to rule out the possibility the burst came from off the bridge, not from any car.

  “She may not be the only one doing it, too. She may have fellow conspirators. What’s more, now that you’ve showed us a new way for someone to commit time crime, we need to look for other conspiracies as well.”

  He held up the receivers. “You built these yourself? They look professionally done.”

  There was a sharp edge in Carson’s reply. “I am a professional.”

  “Yes, of course. Now, are you planning to go to work today?”

  “No. I wouldn’t trust myself to do the job right. I’m going to call in sick. It won’t be a lie, either.”

  “You do that. But one bit of advice. Don’t try to drown the pain in booze. That only puts off the pain and makes it worse when it finally comes.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “I ask the questions, Mr. Carson. But take my word for it. Trying to drown your sorrows in booze drowns you, not the sorrows.”

  Two days later the headlines read:

  CONSOLIDATED INSURANCE EXECUTIVES ARRESTED FOR TIME CRIME

  They sure moved fast, Carson thought. Wonder if they got a confession out of somebody. And what about Jenny? Was she one of those arrested? I could call her, but I really don’t want to find out.

  A week later Carson got a call from Hamilton.

  “Come down to the Federal Building. Meet me at the Grand Jury room on the fifth floor.”

  He found a parking place near the Federal Building.

  Public servants have tax-paid parking spaces, he groused, but we taxpayers have to pay for our own, even when we’re dealing with our rulers.

  Hamilton was waiting for him outside the Grand Jury room.

  “The jury returned indictments on about half of Consolidated’s executives,” he said. “The conspiracy was pretty big. Most of them are going away for a long time.”

  “What about Jenny?”

  “She’s a cooperating witness.”

  “Yeah, I know what that means. You threaten to throw the book at them, so they plead guilty, whether they are or not, and they agree to testify against the others, whether they really know anything or not.”

  “She was guilty and you know it. However, she was only one of the small fry. In return for her testimony against the big fish, the prosecutor has agreed that he’ll ask the judge to sentence her to only a year. The people on top will get twenty-five.”

  “Okay, why’d you call me here?”

  “Miss Campbell wanted to see you.”

  Hamilton opened the jury room door. Jennifer stepped out. At the first sight of her, Carson’s heart kicked him in the ribs. He gasped for breath.

  Even that baggy orange jump suit can’t completely hide her figure, he thought. But they’ve hacked off her hair. Now it just frames her face. It’d look good if it’d been done by a good hairdresser instead of a prison barber.

  A bitter smile crossed his face as he recalled his fantasy of spreading Jennifer’s long blond hair on a black satin pillow. That’ll never happen now.

  She stopped about six feet in front of him.

  “Tom, I’m sorry. I was assigned to cultivate you and pick your brains about the security measures at the bridge. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal. What I didn’t expect . . .” she paused, took a deep breath, and blurted out, “What I didn’t expect was that I’d fall in love with you.”

  She took another breath.

  “I’ve hurt you, and I’ve hurt me, and I’ve messed up something that could have been good. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked toward the waiting guard.

  “Does she know,” Carson asked, “that I’m the one who intercepted her transmissions?”

  “No, we kept you out of it. Once we knew what to do, it took us only a day to get an iron-clad case against her.”

  “Don’t you tell her. I figure she has a right to hear it from me.”

  Hamilton gave Carson a long, piercing look. “Are you sure you can trust a woman who’d betray you the way she did?”

  Carson sighed, then said, “I guess I’ve got a year to find out, don’t I?”

  A DREAM OF JOHN BALL

  William Morris

  Chapter I

  The Men of Kent

  Sometimes I am rewarded for fretting myself so much about present matters by a quite unasked-for pleasant dream. I mean when I am asleep. This dream is as it were a present of an architectural peep-show. I see some beautiful and noble building new made, as it were for the occasion, as clearly as if I were awake; not vaguely or absurdly, as often happens in dreams, but with all the detail clear and reasonable. Some Elizabethan house with its scrap of earlier fourteenth-century building, and its later degradations of Queen Anne and Silly Billy and Victoria, marring but not destroying it, in an old village once a clearing amid the sandy woodlands of Sussex. Or an old and unusually curious church, much churchwardened, and beside it a fragment of fifteenth-century domestic architecture amongst the not unpicturesque lath and plaster of an Essex farm, and looking natural enough among the sleepy elms and the meditative hens scratching about in the litter of the farmyard, whose trodden yellow straw comes up to the very jambs of the richly carved Norman doorway of the church. Or sometimes ‘tis a splendid collegiate church, untouched by restoring parson and architect, standing amid an island of shapely trees and flower-beset cottages of thatched grey stone and cob, amidst the narrow stretch of bright green water-meadows that wind between the sweeping Wiltshire downs, so well beloved of William Cobbett. Or some new-seen and yet familiar cluster of houses in a grey village of the upper Thames overtopped by the delicate tracery of a fourteenth-century church; or even sometimes the very buildings of the past untouched by the degradation of the sordid utilitarianism that cares not and knows not of beauty and history: as once, when I was journeying (in a dream of the night) down the well-remembered reaches of the Thames betwixt Streatley and Wallingford, where the foothills of the White Horse fall back from the broad stream, I came upon a clear-seen mediaeval town standing up with roof and tower and spire within its walls, grey and ancient, but untouched from the days of its builders of old. All this I have seen in the dreams of the night clearer than I can force myself to see them in dreams of the day. So that it would have been nothing new to me the other night to fall into an architectural dream if that were all, and yet I have to tell of things strange and new that befell me after I had fallen asleep. I had begun my sojourn in the Land of Nod by a very confused attempt to conclude that it was all right for me to have an engagement to lecture at Manchester and Mitcham Fair Green at half-past eleven at night on one and the same Sunday, and that I could manage pretty well. And then I had gone on to try to make the best of addressing a large open-air audience in the costume I was really then wearing—to wit, my night-shirt, reinforced for the dream occasion by a pair of braceless trousers. The consciousness of this fact so bothered me, that the earnest faces of my audience—who would NO
T notice it, but were clearly preparing terrible anti-Socialist posers for me—began to fade away and my dream grew thin, and I awoke (as I thought) to find myself lying on a strip of wayside waste by an oak copse just outside a country village.

  I got up and rubbed my eyes and looked about me, and the landscape seemed unfamiliar to me, though it was, as to the lie of the land, an ordinary English low-country, swelling into rising ground here and there. The road was narrow, and I was convinced that it was a piece of Roman road from its straightness. Copses were scattered over the country, and there were signs of two or three villages and hamlets in sight besides the one near me, between which and me there was some orchard-land, where the early apples were beginning to redden on the trees. Also, just on the other side of the road and the ditch which ran along it, was a small close of about a quarter of an acre, neatly hedged with quick, which was nearly full of white poppies, and, as far as I could see for the hedge, had also a good few rose-bushes of the bright-red nearly single kind, which I had heard are the ones from which rose-water used to be distilled. Otherwise the land was quite unhedged, but all under tillage of various kinds, mostly in small strips. From the other side of a copse not far off rose a tall spire white and brand-new, but at once bold in outline and unaffectedly graceful and also distinctly English in character. This, together with the unhedged tillage and a certain unwonted trimness and handiness about the enclosures of the garden and orchards, puzzled me for a minute or two, as I did not understand, new as the spire was, how it could have been designed by a modern architect; and I was of course used to the hedged tillage and tumbledown bankrupt-looking surroundings of our modern agriculture. So that the garden-like neatness and trimness of everything surprised me. But after a minute or two that surprise left me entirely; and if what I saw and heard afterwards seems strange to you, remember that it did not seem strange to me at the time, except where now and again I shall tell you of it. Also, once for all, if I were to give you the very words of those who spoke to me you would scarcely understand them, although their language was English too, and at the time I could understand them at once.

  Well, as I stretched myself and turned my face toward the village, I heard horse-hoofs on the road, and presently a man and horse showed on the other end of the stretch of road and drew near at a swinging trot with plenty of clash of metal. The man soon came up to me, but paid me no more heed than throwing me a nod. He was clad in armour of mingled steel and leather, a sword girt to his side, and over his shoulder a long-handled bill-hook.

  His armour was fantastic in form and well wrought; but by this time I was quite used to the strangeness of him, and merely muttered to myself, “He is coming to summon the squire to the leet;” so I turned toward the village in good earnest. Nor, again, was I surprised at my own garments, although I might well have been from their unwontedness. I was dressed in a black cloth gown reaching to my ankles, neatly embroidered about the collar and cuffs, with wide sleeves gathered in at the wrists; a hood with a sort of bag hanging down from it was on my head, a broad red leather girdle round my waist, on one side of which hung a pouch embroidered very prettily and a case made of hard leather chased with a hunting scene, which I knew to be a pen and ink case; on the other side a small sheath-knife, only an arm in case of dire necessity.

  Well, I came into the village, where I did not see (nor by this time expected to see) a single modern building, although many of them were nearly new, notably the church, which was large, and quite ravished my heart with its extreme beauty, elegance, and fitness. The chancel of this was so new that the dust of the stone still lay white on the midsummer grass beneath the carvings of the windows. The houses were almost all built of oak frame-work filled with cob or plaster well whitewashed; though some had their lower stories of rubble-stone, with their windows and doors of well-moulded freestone. There was much curious and inventive carving about most of them; and though some were old and much worn, there was the same look of deftness and trimness, and even beauty, about every detail in them which I noticed before in the field-work. They were all roofed with oak shingles, mostly grown as grey as stone; but one was so newly built that its roof was yet pale and yellow. This was a corner house, and the corner post of it had a carved niche wherein stood a gaily painted figure holding an anchor—St. Clement to wit, as the dweller in the house was a blacksmith. Half a stone’s throw from the east end of the churchyard wall was a tall cross of stone, new like the church, the head beautifully carved with a crucifix amidst leafage. It stood on a set of wide stone steps, octagonal in shape, where three roads from other villages met and formed a wide open space on which a thousand people or more could stand together with no great crowding.

  All this I saw, and also that there was a goodish many people about, women and children, and a few old men at the doors, many of them somewhat gaily clad, and that men were coming into the village street by the other end to that by which I had entered, by twos and threes, most of them carrying what I could see were bows in cases of linen yellow with wax or oil; they had quivers at their backs, and most of them a short sword by their left side, and a pouch and knife on the right; they were mostly dressed in red or brightish green or blue cloth jerkins, with a hood on the head generally of another colour. As they came nearer I saw that the cloth of their garments was somewhat coarse, but stout and serviceable. I knew, somehow, that they had been shooting at the butts, and, indeed, I could still hear a noise of men thereabout, and even now and again when the wind set from that quarter the twang of the bowstring and the plump of the shaft in the target.

  I leaned against the churchyard wall and watched these men, some of whom went straight into their houses and some loitered about still; they were rough-looking fellows, tall and stout, very black some of them, and some red-haired, but most had hair burnt by the sun into the colour of tow; and, indeed, they were all burned and tanned and freckled variously. Their arms and buckles and belts and the finishings and hems of their garments were all what we should now call beautiful, rough as the men were; nor in their speech was any of that drawling snarl or thick vulgarity which one is used to hear from labourers in civilisation; not that they talked like gentlemen either, but full and round and bold, and they were merry and good-tempered enough; I could see that, though I felt shy and timid amongst them.

  One of them strode up to me across the road, a man some six feet high, with a short black beard and black eyes and berry-brown skin, with a huge bow in his hand bare of the case, a knife, a pouch, and a short hatchet, all clattering together at his girdle.

  “Well, friend,” said he, “thou lookest partly mazed; what tongue hast thou in thine head?”

  “A tongue that can tell rhymes,” said I.

  “So I thought,” said he. “Thirstest thou any?”

  “Yea, and hunger,” said I.

  And therewith my hand went into my purse, and came out again with but a few small and thin silver coins with a cross stamped on each, and three pellets in each corner of the cross. The man grinned.

  “Aha!” said he, “is it so? Never heed it, mate. It shall be a song for a supper this fair Sunday evening. But first, whose man art thou?”

  “No one’s man,” said I, reddening angrily; “I am my own master.”

  He grinned again.

  “Nay, that’s not the custom of England, as one time belike it will be. Methinks thou comest from heaven down, and hast had a high place there too.”

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, and then leant forward and whispered in my ear: “John the Miller, that ground small, small, small,” and stopped and winked at me, and from between my lips without my mind forming any meaning came the words, “The king’s son of heaven shall pay for all.”

  He let his bow fall on to his shoulder, caught my right hand in his and gave it a great grip, while his left hand fell among the gear at his belt, and I could see that he half drew his knife.

  “Well, brother,” said he, “stand not here hungry in the highway when there is flesh and bre
ad in the Rose yonder. Come on.”

  And with that he drew me along toward what was clearly a tavern door, outside which men were sitting on a couple of benches and drinking meditatively from curiously shaped earthen pots glazed green and yellow, some with quaint devices on them.

  Chapter II

  The Man from Essex

  I entered the door and started at first with my old astonishment, with which I had woke up, so strange and beautiful did this interior seem to me, though it was but a pothouse parlour. A quaintly-carved side board held an array of bright pewter pots and dishes and wooden and earthen bowls; a stout oak table went up and down the room, and a carved oak chair stood by the chimney-corner, now filled by a very old man dim-eyed and white-bearded. That, except the rough stools and benches on which the company sat, was all the furniture. The walls were panelled roughly enough with oak boards to about six feet from the floor, and about three feet of plaster above that was wrought in a pattern of a rose stem running all round the room, freely and roughly done, but with (as it seemed to my unused eyes) wonderful skill and spirit. On the hood of the great chimney a huge rose was wrought in the plaster and brightly painted in its proper colours. There were a dozen or more of the men I had seen coming along the street sitting there, some eating and all drinking; their cased bows leaned against the wall, their quivers hung on pegs in the panelling, and in a corner of the room I saw half-a-dozen bill-hooks that looked made more for war than for hedge-shearing, with ashen handles some seven foot long. Three or four children were running about among the legs of the men, heeding them mighty little in their bold play, and the men seemed little troubled by it, although they were talking earnestly and seriously too. A well-made comely girl leaned up against the chimney close to the gaffer’s chair, and seemed to be in waiting on the company: she was clad in a close-fitting gown of bright blue cloth, with a broad silver girdle daintily wrought, round her loins, a rose wreath was on her head and her hair hung down unbound; the gaffer grumbled a few words to her from time to time, so that I judged he was her grandfather.