The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (139 page)

‘A wonderful landing, Jim,’ I groaned, feeling all over for broken bones. ‘You ought to be in the circus.’

I was battered but sound, which fact I realized after a pain pill had cleared
my head and numbed my nerve endings. Belatedly, I looked around through the lessening rain but could see no one – or any sight of human habitation. Some cows in the adjoining field grazed on, undisturbed by my dramatic appearance. I had arrived.

‘To work,’ I ordered myself, and began to unburden myself under the shelter of the large tree. The first thing off was the collapsible container I had
constructed with great ingenuity. It opened out and assembled into a brassbound leather chest typical of the period. Everything else, including the space suit and grav-chute, fitted into it. By the time I had loaded and locked it the rain had stopped and a frail sun was working hard to get through the clouds. Mid-afternoon at least, I judged by its height. Time enough to reach shelter by nightfall.
But which way? A rutted path through the cow field must lead someplace, so I took that downhill, climbing the dry stone fence to reach it. The cows rolled round eyes in my direction but otherwise ignored me. They were large
animals, familiar to me only through photographs, and I tried to remember what I had heard about their pugnacity. These beasts apparently did not remember either and did not
bother me as I went down the path, chest on shoulder, setting out to face the world.

The path led to a stile which faced onto a country lane. Good enough. I climbed over and was considering which direction to take when a rustic conveyance made its presence known by a great squeaking and a wave of airborne effluvium carried by the breeze. It clattered into sight soon after, a two-wheeled wooden
artifact drawn by a singularly bony horse and containing a full load of what I have since determined to be manure, a natural fertilizer much valued for its aid to crops and its ability to produce one of the vital ingredients of gunpowder. The operator of this contrivance was a drab-looking peasant in shapeless clothes who rode on a platform in front. I stepped into the road and raised my hand. He
tugged on a series of straps that guided the pulling beast and everything groaned to a stop. He stared down at me, chomping empty gums in memory of long-vanished teeth, then reached up and knuckled his forehead. I had read about this rite, which represented the relationship of the lower class to the upper classes, and knew that my choice of costume had been correct.

‘I am going to Oxford, my
good man,’ I said.

‘Ey?’ he answered, cupping one grimy hand behind his ear.

‘Oxford!’ I shouted.

‘Aye, Oxford,’ he nodded in happy agreement. ‘It be that way.’ He pointed back over his shoulder.

‘I’m going there. Will you take me?’

‘I be going that way.’ He pointed down the lane.

I took a golden sovereign out of my wallet, purchased from an old coin dealer, more money in one lump than he
had probably seen in his entire lifetime, and held it up. His eyes opened wide and his gums snapped nicely.

‘I be going to Oxford.’

The less said about this ride, the better. While the un-sprung dungmobile tortured the sitting part of my anatomy, my nose was assaulted by its cargo. But we were at least going in the correct direction. My chauffeur cackled and mumbled incomprehensibly to himself,
wild with glee at his golden windfall, urging the ancient nag to its tottering top speed. The sun broke through as we came out of the trees, and ahead were the gray towers of the university, pale against the darker slate gray of the clouds, a very attractive sight indeed. While I was admiring it, the cart stopped.

‘Oxford,’ the driver said, pointing a grubby finger. ‘Magdalen Bridge.’

I climbed
down and rubbed my sore hams, looking at the gentle arch of the bridge across the small river. There was a thud next to me as my chest hit the ground. I started to protest, but my transportation had already wheeled about and was starting back down the road. Since I was no more desirous of entering the city in the cart than he was of taking me, I didn’t protest. But he might at least have said
something. Like good-bye. It didn’t really matter. I shouldered the chest and strode forward, pretending I did not see the blue-uniformed soldier standing by the shack at the end of the bridge. Holding a great long gunpowder weapon of some sort that terminated in what appeared to be a sharp blade. But he saw me well enough and lowered the device so it blocked my way and pushed his dark-bearded face
close to mine.

‘Casket vooleyfoo?’
he said, or something like that. Impossible to understand, a city dialect perhaps since I had no trouble understanding the rustic who had brought me here.

‘Would you mind repeating that?’ I asked in the friendliest of manners.

‘Koshown onglay,’
he growled and whipped the wooden lower end of his weapon up to catch me in the midriff.

This was not very nice
of him, and I showed my distaste by stepping to one side so the blow missed and returned the favor by planting my knee in his midriff instead. He bent in
the middle, so I chopped him in the back of the neck when that target presented itself. Since he was unconscious, I seized his weapon so it would not be actuated when it dropped.

All this had happened in the shortest of times, and I was aware
of the wide-eyed stares of the passing citizenry. As well as the ferocious glare of another soldier in the door of the ramshackle building, who was raising his own weapon toward me. This was certainly not the way to make a quiet entrance into the city, but now that I had started I had to finish.

With the thought the deed. I dived forward, which enabled me to put down my chest while I avoided
the weapon at the same time. There was an explosion, and a tongue of flame shot by my head. Then the butt of my own weapon came up and caught my latest opponent under the chin, and he went back and down with me right behind him. If there were others inside, it would be best to tackle them in the enclosed space.

There certainly were other soldiers, a goodly number of them, and after taking care
of the nearest ones with a little dirty infighting, I triggered a sleepgas grenade to silence the rest. I had to do this – but I didn’t like it. Keeping a wary eye on the door, I quickly mussed the clothing and kicked the ribs of the men who had succumbed to the gas in order to suggest that they had been felled by violence of some kind.

Now how did I get out of this? Quickly was the best idea
since the citizenry would have spread the alarm by now. Yet when I reached the doorway, I saw that the passersby had drawn close and were trying to see what had happened. When I stepped out, they smiled and shouted happily, and one of them called out loudly.

‘A cheer for his lordship! Look what he done to the Frenchies!’

Glad cries rang out as I stood there, dazed. Something was very wrong.
Then I realized that one fact had been nagging
at me ever since I had my first look at the colleges. The flag, flying proudly from atop the nearest tower. Where were the crossed crosses of England?

This was the tricolor of France.

While I was trying to figure this one out, a man in plain brown leather clothes pushed through the cheering crowd and shouted them into silence.

‘Get home, the lot of you, before the frogs come and kill you all. And don’t say a word about this or you’ll be hanging from the town gate.’

Looks of quick fear replaced the elation, and they began to move at once, all except two men who pushed
past to pick up the weapons strewn about inside. The sleepgas had dispersed, so I let them pass. The first man touched two fingers to his cap as he came up to me.

‘That was well done, sir, but you’ll have to move out quick because someone will have heard that shot.’

‘Where shall I go? I’ve never been to Oxford before in my life.’

He looked me up and down quickly, in the same way I was sizing
him up, and came to a decision.

‘You’ll come with us.’

It was a close-run thing because I heard the tread of heavy marching boots on the bridge even as we nipped down a side lane burdened with the guns. But these men were locals and knew all the turnings and bypaths, and we were never in any danger that I could see. We ran and walked in silence for the better part of an hour before we reached
a large barn that was apparently our destination. I followed the others in and put my chest on the floor. When I straightened up, the two men who had been carrying the guns took me by the arms while the man in leather held what appeared to be an exceedingly sharp knife to my throat.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘My name is Brown, John Brown. From America. And what is your name?’

‘Brewster.’ Then,
without changing the level tone of his voice: ‘Can you give me reason why we should not kill you for the spy you
are?’

I smiled calmly to show him how foolish the thought was. Inside, I was not calm at all. Spy, why not? What could I say? Think fast, Jim, because a knife kills just as thoroughly as an A-bomb. What did I know? French soldiers were occupying Oxford. Which meant that they must have
invaded England successfully and occupied all or part of it. There was resistance to this invasion, the people holding me proved that, so I took my clue from this fact and tried to improvise.

‘I am here on a secret mission.’ Always good. The knife still pressed against my throat. ‘America, as you know, sides with your cause ….’

‘America helps the Frenchies; your Benjamin Franklin has said so.’

‘Yes, of course, Mr. Franklin has a great responsibility. France is too strong to fight now, so we side with her. On the surface. But there are men like me who come to bring you aid.’

‘Prove it?’

‘How can I? Papers can be forged, they would be death to carry in any case, and you wouldn’t believe them. But I have something that speaks the truth, and I was on my way to London to deliver it, to
certain people there.’

‘Who?’ Had the knife moved away the slightest amount?

‘I will not tell you. But there are men like you all over England, who wish to throw off the tyrant’s yoke. We have contacted some of the groups, and I am delivering the evidence I spoke of.’

‘What is it?’

‘Gold.’

That stopped them all right, and I felt the grip on my arms lessen ever the slightest. I pressed the
advantage.

‘You have never seen me before and will probably never see me again. But I can give you the help you need to buy
weapons, bribe soldiers, help those imprisoned. Why do you think I assaulted those soldiers in public today?’ I asked with sudden inspiration.

‘Tell us,’ Brewster said.

‘To meet you.’ I looked slowly around at their surprised faces. ‘There are loyal Englishmen in every
part of this land who hate the invaders, who will fight to hurl them from these green shores. But how can they be contacted and helped? I have just shown you one way – and have provided you with these arms. I will now give you gold to carry on the struggle. As I trust you, you must trust me. If you wish, you will have enough gold to slip away from here and live your lives out happily in some kinder
part of the world. But I don’t think you will. You risked your lives for those weapons. You will do what you know is right. I will give you the gold and then go away. We will never meet again. We must go on trust. I trust you ….’ I let my voice dwindle away, allowing them to finish the sentence for themselves.

‘Sounds good to me, Brewster,’ one of the men said.

‘Me too,’ said the other. ‘Let’s
take the gold.’

‘I’ll
take the gold if there’s any to be taken,’ Brewster said, lowering the knife but still uncertain. ‘It could all be a lie.’

‘It could be,’ I said quickly, before he started punching holes in my flimsy story. ‘But it isn’t – nor does it matter. You’ll see that I’m well away tonight, and we will never meet again.’

‘The gold,’ my guard said.

‘Let’s see it,’ Brewster said
reluctantly. I had bluffed it through. After this he couldn’t go back.

I opened the chest with utmost care while a gun was kept pressed to my kidney. I had the gold; that was the only part of my story that was true. It was divided into a number of small leather bags and intended to finance this operation. That is just what it was doing now. I took one out and solemnly handed it over to Brewster.

He shook some of the glittering granules into his hand, and they all stared at it, I pushed.

‘How do I get to London?’ I asked. ‘By river?’

‘Sentries on every lock of the Thames,’ Brewster said, still looking at the golden gravel upon his palm. ‘You wouldn’t get as far as Abingdon. Horse, the only way. Back roads.’

‘I don’t know the back roads. I’ll need two horses and someone to guide me.
I can pay, as you know.’

‘Luke here will take you,’ he said, finally looking up. ‘Used to be a drayman. But only to the walls; you’ll have to get by the Frenchies yourself.’

‘That will be fine.’ So London was occupied. And what about the rest of England?

Brewster went out to take care of the horses, and Guy produced some coarse bread and cheese, as well as some ale, which was more welcome.
We talked, or rather they talked and I listened, occasionally putting in a word but afraid of asking any questions that might prove my almost total ignorance. But a picture finally developed. England was completely occupied and pacified, had been for some years; the exact number was not made clear, although fighting was still going on in Scotland. There were dark memories of the invasion, great cannon
that did terrible damage, the Channel fleet destroyed in a single battle. I could detect the cloven hoof of He behind a lot of it. History had been rewritten.

Yet this particular past was not the past of the future I had just come from. My head started to ache just thinking about it. Did this world exist in a loop of time, separate from the mainstream of history? Or was it an alternate world?
Professor Coypu would know, but I did not think he would enjoy being plucked out of his memory tape again just to answer my questions. I would have to work it out without him. Think, Jim, put the old brain-box into gear. You take pride in what you call your intelligence, so apply it to something besides crookery for a change. There must be some form of logic here. Statement A, in the future this
past did not exist. B, it sure existed now. But C might indicate that my presence here would destroy this past, even the memory of this past. I had no idea how this might be accomplished, but
it was such a warm and cheering thought that I grabbed onto it. Jim diGriz history changer, world shaker. It made a pleasant image, and I treasured it as I dozed off on the hay – and woke up not too long
afterward scratching at the invading insect life that was after my hot body.