TWICE IN TIME

And I stepped two paces forward, into and through the misty veil.

At once I felt a helpless lightness, as though whisked off my feet by a great wave of the ocean. Glancing quickly behind me, momentarily I saw the room and all in it, but somehow vague and transparent—the fading image of the walls, the windows, my openwork reflector-apparatus, Astley starting to his feet from the armchair. Then all vanished into white light.

That white light beat upon me with an intensity that sickened. I tasted pungency, my fibres vibrated to a humming, bruising rhythm. There was a moment of hot pain, deafening noise, and a glare of blinding radiance.

Then peace, lassitude. Something seemed to materialize as a support under my feet. Again I saw the transparent ghost of a scene, this time full of human figures. That, too, thickened, and I heard many voices, chattering excitedly. Then all was color, life, reality.

One voice dominated the others, speaking in resonant Italian: "The miracle has come!"

CHAPTER II The First Half Hour

At those words, all fell silent and gazed at me in awe. It seemed unbelievable, but all this was happening to me in the back yard of—yes, of Tomasulo's tavern. It was a changed back yard, though, dominated by a simpler, newer building.

I seemed to have trouble with my memory. It lagged, as though I had been stunned. And the differences helped to confuse me. Here were no flagstones, no clutter of innkeeper's jetsam—only a level stretch of turf, hedged around with some tall, close bushes of greenery. And my audience was grouped below rather than before me. I seemed to be standing high on a platform or pedestal of cut and mortared stone.

The altar of the ox-sacrificing cult! I had made the journey back through time, from the Twentieth Century that just now hung dim and veiled in my mind, like something I had known in childhood instead of brief seconds ago.

"Kneel," intoned the same voice that had hailed me as a miracle.

At once the group before me dropped humbly down. There were a dozen or so, of both sexes, and most of them shabbily dressed. The men wore drab or faded blouses and smocks, with patched hose on their legs, and the women were untidily tricked out in full skirts, bodices, and coifs or caps. Men and women alike wore long hair, and several were as blond as myself.

I was quite evidently taken for some strange manifestation of the god or spirit they worshipped. Realizing this, I felt that I had an advantage. I sprang lightly down from the altar.

"Do not be afraid," I told them, in my best Italian. "Rise up. Which is the chief among you?"

They came to their feet, in a shy group around me, and the tallest of them moved forward.

"I am master of this coven," he murmured, respectfully, but fixing me with shrewd, calculating eyes. "What is your will?"

"First, lend me that red cloak of yours."

He quickly unclasped it from about his throat. I draped it over my nakedness, and felt more assured before this mixed audience.

"Now," I continued, "hark you all! Did you worship here because you sought a miraculous gift from heaven?"

"Not from heaven, exactly," said the man who had given me his cloak.

He was the best clad of the entire group, wearing plum-colored hose and a black velvet surcoat that fell to his knees. His narrow waist—he was an inch taller than I, and as gaunt as a rake—was clasped by a leather belt with a round silver buckle. His sharp face was decorated by a pointed beard of foxy red, and above this jutted a fine-cut long nose. His eyes, so intent upon me, were large and deep, the wisest eyes I had ever seen, and his broad brow, from which the hair receded as though beginning to wear away, was high and domed.

There was something about him to suggest Shakespeare—Shakespeare's face, that is, much more alert and enigmatic than generally pictured, and set upon the body of Ichabod Crane. I described him thus carefully because of the impression he made upon me then, and because of the importance he has since had in my life and career.

"Not from heaven," he said again. "Rather from our Father in the Lowest." He gestured downward, with a big but graceful hand. "Why do you ask? Have you not been sent by him?"

This was a definite challenge, and I made haste to simulate a grasp of the situation. With an effort I remembered the study I had made of this very incident, the prayer of a sorcerers' cult for rain, on April 30, 1470.

"I am sent as your friend," I announced. "This ox, which you have offered—"

I gestured behind me toward the altar, then turned to look. The stones were bare, save for a slight, dark moisture. I paused, thought quickly, and went on:

"This ox which you have offered has been transmuted into me, so that I may be your friend and guest."

There was more truth in that than my interrogator in the velvet surcoat thought, I told myself triumphantly. But I did not know him yet. I also congratulated myself that there had been an entire ox, for my time reflector seemed to have left little of it after the process of reassembling.

"As to the rain," I finished, "that will come, doubt it not." For I had seen, on the horizon beyond the lowest stretch of hedge, a lifting bank of cloud.

"Thank you, O messengerl" breathed an elderly cultist at my side, and "Thank you, thank you!" came prayerfully from the others.

The lean spokesman bowed a little, but I could discern the hint of a growing mockery in those deep, brilliant eyes.

"Your visit is far more than we poor worshipers had the presumption to hope for," he said silkily, "Will you suffer these servants of the true belief to depart? And will you come with me to my poor dwelling yonder?"

I nodded permission, and he spoke briefly in dismissal of the others. They retired through a gap in the hedge, respectfully, but without the awe a miracle might be thought to call forth. I was surprised, even a little piqued. Then the rationalization came to me. This was the Fifteenth Century, and the people were more naive, more credulous. They had come to this strange ceremony in expectation of a wonder. And when it came—even when there was more than they hoped for, as my volunteer host had suggested—it did not prostrate them with emotional amazement. I was strange, but I was understandable.

When the last had departed, I faced the gaunt man. I have compared his body to that of Ichabod Crane, but he was surer of his long limbs than the schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow. Indeed, he seemed almost elegant, with his feet planted wide apart and one big hand bracketed upon his bony hip.

"How are you called?" I asked him.

"My name is Guaracco," he said readily. "The master, I say, of the coven which has just done worship here. But, if you are truly a messenger from him we delight to serve, why do you not know these things without my telling?"

A sneer was in his voice, and I felt that I had best establish my defenses.

"Ser Guaracco," I addressed him bleakly, "you will do well to show courtesy to me. I did not come here to be doubted."

"Assuredly you did not," he agreed, with a sort of triumphant good humor that yet made me uneasy. "And now, once more, will you come with me into my home?"

He made another of his graceful gestures, this time toward the back door of the stone house that I knew for Tomasulo's inn—at least for what would one day be Tomasulo's inn. I nodded agreement, and we walked together across the turf to the door.

That thought of mine—for what would one day be Tomasulo's inn. ... It behooved me to learn a new procession of thought, one that came two ways to the present. I must remember, not only from the past, but from that future, four centuries off.

I clarified that puzzle by calling to mind a fragment of conversation in "through the Looking-Glass." It read like this, I remembered: "It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards." The White Queen had said that and, later: "Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." I had never before realized the deep scientific philosophy of that delightful story. Meanwhile, it might help clear the fog that hung so persistently to some chambers of my mind.

My new acquaintance tapped softly on the door, which opened at once. Upon the threshhold stood a tiny male creature in a dark gownlike garment. He was no larger than a child of nine, and the bright face upturned to us might have seemed sweet if it had not reminded me of Guaracco's.

"Is this your son?" I asked my host.

He laughed quietly.

"Yes, Ambassador of the Powers Below. In some degree this is my son."

The little figure stood courteously aside, and let us step into a dark, narrow corridor. Guaracco's hand touched my arm through the folds of the borrowed cloak, and I allowed myself to by guided down the passageway and into a room beyond.

Here were dark, decent hangings, a thick carpet, chairs, a settee, and a table on which lay some bulky and ancient-looking books. A single fat candle in a bronze scone illuminated the room, for there was no window; only a barred air-hole at the top. Guaracco invited me to sit down, with a sweep of his hand toward the settee.

"I will offer you refreshment," he announced, and clapped his hands.

From behind the hangings, evidently from a shadowed compartment beyond, darted a figure as small as the one that had admitted us to the house. But this one was hunched and misshapen, with a pinched, aged-looking face set in the loose, high collar of its gown. In its long, knob-knuckled hands was held a tray, with a silver flagon and two goblets of blue glass. This tray was set upon the table, then this small figure made a quick exit without looking back. I had been unable to judge sex or age in the brief moment of the small one's presence.

* * *

Guaracco carefully poured red wine from the flagon.

"You do not ask," he commented smoothly, "if that was another of my sons."

I made no comment, for I could think of none. Instead of growing clear, my memory was becoming more scrambled, and it worried me. There was also a definite taste of menace in the atmosphere. Guaracco lifted one of the goblets and held it toward me.

"He was as much my son as the other," he said. "Take this wine, Ambassador. I daresay you will never drink another draught like it."

I took the goblet, and he lifted the other.

"I give you a toast," he said, in a voice that suddenly rang with fierce mockery. "Sir, your immediate transportation to the floor of hell—the very place from which you lyingly claim to be sent!"

It was too much. I rose quickly, and set down the goblet on the table. My left hand, with which I am quickest and handiest, doubled into a fist.

"Ser Guaracco," I said harshly, "I have had enough of your discourtesy. You doubt my being of another world, even though you saw me appear from the very substance of the ox upon the alter, so—"

"Enough of that falsehood," he interrupted.

Quickly but delicately he set his goblet down beside mine. Again he struck his palms together, twice.

From the entrance to the passage darted the pretty little keeper of the doorway. From the opening behind the hangings sprang the withered-looking bringer of wine. Each held a long, thin blade, curved like a scimitar and plainly as keen as a razor. They closed quickly in upon me, their eyes glittering cruelly.

Guaracco laughed calmly, the laugh of one who makes the final move in a winning game.

"Before my familiars cut you into ounces," he said, "you had best make confession of your motives."

"Confession?" I echoed, amazed.

"Exactly. Oh, miracles have happened upon that altar before this—but it was I, Guaracco, who taxed my brain and my machine-shop to prepare them. But you come without my knowledge or leave. I do not allow rivals for my power, not even where it concerns those few foolish witch-worshippers. Out with your story, impostor, and at once!"

CHAPTER III The Service of Guaracco

I cannot but be ashamed of the way I broke down. I might have faced out the surprise; I might have defied the danger. Together, they overwhelmed me. Then and there, with Guaracco leering at me through his red beard and the two dwarfs, who no longer seemed like little children, standing with swords ready to slash me to death, I told the truth, as briefly and simply as possible.

Guaracco heard me out, interrupting only to ask questions—most intelligent questions. When I had made an end, he nodded slowly and sagely.

"I know that you will refuse to believe—" I started to sum up, but he interrupted.

"But I do believe," he assured me, in a tone surprisingly gentle. "I believe, lad, and in part I understand. My understanding will be made perfect as we discuss things more fully."

He snapped his big fingers at the dwarfs. They lowered their swords, and with a jerk of his head he dismissed them through their respective doors. Immediately there was less menace in the atmosphere. I felt relieved, and thirsty. But when I put out my hand for the goblet, Guaracco moved more quickly than I, and spilled the wine out upon the carpet.

"That draught was poisoned," he informed me. "I meant to destroy you, as a spy or rival. But fill again, and we shall drink to our better understanding.'

I poured wine, and we touched goblets and drank. His eyes above the brim were as knowing as Satan's own, and for the first time I was sure of their color— deep violet-blue, almost as dark as ripe grapes.

"This is better," I said, and smiled, but Guaracco did not smile back.

"Do not think," he returned, in a level tone of warning, "that I cannot kill you later, if such a course recommends itself to me. Those little entitites you saw, frail though they appear, are half-parcels of fate. They can handle their blades like bravos, they can scale the tallest towers or wriggle between the closest bars to deal death at my will. The skulls of their victims, destroyed in my service, would have all the streets of Florence, yonder. Nor"—and his voice grew still colder—"are they my only weapons."

He stepped suddenly close, so that his proud, lean nose was within an inch of mine.

"In fact, your life could have been taken in two dozen ways between the yard and here, to say nothing of the poison and the steel I have seen fit to show you. Sit down, lad, and hear my plans for you."

I sat down, with an unheroic show of acquiescence. He felt himself my master, for his teeth flashed in a relishful grin.

"Hark you, I seek power," he told me. "Much power I have already. I wield it through the coven of deluded witches you have seen and others like them, through my spies and creatures in the guilds and companies and councils, and through my influence on many individual persons, base and noble, here and elsewhere. But I want more power still. One day I shall not fear"—his narrow chest expanded a bit—"to give my orders to Lorenzo himself."

"Lorenzo il Magnifico— the Magnificent!" I murmured. "He rules in Florence, of course."

"Yes, he rules, prince in all but the name—for the nonce. His time, I dare predict, will be short." He strode across the room, hands behind his velvet back, then turned and stood over me. "Hark you, man from the future. Your world, what you tell me of it, is not so strange nor so great as I would have expected; yet you have many sciences and devices to show me. Machines, organization, foreknowledges of myriad lands. For them I spare your life. You will be yet another of the chief agents in my service."

* * *

He told me that with flat assurance, and I did not have the resolution to question his decision. All I could manage was something about my surprise that a sorcerer would be so interested in honest science.

"But sorcerers are scientists," he fairly snapped. "We offer our learning to the simple, and they gape as at a miracle of demons. For effect's sake, we mouth spells and flurry gestures, but the miracle is science, sane and practical. If I am a sorcerer, so was Albertus Magnus. So was Roger Bacon, the English monk who gave us gunpowder. Well, if I escape the noose or the stake, I may be as great as they. Greater."

As he spoke, I pondered how history was showing him wise and truthful. Magic always foreran science. From alchemy's hokus-pokus had risen the boons of chemistry, physics, and medicine, and the quibblings of astrologers had made astronomy a great and exact field of scientific study. Also, could not psychoanalysts look back to the ancient Chaldean magicians who interpreted Nebuchadnezzar's dreams?

But now I was dealing with things in the future from which I had stepped, things that had happened in that future. Again I attempted, and almost achieved, the feat of rationalizing the memory of things to come. If I could do it, I felt, the clouds would leave my mind.

"This traveling in time that you accomplished, it is of deep interest to me," Guaracco was continuing, pacing back and forth. "I feel that we may attempt it again, together. I would dearly love to see that world of which you speak, four centuries and more ahead of us. But these things are not more wonderful than others you mention. Tell me something about weapons of war."

Slowly, and vaguely, I ventured a description of the magazine rifle, then of the machine gun. My explanations were faulty and imperfect, yet he was deeply interested, and brought forth tablets and a red-leaded pencil with which to make sketches.

He drew crudely, and I took the pencil from him to improve his representations.

"By Mercurius, the god of thieves, you depict things well!" he praised me. "Your left hand is surer than my right. Perhaps you studied the arts? Yes? I thought so." He squinted at me knowingly, tweaking the point of his foxy beard. "I am inspired concerning you."

"How is that?" I asked.

"Tomorrow we go into the city of Florence," he decreed. "I shall introduce you there as a kinsman of mine, newly from the country, who seeks to enroll in the ancient and honorable guild of Florentine painters. I know a fitting teacher—Audreadel Verroc-chio. I shall pay his fee to enter you in his bottega as a student."

"I am to serve you there?"

"Serve me there, or through there in other places. Verrocchio is well known and well liked. Lorenzo and the other great nobles patronize him. I have not yet a proper agent among the arts. You will suit nicely in that position."

Again I agreed, because there was nothing else to do. He chuckled in triumph, and actually patted my shoulder, saying that we would get along famously as adopted cousins. Then he led me to another room, in which were a bed and a cupboard.

"You will rest here tonight," he informed me. "Here"—he opened the cupboard—"may be some clothing that will furnish you. We are a height, you and I, and not too dissimilar in girth."

* * *

Despite Guaracco's confidence in this last matter, his hose stretched drum-tight upon my more muscular legs, and his doublet proved too narrow in shoulder and hip.

"We shall have that altered," he decided and, going to the door, raised his voice. "Lisa!"