Chapter 17

The stack of documents that made up the McCulloch file was very impressive. Assembled together they stood at least a foot high. Troy had transferred them all from the house on Massachusetts Avenue to the office in the security building at the lab, the one that had formerly been the colonel's. Now his. It was a far better place to study them, here where McCulloch himself had worked.

Colonel Wesley McCulloch, Wes to his friends. Troy settled himself behind the desk, pulled a ruled yellow pad towards him, and wrote Wes at the top. He wanted to get to know the man, to get inside his skin and really understand him. The clues he was looking for were somewhere in this stack of paper. If he studied them closely enough, learned what made the man really tick—then followed his trail through the documented history of his life—the reason for everything that had happened would surely emerge.

He broke for coffee at eleven o'clock, stretched and rubbed at the small of his back. It was tiring, just sitting there and leaning over the desk. But the yellow pad was filling up and a shadowy picture of the man was beginning to emerge. He hated to leave it. Bringing the coffee back to the office he stood and looked out of the window. Just as McCulloch must have stood and looked numberless times. He must learn to see with that man's eyes. Whatever he looked at now, he wanted to see it just as Wes McCulloch had seen it. A knock at the door cut through his thoughts. He turned about just as it opened.

'My name is Van Diver,' the uniformed man in the doorway said. 'Major Van Diver.'

He walked in and, over his shoulder, Troy could see a number of officers and noncoms in the outer office; then the door closed.

'May I ask just what the hell is going on?' Troy said.

The major nodded, his pink jowls flapping when he moved his head. He had thin blond hair and obviously artificial white teeth; his watery blue eyes blinked from behind steel-rimmed glasses. 'I'm relieving you,' he said. 'Here are the orders. Issued this morning at the Pentagon. Lieutenant…'

He lingered over this last word, a tight little cold smile on his lips—which opened slightly as his teeth peeked out between them, then slipped back. He must have had a badly fitting upper plate; he kept pushing it back and forth with his tongue. Troy ignored this disconcerting sight as he read through the official papers. They seemed very much in order. The wheels of the military were finally grinding on this case and he had been squeezed out. He handed back the orders.

'All right, Major. It will take me about a half an hour to clear my desk and get all my papers together—'

'No. All of the records stay here—and you get out as of now. The troops outside don't know it but I know what's going on around here. I know that you are just a sergeant attached to one of the spook outfits. When I said you were relieved, sergeant, I meant it. In every way. I don't hold with all the goddamn undercover agencies that proliferate under the present administration. The Army can conduct its own investigations of an officer, that's what we have military intelligence for. You took over this investigation at a low level, something to do with gold. That's finished now. This is a major case. You're out. The records stay here. I hope that I've made that clear. Dismissed, sergeant.'

Troy opened his mouth to speak—then slowly closed it. He had received his orders. That was it. Period. There was nothing that he could say that would change the situation. The work he had done, the work that still needed doing, the theories he had, none of this was relevant. He was out and that's all there was to it. He had no choice, no choice at all.

He snapped to attention and saluted; Major Van Diver returned it. Then he turned on his heel, went to the office door, opened it, and walked out. Through the office, not looking to the left or right, and out to the parking lot to his car. He started it up and drove slowly down the drive to the gate, watching it swing wide at his approach. The guard nodded and he waved back as he drove past. Only after he was well clear of the grounds did the knot of tension in his midriff slowly begin to ease away. He smiled, then laughed aloud as he drove.

'I've been relieved!' he shouted as the buildings grew smaller in his rearview mirror, then vanished from sight. 'New orders cut. The specialists taking over! Well go ahead, you government issue assholes. You pinheads are never going to find out a thing. You're dumb. You relieved me—but you never even thought to take back my security pass.'

He patted the pocket where it lay. By the numbers, he knew how they would work. Knew how little they would find out. Let them. This case was his and he was still working on it. Or was he? That was really up to the admiral. He would have to see him at once; he headed for the District. On the way in he passed a barbecue drive-in and realized that he hadn't eaten for over six hours. After finishing a sandwich he telephoned the admiral's secretary from the phone booth, in the gas station next door. Yes, the admiral was in. He would see Troy in thirty minutes.

Admiral Colonne did not seem surprised in the slightest by the Army's action in relieving Troy. He sucked on his pipe and nodded as he listened to the details.

'SOP,' he said. 'This agency has performed its function, we have watched the watcher and have made our report. Now the watchman is gone. End of our responsibility. The regulars move in and we step aside. Standard operating procedure. The case is closed.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe that it is. You assigned me to investigate the colonel, to determine the reason why he was buying all that gold. That fact hasn't been determined yet. In the meantime McCulloch has disappeared, after committing a number of crimes which the police and G2 are investigating. All well and good. But the original case is still open and unsolved.'

The admiral nodded. 'I can understand your point of view. But what do you think you can possibly accomplish—that other departments can't?'

'I can find out what really happened. I've had some good results so far, you've seen my report. And I've really only just started. There has to be a tie-in between the gold, the murders and the thefts. When I find the answer to one I'll know the answer to them all.'

'You believe that you can do this?'

'I think that I can, sir. After all of the time and energy already invested in this case, I'm only asking for a bit more time. At least the chance to try. Am I still on the case?'

The admiral gazed through the cloud of smoke for a moment in silence. Then nodded. 'You are. I agree with your thinking. As far as this department is concerned the investigation of Colonel McCulloch is still in the active file. What do you intend to do next?'

'Ask the admiral's permission to contact all of the agencies who submitted documents on the investigation of McCulloch. I want copies of their reports. That major booted me out so fast I couldn't even take along my notes.'

'Impossible. Although you and I think differently, QCIC is officially locked out of this investigation. Even if I requested the information the other agencies involved would be sure to refuse.'

'Damn!' Troy jumped to his feet and paced the length of the conference room. Slamming his fist into his palm, over and over again. 'That tears it. I'll never get the man without those records. I'm stupid. I should have made copies of the documents the instant they arrived.'

The admiral nodded agreement. 'You've come late to the decision that I reached decades ago. Establish a working routine. The instant a paper comes through the front door a copy is made for the files. I'm sure that after this little object lesson you will agree on the intelligence of that procedure…'

'Did you—were copies made of all these files?'

'Of course. I said that it was standard procedure. I'll have duplicates of them made now and sent to that cubby in the basement that you have been using for an office.' He raised his hand. 'No don't thank me. QCIC is my department. I want to see this case resolved to our satisfaction just as much as you do.'

Troy could not contain his enthusiasm. 'It's tremendous, I have to thank you, you've saved my bacon. I'm going to crack this thing yet.'

'I look forward to receiving your report.'

Troy started to leave, then turned before he reached the door. 'May I ask you a personal question, sir?'

'You may ask. There is no guarantee that I will answer.'

'It's not really that personal, more a point of information. It's, just what did you do in the Navy? I'm not knocking the Navy, don't misunderstand me, in fact the way you run this intelligence operation, maybe I have been wrong about Navy organization.'

'Then again maybe you haven't. The Navy does have a tendency to work by the book and to show little imagination. Perhaps that is why I am here. Then again—perhaps I never was in the Navy at all. Consider yourself, you have never been a lieutenant—but you're wearing the uniform of one right now. I suggest we leave it at that for the time being. I look forward to receiving your progress reports.'

It was probably the best answer that he could expect. Troy went down to his cubby and buried himself in the work. The papers gradually spread out to cover the desk, and even slopped over onto the floor as he tried to arrange them in some sort of coherent order. It was only after he had worked his way through the entire, laboriously detailed FBI report, that he hit paydirt. A three page evaluation of McCulloch's personality that had been analysed from his personal history and medical records by a government psychiatrist.

It was heavy going, and very Freudian. Much was made of the colonel's having left home at an early age; this opportunity to speculate about maternal rejection and sibling rivalry led to some fancy theorizing. Troy flipped through the pages until he came to the summation.

It is my conclusion therefore, tempered as I have stated earlier by the regrettable fact that I have never met the subject, that he has a strong paranoid personality, whose adjustment to life is further hampered by schizophrenic interludes. He feels that he has been passed over by others less qualified than he, that his lack of success is not his own responsibility, but rather the fault of society. His service in the structured military has enabled him to operate in a reasonably satisfactory manner despite these handicaps. But his military record, and the charges of murder during active service in Vietnam, even though the charges were later dropped, is evidence of strong homicidal tendencies. It is not that he does not know right from wrong, but rather that he believes himself right at all times and wishes to impose his will on those he knows to be wrong. Most important, in a serving officer, are his repressed but still violently held anti-Negro sentiments. His early membership in the Klan supports this conclusion. His deepest motivations are those of hatred. I firmly believe that he will not suppress these feelings much longer.

'Didn't need a shrink to tell me that,' Troy said, dropping the papers onto the laden desk, then unconsciously wiping his fingers on his trousers' leg. 'Felt that the first time I saw him. At least this proves it. But what else do I know?'

One by one he picked up what he felt were the relevant documents and stacked them to one side, away from the others. He tapped them with his fingers, speaking aloud to clarify his thoughts.

'The shrink says that McCulloch is a homicidal violently racist nut case from way back in the Mississippi slashes. Now we have to add to that the police report that he killed three people in order to push his secret plan through. All we know about this plan is that it involves a large quantity of gold, as well as a sub-machine-gun, complete with blueprints for same. Since McCulloch went to a great deal of effort to obtain these items we can be reasonably certain that they were important to him. If he travelled back in time the chances are that he brought them with him. To the year eighteen fifty-eight. Why? And why that year? What was important about it? Nothing that I can remember. A relatively quiet period in American history, with nothing much happening to make it memorable in any way. A lot of politicking and trouble between the different states, but the Civil War didn't start for two and a half more years.

'I don't know what he is up to!' Troy shouted, in sudden anger, slamming his fists down on the piles of paper. 'All I know is that he is up to no good, no damned good at all. People are going to get killed—or why else is he carrying that weapon around? And, knowing the colonel, I don't need a crystal ball to tell me that a lot of these people are going to be black. I'm sure of that.'

But anger wasn't the solution. Any explanations of the colonel's motivations would be found by reason and logic, not by emotion. Troy tore off his note and put them to one side, then started a fresh sheet of paper. Question; what had the colonel taken with him? Answer; gold, the gun, the blueprints.

Question; how did these fit together?

Answer; not easily. Think. Gold is money, the kind of money that is good any time, any place. When McCulloch arrived back in 1858 he would be a rich man—and he was certainly going to be rich in the South. No chance of him going North! He would dive into Dixie, good Old slave-holding Dixie. He would be right at home there. This alone would be motivation enough for a man with his prejudices to make the trip back through time. Live in the land he loved best, where integration was just a mathematical term. Great. But why did he pick the year 1858? Within three short years the Civil War would begin and the world the colonel loved would disappear forever. If he went back to 1830, or even earlier, he could live a full life cracking the whip over the darkies' backs. He would love that. But this way, 1858, he only had a couple of years to enjoy the fun.

But he had taken more than gold. The gun. The approaching war—and the deadly sub-machine-gun. They went together. They fitted together.

Troy had a sudden, terrible and depressing feeling that he had hit on the truth. No, it couldn't be possible. But it was possible. It had been done. The colonel had gone back in time with his gold and his blueprints and his gun.

The psychiatrist's report had suggested that McCulloch was a paranoid with criminal schizophrenic tendencies. That was another way of saying that he was insane. And his idea was insane. Just about the most insane idea that a certified nut case had ever dreamed up.

Colonel McCulloch had travelled back in time to change the outcome of the Civil War.

He wanted to alter history so that the South would win.

---

Chapter 18

'What exactly is the question that you are asking? What things are special about the Sten-gun? I am afraid that I don't take your meaning, sir,' Dryer said. The curator turned the submachinegun over and over in his hands as though he were searching for an answer.

'Then I'm not expressing myself very well,' Troy said. 'Let me try again. We have a common ground in that neither of us looks at guns in the same way that the man in the street does. You are curator of the technological archives here, a specialist in weapons of all kinds, I'm a specialist too. I've used them in the field. As did Colonel McCulloch…'

'The colonel, yes. You were in about him some days ago, weren't you? Have you recovered my missing items yet?'

'No, but the case is still being worked on. That's why I need to know more about the gun the colonel walked away with. Is it a particularly accurate weapon? Does it have a high rate of fire, or low rate of stoppages?'

'No, quite the opposite, in fact. It was a gun designed in a great rush at the beginning of the Second World War. The rate of fire is slow, it is not very accurate—and the clip has a tendency to jam.'

'Not very attractive indeed,' Troy said. He picked the gun up himself now and ran his finger along the crude welds that held the receiver to the metal tube that formed the stock. 'Were many of them manufactured?'

'Over four million in all.'

'That's an awful lot of guns. But why? If the weapon was as unsatisfactory as you say, why on earth did they make so many?'

'Young man, you must understand the situation that existed at the time. The Germans were winning the war hands down. France and the Low Countries had been lost and the British were facing this deadly foe almost single-handedly. And they were fighting with few if any modern weapons. Despite all of the clear lessons about the future of modern warfare that the Spanish Civil War had spelled out, the British began the war without a submachinegun of any kind. It was a time of panic, the Germans were expected to invade at any moment. So any weapon was better than no weapon. This particular gun, the Sten-gun, was conceived in an atmosphere of extreme haste and emergency. Although it had all of the shortcomings I mentioned, it was nevertheless very simple to produce. Subcontractors literally made parts in converted barns and sheds. And it was cheap. Each one costing in the neighbourhood of around two pounds and ten shillings if my memory serves me correctly. That is less than six dollars. An unbelievable sum in this day of multi-million dollar weapons. So Sten-guns were churned out by the millions. This ugly little gun proved to be one of the most outstanding weapons in the Allied armoury. And that was only the Mark One, mind you. The Mark Two had an even more interesting history.'

Dryer laid the gun to one side, then unwrapped the other weapon that he had brought out of the storeroom. If it were possible, this one was even uglier than the previous one. There were file marks on the receiver, rough welds on the bolt housing. Dryer patted it affectionately.

'Over two million of these were made—in less than two years. Probably the most basic automatic weapon ever conceived, certainly the most basic submachinegun. The barrel is a simple steel tube held in place by a screwed-on jacket, the stock nothing but a piece of bent tubing. See, the firing mechanism could not be simpler, little more than a bolt and a spring. You pull the trigger and it blasts away. Sprays bullets like water from a hose. A deadly—yet simple—weapon.'

'Simple is the word. It couldn't be cruder if it were made by hand.'

Dryer smiled and patted the gun. 'But it was, Mr Harmon. Resistance fighters in many countries did make copies by hand. This one was manufactured in Copenhagen by the Danish resistance, right under the Germans' noses.'

The pieces of McCulloch's plan were beginning to click into place. Troy remembered very little about the weapons that the Civil War had been fought with—but he was certain that no gun like this had existed at the time. The colonel might be insane—but that did not mean that he was stupid. He knew weapons, he knew tactics—and he knew war. He had fought in Nam where a primitive army, fighting with weapons not even as good as this one, had licked the most technologically advanced country in the world. McCulloch must have learned his lesson well.

'Is there anything else I can tell you?' The words cut through Troy's dark thoughts, and he shook his head.

'No, no thank you, Mr Dryer. You've been of immense help. We'll let you know if there are any developments in this case. But just between the two of us, I think you had better write the gun and the blueprints off as shrinkage. You'll not get them back.'

'Oh, dear, that is bad news. The blueprints can of course be replaced, but the weapon itself was unique.'

'Sorry. Good day, Mr Dryer, and thank you again for the help.'

The drive out to the laboratory was a quick one, and Troy had only a single moment's worry as he drove up to the outer gate and the guard waved him down. Had Major Van Diver remembered his security pass—and had it cancelled?

'Message for you, Lieutenant. From Doctor Delcourt. She says for you to come to her office when you get in.'

'Thanks, Charley, I'll go there now.'

He drove the opposite way around the buildings to avoid the security office. If they had forgotten about his pass he wasn't going to remind them about it by letting them see him now. He used the back stairs that emerged close to the director's office.

The secretary sent him right in. Bob Kleiman was there, sprawled back in a chair and sipping from a mug of coffee; he waved hello with his free hand. Roxanne looked up from the papers spread across her desk and smiled.

'Troy, come in,' she said. 'You got my message then. Your office said that you weren't in, but they would let you know.'

'I was on my way here in any case: the guard at the gate told me you wanted to see me.'

'Yes. To let you know that we have pinned down exactly the temporal displacement your Colonel McCulloch used.' She picked a sheet of paper off her desk. 'He returned to this date, to the Fourth of July, eighteen fifty-eight. It appears that our friend the colonel must be quite a patriot.'

'I doubt that very much. He must have other reasons altogether. Probably wanted to be sure that he could arrive there without being seen. On the glorious Fourth everyone might be watching the parades and that kind of thing.'

'I'm sure that you are right. I never thought about it that way.'

'I have,' Troy said, grimly. 'For some time now I have been trying to get inside the colonel's head, to reason like him—react like him. I think that I have succeeded to some degree. But it's not very nice in there. The colonel is a sickie. I won't go into every step of the logic involved, but I am pretty certain now that I know what plan he had in mind. It may sound a little far-fetched, so try not to laugh when I tell you.'

'Nothing is laughable about that man,' Kleiman said. 'Allan Harper was my friend. That poisoning, that was an awful way to die.'

They listened, patiently, with disbelief at first—then with growing understanding. 'You make a strong case,' Roxanne said, 'and what you say could be true. It is an insane idea—but McCulloch is no longer sane, is he?'

'Nutty as a fruit cake,' Kleiman said. 'And let me tell you, I hope that Troy is right and that this is what he has done. Because it means that he has gone forever and, from our point of view, he is long since dead. He may have lived for a time in the past, but at least he never brought this particular insane plan to fruition.'

'How do you know?' Troy asked.

'Because history hasn't changed, has it? The South lost the war and that is that.'

'They lost the war here—but perhaps they didn't in a parallel branch of time,' Roxanne said.

Troy lifted his eyebrows. 'I don't follow you.'

'One of the many theories of the nature of time. It rejects the most accepted theory which holds that time is like a river, sweeping from the past, through the focal point of the present, and on into the future. Unchangeable. We can watch it, but we can't affect it. A modern version of the ancient argument of predestination. But this comes into instant conflict with the argument for free will. If the future cannot be changed, then we are all just puppets of time, predestined to live out our lives with no more freedom of choice than actors in a movie. But if we have free will, and can alter our future, then from the point of view of the future—we will have altered the past.'

'Deep stuff,' Kleiman said. 'Physics shading off into philosophy. But we really have to think about these problems now, since we know that travel through time is possible. Which brings us to this other theory about the nature of time, the multi-branching time of parallel possibilities. For instance, let us say that the British killed George Washington as a traitor before he could win the Revolution. If that had happened, the US today might still be a British colony. So perhaps there exists another universe where this did happen, a world parallel to our own. There may be an infinity of such universes, each one brought about by a probability in time, a choice, a selection made that launched a different possible world.'

'Some theory,' Troy said.

'Indeed it is,' Kleiman agreed. 'Which returns us to our starting point. If the theory of parallel probabilities exists, then it doesn't matter to us what McCulloch did back in the past. It can't affect us. If he accomplished nothing, then our world remains the way it is. If he got away with his fiendish plans, then he started another branch in time and we are still not affected. But if time can be changed for us—and it hasn't changed, why then, his plans have failed.'

'You have forgotten another possibility,' Troy said. 'Perhaps his plans failed because someone stopped him. Someone from the present time who knew what he was up to, who went back and prevented him from carrying those plans through.'

'An interesting speculation,' Roxanne agreed, 'but one which we will never be able to answer. It's another time paradox. Either the colonel failed because he was doomed to fail, therefore there is no need for someone to stop him. Or he was stopped by someone from the present, but since we know he has been stopped there is no reason to stop him. What's done is done, and it is certainly not our problem.'

'I still think that it is,' Troy said grimly. 'The colonel, I can't forget him. Nor can I forget what he has done—and what he might do. Whatever you say, I still feel that he has to be stopped.'

'If he could be stopped, fine, but how can that be done?' Kleiman asked. 'I think you will find that is not an easy question to answer. He has escaped justice here by fleeing through time. Perhaps the best thing for all of us to do is just to forget him. We can do that if we concentrate on the fact that as far as this world is concerned he has long since been dead and buried in the past.'

'That's all right for us here, today,' Troy agreed. 'But what about the people whose lives he might affect? We know that he is there, in the past, with some murderous plan. Isn't there a way that he could be apprehended?'

'I doubt it,' Kleiman said. 'What do we do? Send a message back through time to the police? Warn them to be on the lookout for one Wesley McCulloch wanted for murder in the next century?'

'No, that's impossible, I realize that. But you have the time machine. There must be some way it can be utilized to stop him. If only there were some way to send a posse after him, to bring him in. It wouldn't even need a posse. One man could do it. One determined man. McCulloch wouldn't be expecting it, not to be tracked down through time.'

'Agreed. But what you are talking about is too much to ask any man to do. To leave the world where he has been born, to go back in time to the past, to a more dangerous existence. And to know that this was forever, a one-way trip. No, Troy, forget it. The colonel's gone—and good riddance I say.'

'Yes, I know that he's gone from here—but I can't forget that he is still causing trouble somewhere, or somewhen, else.'

'But we have analysed that situation in great detail,' Kleiman said. 'There are no options open, no way that it can be done. I think you will find that you have posed a question that is impossible to answer. He has escaped justice in the present by fleeing through time. The best thing that you can do now is just to forget him. As far as the world is concerned he is dead and buried in the past.'

'No,' Troy said. 'I won't forget him.'

He said it firmly, without emotion. He had reached a decision, something he knew that he had been thinking about for days now at a subconscious level. The realization had finally surfaced, and with it the knowledge that the decision had already been made.

'McCulloch is not going to escape. Because I'm going after him.'

---

Chapter 19

Silence greeted Troy's words. Kleiman started to say something, then changed his mind. It was Roxanne Delcourt who finally spoke.

'That's quite a decision to make. Have you thought it through clearly?'

'No, not really. It's more of an emotional decision than a logical one. I've been on this case since the beginning. I've met the colonel, just once, and I didn't like him, not at all. Since then I've seen what he has done—and I'm certain that he plans worse. I have grown to loathe the man. He must be stopped. And right now, from where I stand, it looks like I'm the only one who can do it.'

'But—it's irreversible,' Kleiman said. 'You can go—but you can't come back.'

Troy nodded slowly. 'I know that. But I'm not going that far. It will still be the US of A. Only it will be a few years ago. And it will certainly be a new kind of experience! Added to this is the unarguable fact that there really isn't that much here that I am going to miss. Maybe I'm being too morbid or depressed, but, personally, things haven't been quite the same since my wife died. Going on two years now. She had been ill a long time. It wasn't very nice for her. And it hit me hard. I was ready for a section eight there for a while. But the work has helped, keeps my mind off how I feel. Helps me sleep when I'm tired. Helps with the depression. I felt suicidal for a while, but basically I'm not the suicide type. Sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this.'

'Because we're your friends,' Roxanne said.

'Yes, I suppose you're right. It's not easy to make friends in the military, you move around a lot, particularly in the kind of work I'm involved in. With Lily, I suppose I didn't need any other friends. I have no family to speak of. I might as well follow the colonel.' He had been staring down at his clasped hands while he talked; now he looked up and smiled. 'It's no big deal. But I'm going to do it.'

'You can't!' Kleiman exploded. 'Look at what you're leaving behind. The technology, the advances in science, the things that are happening in research…'

'Bob. None of that means anything to me. I don't live your kind of life. The kind of work I do—I can do just as well in eighteen fifty-eight or nineteen fifty-eight. And what I really want to do is nail that son-of-a-bitch. Are you going to help me?'

'No! It's suicide. I won't be a part of it!' His anger slowly wilted before Troy's calm gaze; he lowered his eyes. 'All right. You talked me into it. But I still don't like it.' He smiled suddenly and clapped his hands together. 'But, by God, what an experiment into the nature of time! What we can learn! I'll do it, but you have to promise to help. We must think of a way for you to send a message to us. What do you think, Roxanne?'

'I think that we should help Troy, if he feels that this is what he must do. Out of gratitude, if nothing else, after what he did to force us to discover the true nature of our machine. But, Troy, shouldn't you take this up with your superiors?'

'No. They'll only think that I'm insane. The Army will, at least. I think I'll tell Admiral Colonne, the man I'm working for now. I have a feeling that he will understand. There's another thing, and I'm sorry to have to ask, but won't you have to make a report about this? That could get you into trouble?'

'Not really,' Roxanne said. 'I file reports, but I don't include records of every experiment. If we do this, do what you ask, don't worry about us. Though I can't help wishing that you would change your mind.'

'Thank you for the consideration. But I still feel that it has to be done.'

Now that the decision had been made, Troy wanted to be alone, to think it out. And there was really little else to be said. As soon as he could he made his excuses and left. Before returning to his apartment he drove back to Massachusetts Avenue; he wanted to get McCulloch's file. The night man admitted him and he was just putting the papers into an envelope when the admiral looked in.

'You've had over twenty-four hours to work on those records. Any conclusions yet?'

'Yes, sir. The evidence seems quite conclusive to me, but I'm not sure that you will agree with my theory.'

'I will—as long as you believe that Colonel McCulloch has travelled back in time in an attempt to change the outcome of the Civil War. Don't gape like that, man. Sit down and be comfortable. And I'll sit over here and light my pipe while you detail the steps by which you reached that conclusion.'

'But, admiral, you… well—'

'Surprised you? Why? I've seen the same reports that you have and kept my own copies of all these files. I like to keep abreast of all the operations around here. Particularly one as fascinatingly exotic as this one. At first I couldn't believe that the homicidal colonel would have had the imagination for a thing like this. But then it became obvious. His obsession with race and class, coupled with his love of the old and vanished South. The moment he discovered what the Gnomen project was about this idea must have struck him. And it helps to be mad if you have a plan like this. Insane or not, he went about putting the idea into practice in the most logical way. Buying gold, the most practical way of transporting wealth to a different era. And the Sten-gun, that was the giveaway to me. A simple and deadly weapon that can be made by anyone with a little metalworking experience. At this point we can't know what he plans to do with the guns, but we can be sure that it is nothing good. Have you reached any decision about what the next step should be?'

'Yes. I'm going after him.'

'Good. I am in full agreement. You have reached the only possible decision. Someone must run him to earth.'

'But some people might think that following him is just as insane as his decision to escape into the past.'

'Yes, but I am not some people. I am in charge of this singularly important organization. Here in QCIC we have the ultimate responsibility for the nation's security. It is obvious that we must protect that security in the present and in the future. What is not quite as obvious is that our responsibility now extends into the past as well. Colonel McCulloch shall not be permitted to threaten the existence of this nation. I can now tell you, quite frankly, how pleased I am with your decision. If you had given me any other answer I would have been forced to take you off the case and have you reassigned. Now I don't have to. I must congratulate you. Even though we have worked together for but a short time I can say, truthfully, that you are the best operative I have ever had. Probably because you think just the way I do. A very left-handed compliment.'

Troy smiled. 'Perhaps it is, but I understand it—and appreciate it. I thank you. But, let me ask you, what would you have done if I hadn't told you that I was going after McCulloch?'

'I would have gone after him myself. I couldn't assign anyone to a one-way trip of this kind. You might as well know that the powers that be are after me to retire. I don't want to. But I would jump at a chance to do what you are doing. If I were forced to leave this department, why then a voyage like this would be far superior to retirement. You are very lucky, my boy.'

'In a way, I think I am.'

'You are. This is a great adventure you are embarking on. I envy you. Now, to details. Have you discussed this with your contacts on the project?'

'I have. They agreed to help.'

'They couldn't say no. Your trip will tie in with everything they are trying to do. Next step. Finances. How much do you have in the bank and how much can you raise?'

'Nothing like the colonel's nest egg. I'm not rich.'

'Neither was he. Just crooked. He borrowed money, a large building loan, and he used his house as security—a fact that he forgot to mention when he sold the house. In addition he has a number of personal loans outstanding, as well as large cash advances on all of his credit cards. No more than a quarter of that money was his own—the rest he embezzled. How much can you raise?'

'About five thousand dollars.'

'I thought so. Not enough. Here's a cheque for twenty thousand dollars from our special fund. Deposit it in your bank tomorrow. Then get over to this shop, De Vrou's, one of the largest coin dealers in the country. Get as many coins as you can easily carry. McCulloch had long range plans so he could take the time to sell his gold. You won't have to bother doing that if you take the coinage with you. I'm also arranging for a weapon, but I'll get back to you later on that. And I'm preparing a list of items that you will need to take with you. You must make one up as well and we will compare them. Take your time, make the list a complete one since you will not be able to return for anything you might have forgotten. We will also have to think of a way for you to prepare some kind of report for us that we will be able to find. And there is one thing more. It has to do with your race. Slavery was still legal in eighteen fifty-eight. So I suggest that documents division should draw up papers for you proving that you are a free man. Is that satisfactory?'

'I hadn't thought about that but, yes, it should be done.'

'Good. That seems to be everything. Unless you have any questions?'

'Just one, admiral.' Troy looked at the cheque, then folded it and put it away. 'The important one. I can't very well convince the authorities to arrest McCulloch after I find him. So what should I do?'

'You know the answer to that as well as I do. But if you wish me to put it into the form of an order I will be happy to. What must be done has been obvious since you reached your decision to follow Colonel McCulloch. You are to search for him and you are to find him.

'And when you do—kill him.'

---

Chapter 20

'American coins only?' the clerk asked.

'That's right,' Troy said.

'Any particular denomination that you are interested in?'

'Not really. Just as long as they are not later than eighteen fifty-nine. What do you have?'

The young man stepped back and raised his eyebrows. 'If you wait a moment, I'll have Mr De Vrou himself come to help you. He's very much a specialist in early American coinage.'

The clerk hurried away; Troy looked around the store. He had never been a collector as a boy, neither coins nor stamps—nor anything else for that matter. But he could see the appeal of a hobby like this. The multicoloured bank notes, from all over the world, were immensely attractive. The coins came in unexpected sizes and shapes. He was bent over a glass case looking at a Roman denarius when the owner came up.

'May I be of help, sir? You are interested in the purchase of American coins?'

'That's right. The condition isn't too important, but the date is. I want nothing later than eighteen fifty-nine.'

'You do!' De Vrou leaned forward confidentially. 'Would it be asking too much, sir, for you to tell me why? I can be of great aid to you in obtaining exactly what you need.'

'No particular reason. I'm just interested in that period.'

'Please understand, I can be most discreet. There is something I should know?'

'Like what?'

'Like—why! I know coins, sir, know all about them. But there is something here now that I don't know and I wish you would let me in on it. One hand washes the other, as they say. I will give you a very fair price on your purchases. But would you please tell me what is so important about this period? I ask because another gentleman was in here some months ago making the same kind of purchase.'

'Tall man, sharp nose, greying hair?'

'The very man!'

'He's the one who told me I should buy these coins. I don't know why. I'll tell him you asked.'

'Then you know him? Know his name?'

'No, not really. We just meet by chance once in a while. Now—the coins, if you please.'

The coin dealer sighed. The secret would remain a secret, at least for the time. 'Yes, I would appreciate you letting him know.' He placed a velvet-lined tray on the counter. 'Please inform him that I have a new shipment in, coins that will interest him. See, here is one, a fine twenty-dollar gold piece…'

'I'll take it. What other denominations do you have?'

'In gold, here. A ten dollar, a five and a three. I'm sorry, but I have no two-and-a-half dollar gold pieces right now. But here is an almost mint gold dollar.'

Troy picked up the tiny coin, the size of his fingernail. 'I'll take this as well. Are there any coins of a smaller denomination?'

'Over here. Most interesting. Half dollar, quarter dollar, a one cent and a three cent coin.'

'No nickels?'

'Of course not, sir. You will have your little joke. We both know there were no five cent pieces at this time. The half dime instead. And of course the dime itself. Here is a beauty that dates from just after the Revolution. The disme, as it was called then, a Middle English variation of the old French disme from Latin decima, or a tenth part. Later corrupted to dime.'

Troy packed his purchases into his case, then looked at his watch and hurried out. He had only twenty minutes to get to the stable for his riding lesson. The colonel had the advantage on him there since he had served in the cavalry. Troy wasn't happy with the lessons, he was still aching from the last one, but if he was going to do anything besides walk he had better learn to handle a horse.

He was very glad of the admiral's help. Their lists of necessities matched in many ways, but the admiral had thought of a number of items that he hadn't even considered. Things that he had always taken for granted. Like antibiotics, which he discovered had only been in existence for less than forty years. Those sealed metal tins might very well save his life one day. And halazone tablets. Water purification was unheard of in the middle of the nineteenth century, plague and disease were a constant menace. His arms still hurt from all the preventative injections that he had taken. There had also been a hurried trip to the dentist where two gold crowns on his teeth were replaced with porcelain caps.

After the riding lesson he went straight to the house on Massachusetts Avenue. Just sitting down hurt now. The admiral was waiting for him. He pushed over a long-barrelled steel pistol.

'This is a Colt revolver made in eighteen fifty-seven. A precision instrument, even if the cartridges are pin fire. They are slower to load than centre-fire cartridges, which weren't introduced until the eighteen-sixties, but they work just as well. This pistol resembles the original exactly, but the barrel and chambers, all of the important parts of the firing mechanism, are of modern steel. I've had a thousand rounds made up and can get more if you need them. We have a small shooting gallery in the basement. Get down there and fire the thing and get used to it. Your life may depend upon it.'

In two weeks the preparatory work was finished. The lease on his apartment had been cancelled and all of his personal possessions were in storage. He was certain that he would never see them again, but could not bear the thought of simply disposing of them. The admiral had understood and had promised to pay all the storage costs. Neither of them mentioned just how long this might be for.

The arrangements were done, the lists complete, everything ready. They came out of the Massachusetts Avenue building into the rain-filled night. With the admiral at the wheel the big Cadillac steamed like a barge through the darkness. When they turned onto the Beltway he glanced at Troy sitting silently beside him. 'You've checked the list carefully?' he asked.

'At least two dozen times. All my clothing is in the suitcase on the back seat. The equipment that we put together, it's in the saddlebags. All I need now is a horse.'

'The Colt—and the money?'

'In the bottom of the bags. It's all in order.'

'Yes. I suppose it is. I imagine that you are as prepared now as you'll ever be. You know you'll be strung up in a second if they find the gun?'

'I know that. But I'll have little chance of getting one after I arrive. Blacks—I mean niggers—don't get near that kind of thing in the old South.'

'And that is what really concerns me…'

'Don't let it. The odds would be exactly the same if I were white. At least I have what might be called protective colouration!'

'Don't joke about it… all right, joke. Damn, but I wish I were going in your stead. How I envy you! My job is looking more and more boring every day.'

'It's an important one, sir. And you are the one person who can do it best.'

'I know that—or I would have been taking the riding lessons instead of you. This exit?'

'That's right. Look for the small road.'

It was half-past eleven. It had been agreed that basic precautions must be taken to prevent any investigation of Troy's disappearance. None of the laboratory staff, or the military security people, would be on duty at this time of night, so they did not have to be considered. Their arrival was carefully timed just before the guards changed shift at midnight. Their visit would of course be logged in the security computer, but the fact that Troy had not logged out might not be noticed at once, since it normally would be in the next day's file. In any case, since no trace of him would be found in the buildings, and the admiral would state that they had gone out together, it might very well be chalked up to computer error.

Bob Kleiman was waiting for them inside the front door. Troy introduced them. 'I've heard a good deal about you, Admiral Colonne,' Kleiman said.

'And the same, Dr Kleiman. I'm looking forward with great anticipation to seeing this machine of yours. May I congratulate you on a truly miraculous achievement.'

'Save your thanks for Dr Delcourt—Roxanne. It's her equations that got the whole thing rolling. She's waiting for us in Lab Nine. Here, let me help with the bags.'

The guard at the laboratory entrance scrutinized their passes closely, then let them through. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Troy pointed to the washroom. 'I'm going to change. See you in a few minutes.'

It wasn't any sense of false modesty that made him wish to be alone; years in the barracks had eliminated that. It was just the desire to be by himself for a few minutes. Up until this instant everything had been talk and planning. But the moment of truth had finally arrived. He wasn't afraid, he knew more than enough about fear to recognize it in any guise, but he was possessed by a different sensation altogether. It was a little like a night parachute drop; a fall into the unknown. He undressed slowly, right down to the skin, and laid his clothes to one side.

One by one he donned his new clothes. Ankle-length cotton drawers, then rough trousers. A cotton shirt and a shapeless jacket which had been torn at the shoulder, then repaired. Patches made of a different kind of cloth covered the elbows. His high boots were handmade from thick leather, with hobnailed leather soles, well-worn and dusty. He laid aside the hat that completed the outfit, it was wide-brimmed, made of straw and drooping around the edge. Before he put his uniform into the suitcase he emptied the pockets onto the glass ledge over the sink.

Keys, coins, pocketknife, handkerchief, dogtags, pen and pencil, notebook, then his wallet with some money, ID, membership cards, some photographs. It was all staying behind. He took out the picture of Lily, smiling happily, with Disneyland in the background. Life had always been a pleasure for her, right up until those last bad months, something to be savoured and shared with others. But he couldn't bring this modern photograph with him. He put it back into the wallet, then dumped the lot into the empty suitcase on top of his uniform and started to close it. And stopped. Opening it again to retrieve her picture. There was nothing else he wanted from the twentieth century, nothing at all. He would put it in with the gun and ammunition. If those were discovered, a little, crumple-edged picture of the smiling black girl wouldn't make any difference. This time he closed the suitcase all the way and snapped it shut.

Troy patted the side pocket of his jacket, feeling the bulge of the leather wallet that held all of his papers. There was a large clasp knife alongside it, as well as a square of unbleached muslin. And a few small coins. Everything else was in the saddlebags. When he turned back he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped short.

A stranger looked back at him. This wasn't dressing up for a party—this was for real. He stared at the solidly built black man dressed in well-worn rough clothing. People wore clothes like this where he was going. There were no nylon fabrics or zippers, no cars or planes either. A different age. What would it be like? Well, that was one thing that he would be finding out soon enough.

Then he put the hat under his arm, took up the suitcase and went out. The journey was about to begin.

---

Chapter 21

They had been talking, explaining the apparatus to the admiral, but they grew silent when Troy came up. Seeing him dressed like this drove home the realization that this was not just another experiment, that he would be gone soon. Though they had planned this together he was the one who was leaving, who would travel through time, who would leave this world forever. For the instant he was gone he would be dead as far as they were concerned, would have been dead for a century or more. Now that the moment had come, there was also the understanding that this was something more than time travel. It was also execution.

'I have never seen so many long faces in my entire life,' Troy said. 'Cheer up—it's not the end of the world. In fact, I am going to make sure that it won't be.'

'You can still change your mind,' Kleiman said. 'We would understand…'

'Well I wouldn't. Here I am about to go to a more healthy world, to escape from all the smog and pollution, the threat of the atomic bomb, television commercials, all that—and you want to stop me.'

'We don't want to stop you, Troy,' Roxanne said, stepping forward and taking him by the arms. 'I think that you are the bravest man that I have ever met and I want to wish you all the luck in the world.' She leaned forward and kissed him, then turned quickly away before she did something stupid like crying.

'Ready to go when you say,' Kleiman said, pointing at the controls. 'Everything set for your arrival on the first of August in the year eighteen fifty-nine. At around three in the morning and, if we can believe the newspaper files, it is raining like bejeezus. Are you sure that this is the date you want?'

'Positive. The admiral and I worked it out very carefully. McCulloch will have been there for over a year now, so whatever his plans are they should be well under way. It is those activities that should enable me to find him. The war won't start for a year and a half yet, so not only do I have time to track him down, but there is still time enough to put a monkey-wrench into whatever bit of nastiness he is up to.'

'Sounds good,' Kleiman agreed. 'Now the other thing. You remember, you promised to let us know tonight how you would go about getting a message to us. Something that would tell us how the affair finished, what McCulloch was trying to do. Have you worked it out?'

'I have. A very simple idea. I am going to write up a report and seal it into a bottle. Really seal it, even try to get a glass blower to melt the neck of the bottle shut. I'll put that in a solid box and bury it about six feet deep in a spot where you will be easily able to find it.'

'Where?'

'Right there.' Troy pointed to the granite rock before them. 'Down on the north side. All you have to do is dig-'

'Great!' Kleiman said. 'Of course it will also mean moving all of the equipment out of the lab, then tearing up the concrete floor. I can hardly wait. We'll get onto it right away.'

'Well, at least wait until I have gone!'

They were silent then, all of them, staring at the grey rock where it projected up from the scuffed laboratory floor. Down there, under the foundations, under the ground, was the message. If Troy had indeed left that message in the past, then it must be buried there right now. It had been lying in that spot for well for over a century. Buried safely beside the rock, when this had been only farmland, before they had been born, before this laboratory was even built. It was an unnerving thought.

'We'll wait,' Roxanne said. 'This is important enough—and new enough—for us not to get involved with time paradoxes at this stage. We will have to think about them some time. But not just now.'

'Amen,' said the admiral.

'Seconded,' Kleiman said. 'Time paradoxes have to be avoided at any stage. You must beware of doing or saying anything that might affect events. We have no way of visualizing the consequences.'

Troy nodded and seized up the well-worn saddlebags. 'It's time to go,' he said.

'A good idea,' Kleiman agreed, pointing to the metal brackets fixed to the stone surface. 'I'm putting a wooden platform there. It will raise you about an inch above the surface of the stone. So you should drop that amount when you arrive—better bend your knees. I would rather have you above the stone than, well, inside it by a fraction of an inch. That is another matter that needs investigating. So here we go-'

Troy helped him fix the platform into place, then clambered up onto it. The admiral handed him the saddlebags and they were ready. There didn't seem to be much to say. The admiral looked grim; Kleiman and Roxanne were busy at the controls.

'All ready,' Kleiman said, his hand poised over the red actuator button. 'Count of three, okay?'

'Okay. Let's go. Geronimo.'

'One.'

Troy flexed his knees.

'Two.'

There was a frozen silence. Troy saw that Kleiman's hand was shaking, his lips working in silence.

'Do it, man, do it now.' Troy said.

'Three.'

Darkness.

Emptiness.

A sensation of nothing. Or a sensation of lack of sensation? It lasted an instant—or perhaps an eternity. Troy couldn't tell, it was too different. It could have been over even as it began, or it could have continued for an unmeasurable time. As he tried to think about it, even as he began, it ended.

Heavy, warm rain beat down upon his shoulders and something hard smacked against the soles of his boots, rough stone, tripping him. He tried to regain his balance in the rain-filled darkness but couldn't. He slipped and fell, slithering down the rock face into the mud, the breath half-knocked out of him. He had a moment of panic as he groped in the darkness for the saddlebags. They were there, it was all right.

Sudden lightning cut through the night, the bolt striking so close by that the rumble of thunder arrived right on top of the flash. The lightning flared and was gone, but for an instant there he had been able to see through the thick rain.

The black form of the projecting rock was clear, as well as the outline of trees against the sky. But the laboratory was gone as though it had never existed. Of course, it didn't exist, not here, not at this time. It still had to be built, its existence was still a probability in the distant future.

He had arrived. Fairfax County, Virginia. A few miles north of the nation's capital.

The summer of the year 1859.

Clutching the saddlebags he climbed to his feet and stood with his back against the rock, rubbing the rain from his eyes. He had done it. 1859. But it meant nothing to him. He felt numb, the truth of the situation just couldn't penetrate. Only the rain had any reality.

What should the next step be? Sitting put, that was obvious. When it was daylight he had to chart the location of this particular ridge of stone, the exact spot where he had arrived so he could be sure of finding it again. When the time came he would bury the message here. It was important, not only to those yet unborn who would someday dig for it in the distant future, but was vitally important to him as well. It was a link, no matter how tenuous, with the world that he had left forever. He settled down against the rock to wait.

The rain slackened and Troy was surprised to see that the eastern horizon was already growing light. He had to remember to make a note of that for the others. Calibration was important, that's what Kleiman always said. Still, a few hours difference over the immense span of the years, that wasn't too bad. He would have to check the date too, just in case.

The rain died down to a steady drizzle, then stopped. The air was close and heavy; it was going to be a hot day. As the sky brightened the mist lifted and a grassy field began to emerge from the darkness, running down from the ridge of granite to the woods beyond. A track, a cowpath really, cut close by. He heard a distant mooing and the clanking of a cowbell; there was a farm not too distant. Nor should this spot be hard to find again. The ridge of rock, shaped somewhat like a ship, rose from the summit of a small hill, and it was the only bit of rock in sight. The cowbells sounded closer now, and the sound of heavy, slow footsteps.

They came out of the woods one behind the other, a file of small brown cattle. The leader rolled her eyes at him as she approached, then moved out around him. Troy watched her pass then turned back.

The boy was standing at the edge of the trees, looking at him.

Troy did not move when the boy started forward again. He was about twelve years old, dressed in patched trousers and shirt. He carried a length of green willow to use on the cows. His hair was blond and thick. His skin spattered with freckles. His bare toes squelched through the mud as he walked up and stopped before Troy. He just looked up at him, saying nothing.

'The rain stopped,' Troy said. The boy tilted his head.

'You talk funny for a nigger,' he said. He had a rural Virginia accent himself, no different from the ones Troy had heard countless times before.

'I'm from New York.'

'Never met a Yankee nigger before. You lost?'

'No, just travelling south. Got caught out in the rain, got lost. Going to Washington. Can you tell me the way?'

'Of course I know the way,' the boy said contemptuously, swinging the willow at a clump of grass. 'Right ahead to the cart track then you gonna turn left into Tysons Corners and then you reach the pike. You're not very smart if you don't know that.'

'I told you, I'm not from around these parts.'

'Goldy, dang your thick hide, get out of that!' The boy called out suddenly, then ran after the cows.

Troy looked after him, aware of the tension draining away. It had worked all right. His first meeting. But just with a boy. What would happen when he met other people? For one thing, he wasn't going to talk Yankee any more. Could he fake a thick handkerchief-head accent? Sho' nuff. He had better do it—his life might very well depend upon it. He had heard enough of that kind of talk in the army, big thick kids from the south, no education, Army even had to teach some of them to read. Yassuh, yassuh. It sounded pretty fake. But he would just have to learn to do it. Listen to how the other blacks talked. Do the same. But he must remember that until he felt secure he must talk as little as possible.

The boy and the cattle were vanishing down the path. Troy turned his back on them, threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, then started in the opposite direction. He patted his pockets as he went; everything was there.

Washington, District of Columbia, was ahead.

Also, somewhere out there as well, was Colonel McCulloch. They had an appointment that the colonel didn't know anything about.

---

Chapter 22

By the time Troy had reached the dirt track the sun was well over the horizon and burning hard on his back. Just a little after dawn and he was already running with sweat; the day would be a scorcher. He peeled off his steaming jacket before going on. The road was nothing more than two ruts filled with mud and deep puddles; he walked on the grass to one side. Topping a rise he saw smoke in the valley beyond, and had a quick view of wood-shingled roofs between the trees. Tysons Corners. It was surrounded by the fields of outlying farms, while just ahead, beside the road, was a ramshackle building.

No, not a building, that was too grand a word for it. A shack. He had seen miserable dwellings like this before, when he had been driving through the backwoods of Mississippi. Rude constructions of unseasoned wood, bare of paint, warped and dried by the sun. This one was the same. The gaps between some of the boards were wide enough to fit your hand through. The front door opened directly onto the hardpacked dirt of the front yard. An oak tree shaded the front of the house, and under the tree, on a broken and backless chair, the old man sat. Watching, staring in silence, as Troy walked by. His skin was black and wrinkled and only a few patches of grey hair tufted his head. His clothes were ancient and patched. Troy nodded as he came up, but the old man didn't move.

'Morning,' Troy said. The old man shook his head from side to side.

'Good-bye. I says that because you is gonna be dead by nightfall.'

Troy stopped and smiled, trying to make light of the words. 'You shouldn't say that, old man, brings bad luck.'

'You is bad luck. Where you steal those bags from?'

'They're mine.'

'That such a bad lie even I don' believe it! Those white man bags, not nigger bags. First white man see you gonna shoot you first then ask after where you stole dem. You from de North?'

'Yes.'

'Sound like it. But you South now.'

'Can I come in? Seems I got a thing or two to learn.'

'Seems to me you do have!' The old man cackled with high-pitched laughter. 'Jus' couldn't trust my eyes seeing you sashay down the road like that. Mistuh Yankee-man, you got a real lot to learn. You not back North now. When you here you jus' one mo' slave.'

The quiet description cut Troy to the heart, penetrated deeper than any insult or threat. The realization that black people were slaves here, that slavery was still legal. This man had spent his life in slavery. The lesson was quite clear. If Troy couldn't learn, and learn quickly, to act like him, think like him, why, then he was as good as dead.

He almost didn't get the chance. There was the sound of men's voices down the road, in the direction he had come, and the thud of horses' hooves.

'Inside!' the old man hissed. 'Hide—or you is dead this minute!'

Troy did not stop to argue. He dived through the open door, falling and rolling against the wall. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder and nearer, then a man's voice called out.

'How long you been there, uncle?'

'Since it was light, captain, suh. Jus' sittin' right here.'

'Then you tell me what you saw, tell me the truth or I'll lay this whip across that black hide.'

'What I see? I see nothin', suh. Crows, jus' crows.'

'You see a real black crow, boy? A buck nigger in fancy boots carrying stolen goods?'

'See dat? I know if I see dat! Nothin', no one pass here, I swear dat!'

'I told you, Luther, he wouldn't come this way,' another voice said.

'You calling my boy a liar?'

'If I thought he was lying I wouldn't be here now, would I? I'm just saying that this buck lied to the boy, to put us off his trail. He probably went the other way directly the boy was out of sight. You back-track the way we came, I'll go into the Corners, pass the word. He won't get far, not with everyone looking for him. Bet there's a reward out for him too.'

The sound of the galloping horses died away, but still Troy did not move. He lay pressed against the rough wood, unaware of the line of ants moving past his face and out through a chink in the walls, filled with a kind of fear that he had only felt once before in his life. The time when he had been cut off from his company. Behind enemy lines.

He was behind enemy lines again. In his own country—but still not his country. Not yet. History, as he knew it, had just come alive for him in a way he had never understood from books. For the first time he could understand at least one of the reasons why the Civil War had been fought—and just what the victory was that had been so painfully won. He looked down at his shaking fingers, then angrily clamped them into a fist and slammed it hard against the splintered floor. It was a little early to give up.

The old man shuffled up arthritically and settled down on the doorstep with a weary sigh. His back was to Troy, his face hidden.

'You saved my life,' Troy said. 'And I don't even know your name.'

'You ain't ever gonna get my name. When they catch you, you ain't gonna tell where you been.'

'How am I going to get away from them? Where can I go?'

'Back where you come from, and good riddance. You git out in back now, hide in the scrub behind the privvy, they ain't never going dere. After dark, you move out of here.'

'Where to? You heard them, they're all on the lookout. How can I get away?'

The old man grunted contemptuously. 'Wif your dumb ways I guesses you don't. Get cotched, whupped, tell dem 'bout me fore they string you up. You is trouble, hear dat? Trouble.'

He muttered to himself, rocking back and forth in the doorway, reaching a decision. 'Git out where I tol' you. Come night I get in touch wif the Railroad. Let dem worry 'bout you. Now git.'

It was hot under the bushes, the air didn't move, the flies were torture. Troy managed to doze off finally, but woke, spluttering, with the flies crawling into his nose and mouth. He spat them out, waving ineffectually at the droning clouds. The flies were a torture, but the thirst even more so. Worse than he had ever experienced before. And there was nothing that he could do about it. People passed from time to time on the road, he could hear their voices, the creak of cartwheels. By dusk his head was thudding painfully. He still dared not move. Slow footsteps sounded, and he pressed himself back into the bushes. The privvy door banged, and a moment later he heard the old man's whisper.

'Dey's a gourd wif water. Wait until I gone before you grabs it.'

The water was warm and gritty—but lifesaving. Troy made it last as long as he could. After a while the air cooled down slightly as darkness fell but, even more important, it brought relief from the flies. The pleasure was short lived, however, because the flies were soon replaced by humming, voracious mosquitoes. It seemed that hours had gone by before he heard the sound of the door slamming, followed by the drag of the old man's footsteps moving off down a path through the trees. He returned, an endless time later, and called out to Troy.

'Come forward now. Behin' the house. Got a boy here gonna see after you.'

A gibbous moon was drifting in and out between the clouds, spreading enough watery light for him to pick out the two figures. The old man waved him forward.

'Dis boy, he frightened but he gonna help you. You gotta help him back. His momma sick, need medicine. You got a dollar? You must have, with all dem rich clothes.'

'Yes. I'll be happy to pay him for the help. If there is anything I can do for you, you're more than welcome…'

'Just shut yo' mouth. Don' need for nothin'. You hide in th' barn where he takes you. An' don't come back.'

Troy whispered his thanks after the retreating back, but the man didn't answer. He had nothing, was just as poor as it was possible to be, but he still had his pride; Troy was sorry that he had mentioned the money. He felt a small, warm hand in his, and looked down and smiled at the tiny child.

'I'm going to help your momma with her medicine,' he said. 'And more. Let's go.'

The child's bare feet were unerring in the darkness; Troy stumbled after him, well aware of the crashing he was making. But they seemed to be taking a circuitous route, away from the road, cutting through a sweet-smelling pine forest. After they had come a good distance the boy stopped, then led him slowly and silently to a gap in the hedge. A rutted road lay beyond, clearly visible, the puddles gleaming in the moonlight. The clouds were gone, the night sky rich with stars. The road was a trap. The boy reached up and tugged at his arm, pulling him down so he could whisper in Troy's ear.

'Stay down and don' stir none.'

He slipped away before Troy could say anything, moving silently as a shadow across the road. He was gone a long time. Troy thought about extracting the pistol from the bottom of the bag, then decided not to. One shot in this quiet night would alert the entire countryside. There was no way that he could kill everyone who turned a hand against him. All he could do was wait.

He jumped, startled, as the boy touched him out of the darkness.

'Men dere, gone now,' he whispered, then tugged Troy forward.

They crossed the road as quickly as they could and hurried on into the shelter of the bushes on the other side. There was the outline of a house against the sky, a glint of light visible around one of the windows. They angled away from it, between rows of high corn that rustled at their passage. A darker bulk appeared out of the darkness, a barn. The door squealed slightly when the boy pushed it open.

'Hide,' he whispered. 'Momma's money.'

Troy dug out a handful of coins, far more than a dollar, and pressed the money into the boy's hand. The tiny fingers closed on it, then he was gone. The door squeaked again as the boy pulled it closed behind him. Troy turned and felt his way through the darkness, stumbling over unseen objects, the saddlebags catching on some obstruction. He freed the bags, then found what felt like bales of hay and lay down behind them.

He was safe for the moment—but what would happen next? The old man had been angry at him and less than clear. Something about a railroad. He didn't know what it meant.

Loud footsteps sounded in the barnyard outside and the door squealed shrilly as it was pulled open. Light flared. The door banged shut and a man called out.

'Step forward. Where I can see you.'

Troy had no choice. He let the bags drop and stood up, walked out around the bales of hay. Blinking in the light from the kerosene lantern. Staring at the man who was holding the gun.

A white man.

---

Chapter 23

'You're the one, all right,' the man said. 'Just keep those hands up high the way they are. I've been out since late afternoon with the others, looking for you. Couldn't find a trace, no trace at all. People starting now to think the boy made the whole thing up. But standing here and looking at you now, why I would say that he gave a fair description.'

He was a big and solid man with bright red hair, his large belly swollen out over his trousers and stretching the supporting red braces.

'What are you going to do with me?' Troy said, looking at the long-barrelled pistol aimed at his midriff. 'Going to shoot me?'

'The man holding the pistol, he's the one asks the questions. So just keep your hands way up like that and tell me who brought you here.'

'I don't know.'

'Who told you about me?'

'I don't know that either.'

'Amazing. If I had my eyes closed I would truly believe that I was listening to a Yankee.'

'That's because I am one. From New York City.'

'Well, I can believe that—you sure are something different. Don't know what to do about you.'

'While you're making your mind up—my arms are getting tired. Can I put them down now?'

Without waiting for an answer Troy lowered his hands, shifting his weight forward as he did so. If he dived, knocked the gun aside, he stood some chance.

'Yes, leave them down,' the man said. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers and Troy relaxed his tense muscles. 'You'll be here for a bit. I'll show you where to hide. It's just a dark hole in the ground under the molasses butt, keep you alive though. In about a day or two you'll be moving out, when the other two arrive.'

'Moving where?'

'North, of course.'

'Sorry. My business is going to take me south. Thanks anyway.'

'Thanks…!' The man held up his lantern and leaned forward to look more closely at Troy. 'Let me tell you, you are indeed something different. Half the slaves in the South trying to get north to Canada, and you want to go in the other direction.'

'I do. And I'm not a slave. The man who sent me here, he mentioned the word railroad. This wouldn't be a station on the Underground Railroad, would it?'

'You ask too many questions. Got your bags back there?' Troy nodded. 'Get them. I don't want anyone stumbling over them. Come in the house. I was just fixing dinner—I guess you could use some.'

'I could, thanks. The last time I ate—I just don't remember.'

'Stay next to me. I'm putting out the light. No one's close, my dogs make sure of that. But you might be seen from a distance.' Darkness engulfed them. Troy retrieved the saddlebags and followed the man out of the barn. Something large pressed against him and he heard a deep growl.

'Easy, boy, easy, this is a friend. Walk slowly, stranger. If you don't make any sudden moves they won't bother you. Here, get inside before I light the lantern.'

The kitchen was sparsely furnished but clean, the wooden table freshly scrubbed. The man hung the lantern from a hook over the table then pumped a pitcher of fresh water at the sink. He put it on the table along with two stone mugs.

'I didn't light the fire today. But I got the butt end of a ham and some cornbread.'

'Anything. I appreciate it. My name is Troy Harmon.'

'What business could you possibly have in the South, Troy?'

'Private business, Mister—I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'

The man chewed on a mouthful of cornbread dipped in molasses and shook his head in wonder. 'You are indeed something. The name is Milo Doyle, since you know everything else about this place. And I come from Boston, which explains why I'm not shooting you on the spot.'

'It explains a great deal, Mr Doyle.' The ham was gristly and badly cured, but Troy was ravenous. He washed it down with the sweet-tasting water. 'It explains why you're helping me, and the others you mentioned as well.'

'I've been here so long, people forget. Come down working on the railroad—funny, different kind of railroad now. Married a local girl, took up farming. She died, going on three years now, been on my own since then. Not doing much other than feel sorry for myself. Actually thought of selling out and going back home. Never quite got around to it. Then one day a friend came by, he's a lawyer now but I knew him since he was that high, from back home. Asked me to do a little favour for him. Favours been getting bigger and bigger ever since. Now you know all about me, Troy, so you can tell me about yourself.'

'Be glad to. Born and bred in New York, on Long Island. Went into the army when I was young…'

'Watch it, son. That's the first I heard they took anyone of your race into the United States Army.'

'Did I say that? I've done a lot of fighting out of the country. A lot of armies aren't too particular about skin. I can take care of myself. Right now I'm working on, well a project, I have to find someone. And I'm beginning to realize that I can't do it alone. I'd like to ask your advice. And maybe I can help you in return. From what I have heard about the Underground Railroad it's an important work, helping runaway slaves get North.'

'It's important all right, getting the freight north, but some of us are more important than others. This is kind of a small station, nothing like the one that poor Tom Garrett ran. Over two thousand and seven hundred passengers he carried through Wilmington before they caught him.'

'I had no idea of the scope of the operation. But something this big, it can't be cheap to run. Your expenses for food and transportation, they must be pretty high. Which means we can help each other. I can pay well for any assistance. So our relationship can be a mutually profitable one.'

Doyle's jaw was gaping open, a rivulet of molasses running down his chin.

'You ever think of selling snake oil? Man talks like you, he's got a great future selling things. Mutually profitable relationship indeed! Why, you talk better than most preachers I know.'

Troy smiled. 'The advantage of a good education.' Public School 117 and Jamaica High School—they should only know!

'Advantage of something. But you want me to help you, you better tell me more about this man you are looking for. A friend of yours?'

'The direct opposite. His real name is Wesley McCulloch, though he may have changed it. But frankly I doubt that. He has killed three people that I know of. I want to find out where he is now, then let the authorities know.'

'A white man?'

'Yes.'

'That's a tall order, Troy. Particularly in the South. You'll never be able to do it alone.'

'I know that now. I was perhaps a little naive to think that I could. I'll need a cover…' Doyle looked puzzled, not understanding. 'No, not a real cover, I mean a different role. I've been thinking about it all day. Let me know what you think. Would it be possible for me to go south as a personal servant? That would mean locating someone white to front the operation. Do you think that it would work?'

'I think I need a drink while I think about all that. Can't say right off if it can be done, but I can say that I truly believe it is the strangest idea I heard in all my life.' He dumped a heavy stone jug onto the table, pulled the corncob plug from it and poured their mugs full. 'Try this. Farmer down by the river makes it. Charged me a dime for this crock. What do you think of it?'

Troy sipped, then instantly regretted it. 'I think you got cheated,' he said hoarsely. Doyle nodded gloomily.

'Overcharged. I knew it.' He smacked his lips over the corn liquor, then refilled his mug. 'But I think I know the very man who might be able to help you. He's a Scotchman, writes for the newspapers or something, in Washington. He's helped us a lot, carries messages when he goes South. He might be just your man.'

'If he'll help it sounds ideal. Can you contact him?'

Doyle rasped his fingers over his jaw and nodded. 'I need me some iron nails, Hogg in the Corners is out, I already asked. So I got a good reason to go into the city. If I leave early I can do my errands, be back here by dusk. I can leave a message for him if he's not there. With our people who'll know how to contact him. But you'll have to stay buried in the hole until I get back.'

'I can use the rest, don't worry about me.'

'I'm worrying about me and how they would string me up if they found you here. I'll need some money to convince the newspaper man.'

Troy dug into his pocket. 'Will ten dollars do?'

'Do? I said convince him, not buy him. Now grab your bags and let me show you the hole so I can get me some sleep.'

The hideaway had been skilfully constructed. The big molasses barrel swung aside on concealed pivots to reveal an opening. Beneath it a cave-like chamber had been dug into the sandy soil, supported by lengths of tree trunk, the walls reinforced with split logs. A platform of split logs on the floor lifted it above the damp earth. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water and bit of candle end set into a notch in a beam. Nothing else.

'I'll bring you some vittles in the morning before I go,' were Doyle's last words as he swung the barrel back into place. Troy found a match and lit the candle, then dug out his revolver before he lay down. The saddlebags made a satisfactory pillow and he was asleep seconds after he blew the candle out.

Troy dozed on and off during the day after Doyle had left. There was nothing else to do in the blackness of the pit. With no way to measure the time, the day stretched on and on until he was sure that something had gone wrong. He followed the slight draught until he found the open end of the clay pipe that admitted fresh air, undoubtedly angled since no trace of light was visible through it. He pressed his ear to it. Occasionally distant sounds were carried to him, he heard a cart once, then another time some children shouting one to the other.

He was dozing again when he heard the loud barking of dogs. Intruder—or was it their master coming home? In either case he was ready. When the trapdoor finally creaked open Troy was standing against the back wall, his pistol aimed.

'Come out,' Doyle said. 'It's all right.'

Troy went warily, blinking in the light of the lantern. A slim man, well dressed in a dark suit and high riding boots, stood behind Doyle.

'Who is that?' Troy asked.

'He's the one that I told you about—so you can just put that hogsleg away. This is Mr Shaw, Mr Robbie Shaw. I mentioned a bit about your plans and he is interested. You can tell him what you told me. You two stay put here. The dogs are restless and I'm going to look around the grounds.'

He went out, taking the lamp with him; they could hear the dogs growling.

'Foxes, perhaps,' Shaw said in a quiet voice. 'I believe that there are a number of them in the vicinity.'

'I wouldn't know. I'm not from these parts.'

'Indeed you are not. Dare I say your accent is as alien as mine.'

'Yes, your accent,' Troy peered through the darkness but the other man was only the vaguest blur. 'You know, you sound more like an Englishman than a Scotsman. No insult intended.'

'None taken, I'm sure. Benefit of a Sassenach education. Winchester. My parents wanted me to get on in the world. You strike me as being quite a well-travelled man and I'm getting more intrigued with every passing moment. Two names were mentioned by our host. You are Troy Harmon?'

'That's right.'

'My pleasure, Mr Harmon. The other name was something of a surprise, the man you are seeking. Wesley McCulloch, did I get that right?'

'You did.'

'That couldn't be Colonel Wesley McCulloch by any chance, could it?'

Troy eased the Colt out of his belt and pointed it in the darkness. 'He has used the title of colonel. Why do you mention his name? Have you heard of him?'

'You might very well ask, dear boy. Because I know the colonel so well. I just wondered what your interest in him could possibly be.'

---

Chapter 24

Troy's thoughts were as black as the darkness that surrounded them. Was this a trap? Had McCulloch set people to watch the spot where he had arrived—to see if he had been followed? Was Doyle also McCulloch's man, waiting to draw him into a trap?

There was a single metallic click as his thumb pulled down slowly on the hammer of the revolver.

'I say, is something wrong?' Robbie Shaw called out. 'Is that a gun you are cocking?'

'Yes. A six-shot Colt. If I miss with the first shot, I'll see you in the blast and get you with the second. So stand right where you are.'

'I wouldn't think of moving, my dear chap. There is no need for this, you know. Mr Doyle can vouch for me, my credentials as regards the Underground Railroad are impeccable…'

'Do you work for McCulloch?'

'No, of course not. But I must assure you that my acquaintance with the colonel has been of great assistance in the labours that your friends carry out. Through him I have been accepted in social circles that I might never have otherwise penetrated.'

Sudden light flared as Doyle entered the storeroom with the lantern.

'Dogs caught a fox,' he said, then saw Troy's gun. 'What's all this now?'

'Life insurance. Were you aware that your journalist here is well acquainted with Colonel McCulloch?'

'No, but I'm not surprised. He knows a lot of people, both North and South. Put that damn pistol away and come into the kitchen. I told you that he's one of us and you ought to be taking my word.'

Troy hesitated, then pushed the pistol into his belt. 'If I am mistaken—well, I apologize. But I think you can understand my apprehension.'

'No apologies needed, my dear fellow, Shaw said, waving the entire matter aside. Yet at the same time he breathed an inadvertent sigh of relief. 'I am really not very fond of deadly weapons. Ah, some of the local uisge beatha, thank you.' He seized the cup of moonshine that Doyle handed to him and drained half of it in a gulp.

Troy took one too, but just sipped at his as they sat down round the table. 'The interesting part,' Shaw said, staring into the depths of the mug, 'is that I knew Colonel McCulloch before I came to this country. Met him in Glasgow, in my father's club. They were doing some business together.'

Troy leaned forward, trying not to let his eagerness show. 'What sort of trade is your father in, Mr Shaw?'

'Not trade! Dear no, nothing so crude. Heavy manufacturing, engineering plant.'

'Does he make machines to work steel?'

Shaw lifted one quizzical eyebrow. 'In fact, yes he does. And brass as well. Do you know something that I don't?'

'Perhaps. Please go on.'

'Yes, well, it seems that the colonel is going into engineering in a most enterprising manner over here. He's a great bore with all his talk of freeing the South from the shackles of Yankee industry and that sort of thing. Anything the pallid factory workers of the North can make the free men of the South can do better. Or something like that. I never paid much attention. But I do know that he made large purchases, paid cash, then shipped everything back here. He has a going plant in Richmond, and is always carrying on about his hinges and ploughshares and geegaws of that sort. But this is made bearable by the fact that he is also rich and has plenty of influential friends. So I make sure that I drop by and drink some of his whisky whenever I pass through. And that is the whole of it.' He drained his mug, then smiled as the refill gurgled into it. 'Now I think that some explanation of your overwhelming interest is in order.'

Troy had been thinking about it, knowing that he would have to answer this question sooner or later. It would be impossible to tell them the truth. But whatever story he told had better sound authentic. He had decided that the wisest thing would be to provide some realistic variation of the actual facts.

'Colonel McCulloch, if he is indeed the same man, is a murderer and an embezzler. A wanted man with a price on his head. What I must do is seek him out in order to identify him. After I have done that, and if he is indeed the same man, we will let the law take its course. I assure you, it is a matter of great importance.'

'It sounds that way,' Doyle said. 'And you also sound very much involved in it yourself. Are you?'

'Yes. I am determined to run this killer to ground. But my personal motives aren't really important to this case. The law has been broken and a criminal is at large. I have ample funds for the investigation and will pay well for assistance. As I have discovered—I can't do it alone. Will you help me, Mr Shaw?'

'Be delighted to, Mr Harmon. For altruistic reasons too, of course. But also for the money. I'm not ashamed to admit that journalism is a damn poorly paid profession, and my father, rich as he is, has kept the key firmly turned in the family strongbox ever since I was sent down from Oxford. You must count me in by all means. Exactly what sort of operation did you have in mind?'

'I shall be your servant. That will enable you to make all of the arrangements, pay for everything. While I shall be relatively invisible, just following along and carrying the bags. All right?'

'Capital! But could you possibly ameliorate your accent and grammar slightly? I would hate to have to explain why my servant sounds more like my college tutor.'

'Yassuh. Ah shore will try.'

'Adequate—and I am sure that practice will make perfect. Now to the details.' He turned to Doyle. 'How do you suggest that we go about doing this?'

'I suggest you start by getting out of here tonight. There has been too much coming and going for my peace of mind. I'll sell you my old mule for five dollars. He's one-eyed and swayback but still sound. Troy can ride him. I also got a pair of old split shoes for him to wear, leave those fancy boots here. Troy can put that big pistol and whatever else he fancies in a flour bag. You take his saddlebags behind you, Robbie, much too grand for the likes of him. That should do it—as long as you, Troy, keep your mouth shut until you learn to talk right.'

'Yassuh.'

'Still don't sound right. Keep practising.'

'Does your mule have a saddle?' Troy asked.

'Nope. Niggers ride bareback in case you haven't noticed. You got a lot to learn. I'm going to outfit you two so you can stay away from the towns until Troy can face them without giving himself away. I have some rubberized ponchos, blankets, pots and pans, tie them all onto the mule. This is good weather for camping out. You two just mosey south and take your time. Now, we'll have a little bit more of this corn, I'll give you some dinner, and then you'll be on your way. I'll rest a lot easier when you're safely down the road.'

 

 

They entered the outskirts of Washington City a little after dawn. Troy was hobbling along, leading the scrawny mule which he had discovered had a spine like a sawblade. Even sitting on the old wadded up blanket didn't seem to help. But his discomfort was forgotten as the city emerged from the morning mist.

At this precise moment the physical reality of his voyage back to the nineteenth century struck home for the first time. He had been too busy just staying alive since he had arrived to really take much notice of his surroundings. The rough clothes, the simple fittings of the farmhouse, they weren't that different from things he had seen on summer vacations upstate. Even the shacks were a lot better than the hooches in Nam. But this was the nation's capital, a real city, and even the name was different from the one he knew it by.

The city was smaller, of course, much smaller than the sprawling metropolis it would become over a century later. And it looked very different without the great bulks of the neo-Greek and Roman stone piles of the federal buildings. The buildings now were smaller, of wood and brick, the streets narrower and mostly unpaved. What struck him most was the complete absence of motorized traffic. Though the streets were filled with horses, carts and pedestrians. Horses! The sharp reek of horse manure dominated all of the other smells, wiping out the odour of burning wood and even tempering the clouds of coal smoke that blew over them when they passed a train station. Troy would have lingered here if Shaw hadn't cursed at him to keep moving on. The shining black engine with its diamond stack, gleaming brass and leaking-steam, it was just impossible to pass. This was not history, this was the living present, and he was half-paralysed with the solidity of it all. Only when he felt Shaw's boot-toe in his ribs did he remember where he was.

'Boy, stop hanging back and rolling your eyes like that. Mount your mule. We don't have all day.'

'Yassuh, but ah got to fix this rope first, else all dese things gonna fall off.'

'Don't touch that cinch, I'll take care of it.'

Shaw swung down from his horse and bent to look at the buckle. 'You're going too slow, gawking about, someone will notice,' he whispered.

'Sorry. But I don't think I can ride anymore. This beast's backbone has sawed me in two.'

'Lead it then, but we must keep moving.'

There was so much to see—but Shaw was right, they dare not stop and sightsee. But the glimpses were tantalizing. The Capitol Building, looking from the distance very much as it did in his day. But there were no suburbs when they crossed into Virginia. And there were only swamps and nodding cattails on the spot where the Washington National Airport would one day stand. The site of the Pentagon was a green meadow with grazing cows.

'This is a good time to stop for lunch,' Shaw said, turning off into a field. Troy stumbled wearily after him.

'Just about time,' he said. 'These broken-down shoes are raising blisters on both my feet. Walking is as bad, or worse, than riding this miserable candidate for the glue factory.'

'I must remember that expression, glue factory indeed! You Yankees do have an odd turn of phrase. Now, while I stretch out, I suggest that you take this bucket down to that stream so you can water these beasts.'

'Yes, massah, I jus' do dat.'

'Better. You're learning.'

The stream had cut away a bank at least six feet high. Troy went along it until he found a path leading down to the stream's edge. The water looked clear and fresh. He cupped some in his hands and drank deep, then splashed more on his face to wash away some of the dust of the Washington streets. After filling the bucket he climbed up the path, stopping instantly when he heard voices. Carefully, an inch at a time, he raised his head behind the thick grass until he could see over it.

Two riders had reined up by their mounts and were talking to Robbie Shaw. One of them said something and the other laughed loudly and swung down from his horse, at the same time drawing a dragoon pistol from the holster attached to his saddle. Shaw took a step backwards, but the man followed him, poking him in the stomach with his gun. The second man dismounted and walked towards Shaw's horse, which skittered away from him. He grabbed the reins, pulling the creature's head down, then reached out to open the saddlebags.

Where all of Troy's goods lay hidden. His money, the pistol, everything.

---

Chapter 25

Troy hesitated for one long moment, taking it all in, seeing the way the men were placed, before he started forward. As he came into sight he called out loudly.

'Massa, I done got de water like you say.'

He shuffled slowly forward as he spoke, head down, shoulders rounded, holding the handle of the pail with both hands as though it were a great weight. Under the lowered brim of his hat he could see the dismounted man spin about and point his gun at him. His mounted companion had also produced a pistol. Troy ignored this, still shuffling forward, humming and talking to himself under his breath as though he were unaware of their presence.

It worked fine. The two men were smiling, waiting for him to notice them. Good. He would provide some good theatre, vintage Stepenfechit, or perhaps a quaking imitation of Jack Benny's Rochester in a haunted house.

'Lawdy!' he screeched when he got close, looking and seeing them. He clutched the bucket to him, trembling so much that the water slopped and spilled over. He tried to roll his eyes, but wasn't very good at it.

Bad as the performance was, it had a receptive audience. The two men laughed and whooped, the one on the ground opening his mouth wide revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. So great was his merriment that his pistol barrel dropped by degrees until it pointed at the ground. Troy shuffled and looked around, as though searching for a place to hide, watching the other man dismount, waiting until the horse blocked his vision for an instant.

At that precise moment he threw the bucket into the laughing man's face.

As he staggered backwards Troy was on top of him, driving his knee hard up into the man's crotch as he twisted the gun from his hand. The man screamed shrilly as they fell together. Troy rolled as they struck the ground, swinging the pistol up. The other man was still half-hidden by his horse, coming into view, his own pistol aimed. Troy extended his weapon at arm's length, sighted along it and pulled the trigger.

It banged like a cannon and kicked like a mule, throwing his arm high. But his shot had been good. The other twisted, folded, tried to point his own gun, squeezed the trigger, then fell.

As the shot was fired Robbie Shaw cried out hoarsely and dropped to the ground. The stray bullet had caught him. Troy started towards him, then saw that the first man had stumbled to his feet, groaning with pain, but still ready to fight. He reached for the scabbard in the small of his back and pulled out a bowie knife with a foot-long blade, holding it straight out as he staggered forward.

Troy aimed the gun and pulled the trigger—then saw that it was a single shot pistol. He threw it into the man's face, but the other merely brushed it aside, moaning in agony and cursing horribly at the same time. And came on. Troy stepped backwards, his eye on the knife point, stumbled and fell. The other roared and dropped on him.

It was a tiny cracking sound, like two boards being smacked together. Troy saw the black hole appear in the man's forehead, then fill instantly with blood as he fell face downwards into the grass, unmoving.

Stunned, Troy looked over at Shaw sprawled on the ground. He had levered himself up on one elbow; there was a tiny smoking gun in his hand.

'Pepperbox,' Shaw said, smiling grimly as he tucked the gun back into his vest pocket. 'Two barrels, over and under, two shots. I never go anywhere without it. Road agents are… quite common… these days.'

He grimaced with pain and Troy saw the blood soaking through his trousers, running down his leg. Troy moved fast, turning over the dead man next to him and tearing off the man's wide leather belt, then wrapping it twice around Shaw's thigh before drawing it tight. The flow of blood slowed, stopped. Troy rose slowly to his feet and looked around.

'Bit of a butcher's shop,' Robbie Shaw said. 'Two dead, one injured. That's quite a job you did, unarmed. Taking on those two like that, pistols and all.'

'You're not too shabby yourself with that little popgun. I thought that you were a journalist, a man of peace?'

'I am. But this is a hard world. My first assignment in this country was as military correspondent during the Indian wars. Worse than the Gorbals on Hogmanay night. That's where I learned how to shoot. But now, dare I ask, what do we do next?'

'Take care of your wound. We're out of sight of the road so we don't have to worry about somebody stumbling onto us. Anyone who might have heard the shots would have been here by now. The way the attack happened, I imagine that this pair of thugs must have followed us from the city. They wouldn't have started this unless they were sure that they were unobserved. We'll worry about them later. Getting you fixed takes top priority.'

Troy dug into the saddlebags and pulled out the flat box that held his medical supplies. He took out one of the morphine styrettes and palmed it, then went to look at Shaw's wound. Using his clasp knife he slit the trousers open.

'Looks rather nasty,' Shaw said, sitting up and leaning forward to examine the wound. 'Like I'd been shot with a cannon.'

'Just about,' Troy said, kicking the fallen pistol with his toe. 'Single shot, muzzle loader, must have a half-inch bore. Now lie back and let me look at this. Lots of blood, but not as drastic as it seems. The ball took out a chunk of your thigh muscle but it kept on going.'

Under cover of his body, Troy cracked open the styrette and discarded the protective cover. One of the newest ones, double shot. It would not only kill the pain but would put Shaw to sleep as well. He jabbed it into the leg and pressed down on the plunger.

'I felt that! What are you doing?' Shaw asked.

'Playing doctor. I told you to take it easy.'

He kicked a hole in the turf, stamped the crushed remains of the styrette into it, then covered it up again. By the time Troy had unpacked and returned with the rest of the medical kit Shaw was lying back with his eyes closed, snoring hoarsely. Troy went to work.

He had plenty of experience in field treatment, but this time he would have to be the medic as well. At least whatever he did to treat the wound would be better than anything else that might be done in this primitive age. First he dusted the wound well with antibiotic powder, then eased up on the tourniquet. There was only a little bleeding now. He tightened it again, put on more powder, then applied a pressure bandage. That would do. That had to do. No one could do any better. Here, in this field, he had used medicines of a different era. When had antisepsis started? With Lister, yes, 1865, he remembered the date from school exams. He always had a memory for dates.

Troy slipped a bottle of penicillin tablets into his pocket, then put the rest of the kit away. Crows cawed hoarsely in a nearby grove of trees, the midday sun was hot, the horses, reins hanging, grazed the rich grass. The two corpses lay where they had fallen. Something would have to be done about them. Troy grabbed the nearest one by the boots, then dragged it across the field to the shelter of the trees. The crows, calling loudly, rose in a black cloud and flew away.

It was afternoon before Shaw woke up. He opened his eyes and looked around. Troy kneeled next to him and held out a tin cup of water. 'Thanks,' Shaw said, draining it. Troy refilled it, then handed over one of the penicillin tablets.

'Wash this down. It will be good for the leg.'

Shaw hesitated a second, then shrugged and swallowed the capsule. 'Was I dreaming—or was there a brace of toby men here a short while ago? Complete with mounts.'

'The best thing that you can do is forget about them. If we report what happened we will only get involved with the authorities. The fewer questions we have to answer, the less publicity we get, the happier I'll be. If someone had seen what happened at the time, that would have been different. But no one seems to have noticed. So I got things out of sight. The two men are in the woods over there, along with their saddles and bridles, weapons, the lot. The horses are down by the stream.'

'They'll be found.'

'Of course. But we'll be gone by then. As long as we are not seen in the vicinity we won't be suspected. And I'm willing to bet that pair are known to the police. I doubt if they will be missed. So let's move on. Can you ride with that leg?'

'I think so. Truth is it doesn't hurt very much.'

'It will. But by the time it does we should have some miles under our belt. We'll find a quiet spot and lay up for the night. Then tomorrow we'll see if we can buy some kind of wagon for you to ride in. That is—if you feel well enough to keep going on. We can still call this whole thing off now if you're not up to it.'

'Excelsior!' Shaw said, sitting up and grimacing. 'Help me, there's a good chap, and we'll press on. You are a mysterious man, Mr Harmon, and I intend to learn more about you and your mysterious ways. The more I know, the more I have the feeling that you are only telling me the smallest part of what is happening. I mean to continue until I discover some of the verities.'

'You do that. Meanwhile let's get you onto this horse.'

They rode until dark, then found a campsite well away from the road. Troy kept the Colt tucked into his belt and resolved that he would never be caught far away from it again. They did not want to draw attention to themselves by building a fire, so they finished off the last of the cold food Doyle had provided. They regretted not having the fire, it might have driven off some of the mosquitoes. The only way to escape the insects' attentions was to wrap themselves in their blankets, despite the heat. But the air soon cooled down a bit and they managed to get some sleep.

Shortly after noon on the next day, they reached a small town named Woodbridge. There were some brick buildings around the square, but the rest of the houses were made of wood. Shaw pointed to a sign hanging on the side of a barn.

'Livery stable. I may survive yet.'

Troy passed over a small bag of gold coins. 'Get a good one. I'm going to be riding in it too. No price is too great if it means I can get off the back of this mule.'

They had prepared a story to explain their circumstances. Shaw claimed to have hurt his ankle in a fall. His second pair of trousers covered the bandage and his realistic limp gave plausibility to the story. Troy kept carefully in the background while the purchase was completed, coming forward only when the stable owner waved him over to hitch Shaw's horse to their new buggy. Troy made a mess of it, he had absolutely no idea of where all the lines and traces went, and was boxed on the ear and cursed out by the man for his efforts. After that he stood to one side, hand over his sore ear, while the man did it himself, glaring at his back and thinking about which way would be the most satisfactory to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

With their goods dumped into the buggy, the old mule tied on behind, the trip became a good deal easier. They couldn't hurry because Shaw's leg was stiff and painful, and too much travelling fatigued him greatly. Troy tried not to show his concern when the wounded man developed a fever but it was gone the next morning. Shaw took his penicillin every day, and there were no signs of infection around the wound. It should be all right.

They proceeded at a leisurely pace, taking a week to get to Richmond, reaching the city late one afternoon when the shadows were already slanting lengthwise through the trees.

'Lovely city,' Shaw said, 'one of my favourites.'

'Are we going to this hotel of yours, the Blue House?'

'Yes, they know me there, inexpensive, and the food is filling. Frequented by commercial travellers who believe in getting their money's worth. But we'll make a little detour on the way there. Down this street. Pleasant homes.'

'Really great. Does the leg hurt?'

'It really feels much better. Throbs a good deal and protests if I put too much weight on it. Otherwise, doctor, the operation was a success. What are those little pills you make me take every day?'

'I told you. An old secret family recipe against the fever. Seems to have worked, too.'

'Indeed. There, see ahead? The large white house surrounded by the cast-iron fence.'

'I see it. What about it?'

'The thing about it is that it is owned by the man I know as Colonel Wesley McCulloch. What must be determined next, I imagine, is to discover if he is the same man whom you are looking for.'

Troy pulled hard on the reins and the horse whinnied in protest as it stopped. Troy looked at the house, his face tight, staring as though he could see right through the walls if he tried hard enough.

Had he found him?

Was this the end of the hunt—or just the beginning?

---

Chapter 26

ROBBIE SHAW

He was certainly a strange man, my new American friend, and I really wasn't quite sure what to make of him. By that I don't mean that I had doubts about his courage—or his resourcefulness. The little contretemps with the highwaymen had certainly proved his abilities on that score. It was a number of small things, as well as his overall manner, that I found so disturbing. His determination was rocklike and steadfast. It was in every lineament of his body as he sat now, his jaw clamped, staring at McCulloch's house as though wishing to destroy it on the instant. I am driven to admit that I felt a small shiver at the sight; I would not wish to be this man's enemy.

'Okay, that's enough, where to now?' he said, giving the reins a snap to wake the nag up.

'Three streets ahead, then turn right.'

That was part of it, his use of language. What on earth did okay mean? I had vague memories of having heard the term used before, though I could not remember the circumstances. Troy used other expressions like this from time to time, spoke them most naturally, though usually when relaxed. I had ceased to question him because he only put me off with vague explanations, then changed the subject. But where had he learned to speak in this manner? I am fairly well acquainted with the city of New York, so that I can verify that he certainly did speak in the New York style. But it was more than this. At times I felt that he must belong to some secret organization, some mysterious order that had long been locked away from the world on a hidden island, like some mad creation of the author Edgar Allan Poe. I longed to see what he had hidden in those saddlebags—but knew better than to even attempt to open them. And his knowledge of medicine was simply astonishing, far superior to that of any surgeon I have ever met. My bullet wound was healing without suppuration, and I had avoided the fever perhaps because of the strange and bitter tablets he made me swallow.

But it was his manner that I found so disconcerting. As though he were a white man turned black. When we discussed things at night, when he was invisible to me, there was nothing in his voice to indicate that he was other than an educated Yankee. I have met many men of his race and have found them universally untutored, thick of speech and bereft of any grasp of grammar, savages but lately drawn from their jungle homes. But not this man. He was a mystery.

As always I was greeted with much enthusiasm at the Blue House hotel, undoubtedly since the owner, Mrs Henley, entertains the baseless hope that someday I shall smile with favour upon her not unattractive daughter Arabella, marry her and take her away to a far superior life. I encourage this ambition just enough to ensure that the service and the accommodation are of the finest, but not enough to entrap me in the treacly mire of matrimony. Mrs Henley herself admitted me and I quickly distracted her attention so she would not see the look of quick anger on Troy's countenance when she peremptorily sent him to the stable to bed with the horses. I do feel sorry for him, he is so unable to accept the social circumstances that his colour forces upon him. But I was not sorry enough to regret my sleeping on a feather bed while he shared the equine hay. For I am greatly in need of the respite, my wound having made me restive when trying to sleep on the hard ground night after night. This night I fell instantly into the embrace of Morpheus and stirred not a jot until I awoke in the morning feeling truly refreshed for the first time since my injury. I breakfasted heartily on ham, cornbread, fried corn fritters, eggs, kidneys, rashers of bacon, and sweet preserves. I was whistling when I joined Troy in the stable, but ceased instantly I caught his eye. He was scowling mightily and trying to brush bits of hay from his clothing.

'Good morning. Have you broken your fast?' I said.

'I have—if you consider cold grits and sour buttermilk a breakfast,' he growled.

'The food here isn't too good, is it,' I said, trying to put from my mind memory of the breakfast I had just eaten. 'Have you considered our plan of operation for the day?'

'A great deal—and I've decided to risk it. Letting McCulloch take a look at me, that is. If I go sneaking around it's only going to look more suspicious. I'm counting on the fact that the last time he saw me was a long way from here, and under very different circumstances. I don't think he'll recognize me. If he does, or asks you about me, do you know what to say?'

'I do. I have the cover story memorized.' He nodded, accepting my use of the term 'cover story', not realizing I had only recently learned this unusual phrase from him. 'You are a servant of my friend in New York, Dick Van Zandt, loaned to me for a time to assist me until my leg injuries are mended. Satisfactory?'

'Great. And don't forget, my name is Tom.' For some reason he smiled at that. 'Now let's get moving. I want to get this over with.'

Troy was silent during the drive, and I was aware of the tension that gripped him as we approached the house and halted before the front doorway. He helped me down and held the horse while I addressed myself to the bellpull. A servant answered, one familiar to me.

'Is your master at home?' I asked.

Before he could answer there was the drum of a horse's galloping hooves and the colonel himself rode up the drive.

'I'll be damned—is that you, Robbie!'

'It is indeed,' I said, turning and taking a hobbling step towards him as he dismounted. He took no notice of my servant, but over his shoulder I saw Troy's face frozen as rigid as a rock. I think he had found his man. McCulloch shook my hand, then indicated my leg.

'Fall off your horse?' he asked.

'Just about, an equally boring accident. Which forces me to travel about in this infernal buggy,'

'Well, come inside and I'll give you some whisky that will make you forget your troubles. Your darkie can take the trap around to the rear.'

He looked behind him as he said this, waving Troy off in a peremptory manner. Then he lowered his hand, but remained half-turned for an instant looking at Troy as he nodded then shuffled off leading the horse. The colonel took my arm as I made my slow way up the steps.

'Your servant,' he said. 'A new purchase on your part?'

'Tom? No, he's just a nigger I borrowed from a friend in New York, to drive me around. Why do you ask?'

'No reason. Just thought I had seen him before—but I couldn't, could I? All these apes look alike, don't they?'

He laughed, and I pretended equal merriment. When in Rome. We went in—and the whisky was as good as promised.

'Dammit, Wes,' I said, smacking my lips over it. 'As much as I love the distillate of the Western Isles, I must say that your Virginia product has a great deal to recommend it.'

'Coming from a Scotchman—high praise indeed. And your arrival is a fortunate one. I have a question about some of the machinery that I am sure you can help me with. I must write to your father and you can tell me what to say.'

'I'm no engineer, my father saw to it that I escaped the reek of the works and had a proper gentleman's education.'

'Damn the gentleman! You grew up around those machines and you know as much about them as any man.'

'True—but don't tell father—or he'll resent every farthing spent on my school fees.'

'Finish that drink and we'll go over to the factory and I'll show you the problem. Okay?'

'Yes, agreed, as long as we can return to the rest of this bottle.'

Okay. That's where I had heard that strange term before. Right here, from the colonel's own lips. The same word that Troy had used. What was the bond between this man of such high station and the black man who had sought him out? I itched to know—yet dare not ask either of them.

The colonel was quite proud of his manufactory, for in a year's time he had built it up into quite a going concern. The problem he wished to discuss concerned one of his drill presses. He pointed it out to me, shouting above the roar of the leather belts whining about their pulleys above our heads.

'Broken in half, see it, the large supporting arm. Dumb nigger let it drop when we were moving it. I took a yard of hide off his back, but that won't fix the damage. Can I get a replacement—or must I return the entire drill press?'

I bent stiffly and ran my fingers over the frame. 'See here, this number, cast right into the metal? That's the identification of the wooden mould that this was made from. All you have to do is write to father, describe what happened, and give this number. They'll make a new sand mould, cast the part and ship it to you. One of your fitters can tap out the old sleeve here, then drill the new arm out to receive it. There will be no trouble putting it right again.'

I kept my eyes open as we finished the tour, but the only thing at all out of the ordinary that I could discover was a locked and barred storeroom. Since the colonel had been boring me with exact details of everything else we had seen I felt that it was not out of order to question him about this. His manner was so offhand that I was sure he was lying.

'Secrets, Robbie, industrial secrets. I am working on an improvement upon Whitney's cotton gin that will make my fortune one day. But none shall see it until it is perfected. Now let's get back to that whisky.'

I made my apologies as soon as I could after lunch, pleading an aching leg, which was certainly the truth. Troy brought the buggy around and helped me up into it, biting his lips shut, forcing himself to remain quiet until we were well out of sight of the house before speaking.

'He's the one, the Colonel Wesley McCulloch that I'm looking for!'

'He appeared to recognize you too, or at least he was interested in your identity. He accepted my explanation, never mentioned it again. Just said something about all of your race each resembling the other.'

'He would, wouldn't he, the son-of-a-bitch. Another thing that I can tell you, he's not very loved by his servants. They were almost too frightened to talk to me about him. One old man finally did. Seems that McCulloch beat one of his slaves to death a few months ago. I believe it. He must be in hog heaven, Massah McCulloch.' As he said this, Troy spat with hatred into the dusty street. 'Servants also said that you went to his factory with him. What did you see there?'

He was too casual with the question; there was something else about McCulloch that he wanted badly to know. I pretended innocence.

'Just one more dreary plant. I've been standing up too much. I'm looking forward with great anticipation to stretching out and putting this leg up on a cushion.'

'Were they making anything in particular? I mean anything unusual?'

'Unusual in what way?' When he failed to answer at once I decided that the time had come to put the question to him. 'I have a feeling that there are a number of items that you have neglected to tell me about. Isn't it time that you took me into your confidence? Or do you mistrust me?'

He shook his head solemnly. 'No, Robbie, I have all the trust in the world in you. But there are some things that I just can't explain. You'll just have to take my word for that. But I can tell you that our friend the colonel is up to no good. It has something to do with weapons. Were they manufacturing anything like that in his factory?'

'Emphatically no. Of that I can be certain. Mr Remington's rifle barrel drill is an object I would recognize at once. And they certainly weren't casting cannon.'

'There are different kinds of weapons. I have reason to suspect that McCulloch might be involved in the manufacture of a new kind of gun. One that might be assembled out of very commonplace steel parts. Was there anything like that?'

'Steel parts galore, but I don't think any of them resembled gun parts. Of course if it were a new invention, why then I couldn't tell. But there was one portion of the plant that we didn't enter. Locked and sealed. An improved cotton gin was what he said. I remember thinking at the time that he must be lying, though I didn't know why.'

'That's it!' he said, striking me a stunning and enthusiastic blow on the shoulder. 'Do you think that your game leg can stand up to a little more riding? I want you to show me where this factory is, then give me some idea of the location of the sealed area. I'll come back tonight by myself and see just what that bastard is trying to hide!'

---