Mind Out of Time Read online

  "Reassuring," Angus mumbled, but envy and longing and loneliness ached in him. "Uh... can I talk to her? What's her name?"

  "Nacha. But no, don't say anything, Angus. She's still meditating."

  "Meditating? Oh! The Klein bottle. You concentrate on it, and..."

  "...it opens us to the next dimension, yes."

  Angus nodded, chewing his metaphorical lip. "Do you do this often?"

  "About once a week, in case any GRIPE agents want to get through."

  "So," Angus mused, "each point of light I saw is somebody in a trance?"

  He heard a snap and looked down to see his hands breaking a stick of kindling and throwing it into the fire. His scalp prickled. "Uh, Alasper... I didn't break that stick. I mean, I didn't, but my hands did."

  "My hands," Alasper corrected.

  "Oh, yeah..."

  "Yes, naturally. After all, this is my body, Angus. But you're welcome to share it for a while."

  "Thanks." Angus felt numb. "Then the human body can't travel through time?"

  "Not without a machine," Alasper confirmed. "But the persona can. See, you can measure a body in three dimensions—but did you ever try to measure your ego?"

  "No, but they're working on it," Angus said absently. "So while I'm in your time, I share your body?"

  "Right. And all this time we've been talking, we haven't really been talking."

  "Telepathy?"

  "Yeah, the easy way—share the same brain."

  "Share the... uh..." The full implications hit Angus. He swallowed hard and hoped his adrenaline reaction wasn't bothering Alasper's body. "Uh... Alasper—I hate to bring this up, but... Neanderthals couldn't have had a concept like 'ego.'"

  "False assumption," Alasper said easily, "not that it matters. See, I had a modern education—your modern. Matter of fact, you taught me."

  "Traveled back in time and taught you," Angus mused. "And you just taught me about time travel, and... Look, don't you think this is getting a little redundant?"

  "Definitely," Alasper agreed, "and it's a pretty big mouthful to try and swallow at one sitting... um... Speaking of mouthfuls—Nacha should be coming out or her trance pretty soon, and she roasts a boar haunch even better than I grill a caribou steak. Care for a bite?"

  "Uh..." Angus frowned. "How can I..."

  "Well, I'll eat it, but we'll both taste it."

  "Uh, maybe some other time." Angus let the sight of Nacha register thoroughly in his memory and hoped Alasper couldn't feel his surge of envy. "I think I'd better be getting home, Alasper. This has all been a little overwhelming."

  "Don't let it get you down, Angus—it's only this tough the first couple of times. After that, you get to recognizing the landmarks—Caesar crossing the Rubicon, the Crucifixion, Constantine seeing the Sign, Charlemagne, William of Normandy—all the major forks in the road. Get to be like old friends after a while."

  "Definitely a great consolation," Angus said sourly. "Uh... I really will finish that dissertation, huh?"

  "'It is written,"' Alasper quoted. "So long, Angus. Drop in any time."

  Then he was gone. Angus spoke sternly to the chills down his non-existent spine, took a deep, metaphorical breath, and plunged into the future, counting on his figurative fingers.

  If Angus had bothered going into work that next week, his co-workers and his supervisor would have been very worried. He was even more withdrawn than usual. What was worse, he was scarcely hostile at all—just depressed.

  He sat in his apartment gazing out the window but seeing only the time-line, and when restless energy built up, he went out and wandered the city in a black brood, forgetting to eat for days at a time. He logged lots of hours in coffee shops in front of untasted cups, glowering into their murky depths.

  Fortunately, he didn't have any friends to be worried by his strange behavior—and his few acquaintances tended to steer away when Angus got moody.

  Which was just as well. The young man was holding so many imaginary dialogues in his head that there wasn't much room for real ones.

  So it came to pass that, as Angus sat brooding over another untouched, cooling cup, a chair scraped and a heavy body jarred the table as it sat down.

  Angus's head snapped up, life coming with anger. Couldn't they leave him alone?

  He clamped a hold on his forebrain.

  Yorick sat, grinning, across from him.

  Angus focused his brood into a glower.

  Yorick sipped from a steaming cup, set it down. "That ceremonial skull really bugging you, huh?"

  Black rage roared up in Angus. "No, I'm not worried about that damn skull! And where the hell do you think you get off, sitting down here without being invited?"

  "Yeah, I know," Yorick sympathized. "Really bugs me when strangers move in unasked, too. But I'm not a stranger, remember? I'm Yorick."

  "I don't give a damn who..." Angus broke off, staring at the broad face. Sloping forehead, heavy brows, receding chin... A fine-mesh grid suddenly formed behind Angus's eyes, comparing each minute detail of the face before him with the contours of the skull in the museum. His Pleistocene host had called himself Alasper...

  Yorick...

  Angus winced and thought about leaving a nasty note for his future self.

  Yorick was frowning, concerned. "Now what's with you?"

  The question sounded honest—and of course, Yorick was a lot younger than "Alasper" had been...

  Time travel could do strange things. Somehow, Angus couldn't doubt that Alasper and Yorick were one and the same.

  So the meeting with "Alasper" was in Angus's past and "Yorick's" future. Younger, but the same man.

  And, therefore, a GRIPE agent.

  And he had hunted Angus out.

  Angus bristled. He was not going to be conned into founding a time-travel organization in which he had absolutely no stake!

  His eyes narrowed. How to make the big lug admit it...?

  Yorick eyed him sidewise, as though he were trying to remember the number of the local mental hospital.

  "Where were you born?" Angus rapped.

  "Prague," Yorick said, surprised.

  Then he saw Angus's slow smile and understood. For a moment, there was a guarded look in his eyes.

  Only for a moment, though. Then he was saying, "Course, my folks emigrated when I..."

  Then he shut up, because Angus was laughing too loudly to hear him.

  For a moment, Yorick reddened; then his face settled into a careful, rueful smile.

  Angus cut off the laughter. "You were raised in this country, of course."

  "Of course." The smile stayed.

  "How long did it take you to cross the Bering Straits?"

  Yorick frowned, confused; then his eyebrows shot up. "I'm going to cross the Bering Straits?"

  Angus's face congealed. "You... didn't know about that?"

  Yorick shrugged. "They don't tell us anything more about our personal futures than they absolutely have to. So I'm going to make the long hike, huh?" His lower lip thrust out; he nodded, resigned, bleak.

  "Tough luck," Angus said with satisfaction. "Must be cold."

  Yorick shivered. "You don't know how cold, Doc... I mean, Angus!"

  Angus ignored the slip, except for a slight grinding of the teeth.

  "Sorry," Yorick said quickly. "It'll take me a little while to get used to calling you 'Angus.'"

  Angus's eyes narrowed a little. "Didn't take you long to drop the pose, did it?"

  Yorick shrugged. "I didn't figure it was the best policy, anyway. Only too glad to come honest, when it turns out I had to."

  "But you didn't have any choice about the pose, huh?"

  Again, the shrug. "Orders."

  "From whom?" Angus rapped.

  "You, of course." Yorick seemed surprised. "Or, well, your older self. Doc."

  Angus stared, shaken for a moment.

  Then he remembered the business at hand and managed a glare. "And you're supposed to con me into setting up
this time-travel organization?"

  Yorick squirmed. "I wouldn't exactly call it a con..."

  "Oh? What would you call it? Ethical persuasion?"

  "Not even that." Yorick met his eyes with a frank, open gaze. "I'm just supposed to make sure you consider both sides of the question. Any time you come up with a reason why you shouldn't set up GRIPE, I'm supposed to give you a reason why you should."

  Angus smiled sweetly. "In other words, talk me into it."

  "Well..."

  "A con."

  "No," Yorick said judiciously, "just making sure you hear our side." He smiled. "Nothing unethical about that, is there?"

  Angus was still trying to think up a reply when Yorick suddenly stiffened.

  Angus frowned. "What...?"

  Angrily, Yorick waved him to silence. His pupils expanded: then he said softly, almost whispering, "Do you hear something ticking?"

  "Ticking?" Angus said blankly. Then he glanced at his watch.

  "Not there." Yorick stood, shoving his chair back. He knelt, wrapping huge hands around the single central column that supported the table and lifted it slowly. It was a hollow pipe and on the floor beneath it, there was a small, black sphere with a tiny clock-face set into its surface.

  Angus still couldn't hear the ticking.

  Yorick nodded with satisfaction. "About what I figured."

  He picked up the little black ball, put down the table, and strolled out of the coffee shop, whistling.

  Angus stared after him. Then he surged to his feet and followed in a limping run.

  He caught up just as Yorick stepped through the outside door, swung his arm in an excellent overhand pitch, and sent the black spheroid high into the air. Angus watched as it came down in the middle of the little park next to the coffee shop. He frowned, perplexed.

  Yorick hummed cheerfully.

  Angus turned on him. "Was all of that really..."

  His voice trailed off as he saw that Yorick was looking at his watch and counting seconds on his fingers.

  Angus felt the cold lump of fear seeping into his belly, so his voice was doubly harsh. "What the hell is all this a—"

  The blast slammed him against Yorick's broad chest and rocked the concrete under his feet.

  The little park lay in ruins, a haze of smoke rising over a huge new raw crater.

  Angus clawed his way back up from his hands and knees, staring at the torn earth in numbed horror.

  Then he realized Yorick's hand was on his elbow, had helped him to his feet. Slowly he turned, his eyes round as egg yolks, staring open-mouthed at the Neanderthal.

  Yorick nodded, his face grim. "You've got a few enemies, Angus." Abruptly, he smiled. "That's the real reason I'm here, y' see—to make sure you stay alive long enough to found GRIPE."

  That brought Angus out of his daze, at least partly. "If I decide to."

  "'Course." Yorick slung an arm around his shoulders, half holding him up, and turned to burrow through the crowd to the door and back inside. "Think you could use a cup of coffee?"

  Angus stumbled with him, trying to make his brain function. "But... but who? Who'd want to kill me? I mean, it's got to be someone I know, at least!"

  "Not yet," Yorick assured him. "But you will. You will."

  Angus gazed numbly at the flashing red and blue lights through the coffee shop windows. Just police—no ambulances, thankfully. It was midmorning, apparently the perfect time for a bomb to go off; all the kids were at schools, their parents at work, and the park empty. Yorick handled the routine questioning masterfully, with just the right blend of innocence, shock, and bewilderment. The officers soon moved on, leaving Yorick free to casually lead Angus away to a different coffee shop.

  While Angus's tremors were subsiding over a new cup of coffee, Yorick explained the real situation in a low voice. "Y' see, Ang, it's like, uh... You don't mind it I call you 'Ang,' do you?"

  "Ang? uh... buh... wuh... uh, Sure! Uh, yuh."

  Which was about the only way Yorick could've ever gotten Angus to agree to the nickname.

  "Well, y' see, Ang, it's like this—there're three time-travel organizations going."

  "What!!?!"

  Yorick nodded. "The Society for the Prevention of Integration of Telepathic Entities—they're anarchists, pretty much; the Vigilant Exterminators of Telepathic Organisms—they're totalitarians; and, of course, GRIPE—uh, that's yours."

  "Uh. Mine. Yuh." Angus was still a little groggy.

  "And, of course, it's..."

  "Wait a minute!" Angus snapped out of it. "That last one's mine—if I decide to organize it!"

  "Of course," Yorick said equably. "But at the moment, you haven't definitely decided not to found it, so it does exist." He hurried on while Angus was trying to unsnarl the double negative. "And, naturally, SPITE and VETO are fighting it."

  "Oh, yeah?" Angus bristled. "Where do they get off fighting my organization? We weren't hurting anybody, just sitting there minding our own business, no bother at all, and these guys got to... Wait a minute! I haven't even founded the damn thing yet!"

  "'Well, let's not sweat the details," Yorick said easily. "Now, GRIPE has been doing a lot of good up and down the time-line—but SPITE and VETO are the bad guys, see, so they don't like good, and..."

  "All right, so they don't like GRIPE," Angus growled. "Will you can the kindergarten stuff and start being a little more objective?"

  "All right, all right!" Yorick sighed and leaned back. "You geniuses are so particular... Well, let's put it this way: GRIPE has done a lot to further democracy."

  "Why?" Angus snapped.

  Yorick looked up, surprised. "Because democracy does a better job of protecting the rights of individuals, especially patentholders, of course. And they're the ones GRIPE's most interested in."

  "Oh."

  "And since democracy protects them better than any other form of government, GRIPE does all it can to further democracy."

  Angus lifted a skeptical eyebrow; he suspected someone was being less than completely honest, and it wasn't Yorick. "I suppose that makes a certain sort of half-baked sense..."

  "Yeah, well, you have to remember our founder when it comes to things like that."

  Angus glared, but Yorick plowed ahead, grinning. "Anyway, that's why the bad guys don't like us."

  Angus frowned, not understanding.

  Yorick sighed and took out a cigar. "Remember I told you SPITE was anarchistic? Well, it goes beyond that—they're actually pretty much the time-travel arm of a permanent anarchistic organization. Mostly ci-devant aristocrats in their membership, and..."

  "What!?!!"

  "Of course." Yorick blinked in surprise. "In practice, anarchy always turns into warlordism—and the nobles like that, 'cause it makes each one of 'em a petty king."

  "Oh." Angus thrust out his lower lip. "That kind of anarchy."

  "'In practice,' I said. Of course, their manifestos are very pure doctrine, but they all know how much that's worth." He lit the cigar, puffed thoughtfully. "Well, they've got a few purists in there—real idealistic, poor suckers."

  "'Suckers'?" Angus cocked his head to the side.

  Yorick shrugged. "The aristocrats know pure anarchy can't endure more than a few months, so they know the idealists are no threat. But they also know idealistic fanatics can be very useful, and make very good agents."

  "Yeah, I've noticed puritans are usually pretty fanatical," Angus mused, nodding. "What about the other organization?"

  "VETO." Yorick exhaled a cloud of smoke. "They're the time-travel wing of a permanent totalitarian organization. Also doing everything they can to kill democracy. Of course."

  Angus nodded, frowning. "And GRIPE is the time-travel branch of the permanent democratic organization?"

  Yorick shook his head in the middle of his own private fog. "Only by coincidence. GRlPE's an independent organization. It's just that it's got common interests with democracy, so it helps out where it can."

  Angus rocked h
is head back on one shoulder, looking askance at the Neanderthal. "No formal connection at all?"

  "Not even an informal one." Yorick smiled. "You might say GRIPE is private enterprise."

  Angus frowned. "Seems there oughta be something in the way of agreements."

  Yorick chewed on his cigar, choosing his words. "Well, Ang... Hate to tell you this, but there ain't no really permanent organization of democrats, nohow."

  Angus stared, unbelieving.

  Yorick shrugged. "Figure it out for yourself. Actual, viable democracies are few and far between, and they don't last as long as empires or feudalisms. They can't, since they're the product of social-force stresses. And, where you've got a stress..."

  "You've got a rupture," Angus finished. "Sooner or later."

  Yorick nodded, looking pretty bleak.

  "But there's gotta be some kind of permanent organization!" Angus exploded. "For self-defense, at least!"

  Yorick shrugged. "All these permanent organizations are pretty far in the future, Ang. SPITE was formed in 5237 C.E."

  "Was formed?"

  "Was," Yorick said firmly. "You'll get used to it."

  "I'm not sure I want to."

  "Don't worry, you will." Yorick went on hastily, "Of course, I can't say for certain the democrats haven't organized on a permanent basis, some time in the way far future—but if they have, they haven't let us know about it."

  "So," Angus said slowly, "to all intents and purposes, GRIPE is the permanent democratic organization."

  "Closest thing to it, anyway," Yorick agreed.

  Angus scowled at him; it seemed to him that the Neanderthal was watching him very closely...

  A chill ran down his spine. He was beginning to get an idea of just how much of a load they were trying to shove onto his shoulders. "No!" His fist slammed down on the table.

  Yorick was all surprised innocence. "Why?"

  "Well..." Angus looked away, fumbling for words, feeling like a heel. "It's too much responsibility, damn it! I'm not going to have a load like that on my back!"

  "Sorry, Ang." Yorick grinned. "You've already got it. If you decide 'no,' you'll have to live with yourself afterward."

  Angus glared, furious.