Andre Norton - Crosstime 2 - Crossroads of Time

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Crossroads of Time by

Andre Norton

PROLOGUE

The office was bare of all furniture except for a seat pulled drawer

fashion out of the softly glowing wall. The report shining in fiery script up

at the Inspector was on a desk. Or perhaps those letters only appeared

fiery because of the possible conflagration to come, masked in the official

idiom of his particular security section. As long ago as his third month in

the Service, a time now he found difficult to recall, he had ceased abruptly

to believe that any operation could run smoothly. In past experience the

most placid landscapes hid the nastiest traps.

Now he leaned back in the seat which accommodatingly changed shape

to fit his middle-aged bulk at the new angle. Though his expression had

not changed, he ran a finger tip nervously back and forth along the edge of

the reader plate on which the message still stood. He had already wasted

too much time on this, but—

CLASSIFIED REPORT:

Division 1 Plus Information

PROJECT:4678

NATURE OF OFFENSE:

Attempt to influence other level history.

AGENTS:

Section Leader:

Com Varlt, MW 69321

Crew:

Horman Tilis MW 69345

Fal Korf AW 70958

Pague Lo Sig AW

PROGRESS TO DATE:

Traced subject—Kmoat Vo Pranj—to Levels 415-426 inclusive.

Established prime base on likeliest world (E641—marked, on survey of Kol

30, 51446 E. C. as "culturally retarded, critical, forbidden, except to

sociological investigators, rank 1-2"). But subject may be on another world

of this grouping or engaged in hopping.

COVER:

Have assumed credentials and background of members of native law

enforcement body, national in scope (Federal Bureau of Investigation).

TYPE OF CULTURE:

Dawn atomic—inhabitants on this level appear to possess no psi

powers—highly unstable civilization —just the type to attract Pranj.

REMARKS:

There was the meat of it, entered under "remarks." The Inspector's eyes

lifted to the restful, unbroken glow of the opposite wall. They were getting

all too many of such "remarks" at Headquarters lately. Why, when he had

been in the field force—He shook his head and then had the grace to laugh

at his own dawning pomposity. The important point was—the man in the

field knew. He read the final sentence on which his decision must be

made.

REMARKS:

Must term operation "solution dubious"—critical plus—require extreme

powers under 202 classification.

Com Varlt, MW in charge.

Com Varlt. The Inspector triggered a button with one of those nervous

finger tips. The report flashed off and in its place was a series of code

symbols. Hmm, that agent had a rather impressive record all the way

along. The Inspector's hesitation was gone. He pressed a second button

and smiled almost grimly. Varlt had asked for it —now he had his wish.

Only "solution dubious" had better turn out "Solution Satisfactory"! A new

report clicked on the reader and the Inspector turned to consider another

case.

CHAPTER ONE

The window was a square of gray light at the narrow end of the small

hotel room. Blake Walker regarded this evidence of another day with an

odd detachment. He moved—to snub out a cigarette in the tray beside the

bed. Then he collected his watch from the table. A minute past six. And

what he had been waiting for the past hour must be very close now—

He pulled his six feet of lean muscle and fine bones out of the bed and

padded into the bathroom to plug in his razor. From the mirror his own

eyes, tired and dark, stared back at him without curiosity or interest. In

the artificial light his thick cap of hair appeared as black as his brows and

lashes—but in the sun light it would be red, so dark a red as might rightly

be termed mahogany. Only his skin was not fair, but a smooth and even

brown, as if before birth he had acquired a permanent sun tan.

Shaving was a perfunctory business, conducted mostly from force of

habit, since his area of beard was small and grew slowly. His black brows

twisted together now in a familiar frown as he wondered, for perhaps the

thousandth time, if he did have Asiatic blood. Only, who had ever heard of

a red-haired Chinese or Hindu? Not that he could trace his parentage.

Detective Sergeant Dan Walker had brought the resources of an entire city

police force to bear on that problem some twenty years ago, after he had

stumbled on the "alley baby." Patrolman Harvey Blake and Sergeant Dan

Walker had found him and later Dan had claimed him for a son. But he

would always wonder about the two years of his life before that.

Blake's well-cut mouth became a grim line under the pressure of

memory. Sergeant—now Inspector—Dan going into the First National to

buy traveler's checks for that long-awaited trip—running into a holdup in

progress. Dan Walker had been shot down and it had not lessened Molly's

heartache to know that he had taken his killer with him. After that there

had been the two of them, Molly Walker and Blake. Then Molly went to

bed one night and did not awake in the morning.

So now he was alone again, cut off from the only security he had known.

Blake put down the razor carefully as if that motion was a part of some

intricate and necessary action. His eyes were still on the mirror, but they

saw no reflection there, certainly not the lines of tension suddenly aging

his face. It was coming—it was very close now!

The last time that feeling had driven him into Molly's bedroom and his

painful discovery there. Now it was urgently pushing him toward the hall.

He listened, knowing of old that there was really nothing to hear—this he

could only feel. Then, with quiet cat's feet, he went to the hall door without

snapping on the room light.

With infinite caution he turned the key and eased the door open. He

had no idea of what waited on the other side—he only knew that some

action was being so forceably demanded of him that he could not disobey

even if he wished.

For one moment he. stared. Two men stood, their backs toward him,

one behind the other. A tall man wearing a loose coat, his dark hair still

glistening with the sheen of sleet, was fitting a key into the door on the

opposite, side of the corridor. His companion held a gun jammed against

his back.

Blake, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet, moved. His fingers

locked about the gunman's throat and he jerked the fellow's head back.

Instantly the other man whirled. Almost, Blake thought, as if he had

known what was about to happen. His fist swung up and connected with

just the right point on the threshing captive's jaw; then Blake was

supporting the full weight of an unconscious man. But the other took hold,

waving Blake back into his room, following him quickly, the prize in tow.

Once inside he dropped his burden to the floor without ceremony and

locked the door.

With a doubt or two, Blake sat down on the edge of the bed. Why so

little fuss on the part of the suddenly released prisoner? And why come in

here with the captive?

"Police———?" His hand went to the phone on the bedside table.

The tall man turned. He brought out a wallet and flipped it open for

Blake to read the card inside. Then the younger man nodded.

"No police?"

The other shook his head. "Not yet. Sorry to barge in on you,

Mr.—Mr.?"

"Walker."

"Mr. Walker. You helped me out of a tight hole there. But I'll have to

ask you to let me handle this my own way. We won't bother you for long."

"I'll finish dressing," Blake got up.

The Federal Agent was squatting on his heels by the slumbering

gunman. And Blake was knotting his tie when a scene, reflected in the

mirror, drew him back to the bedroom. The self-introduced Kittson was

searching his unconscious prisoner and the oddness of that search

intrigued Blake.

Slowly the Federal man ran his fingers through the oily hair of the

other, apparently in quest of something on the skull beneath. Then with a

pencil flash he examined both ears and nostrils. Last of all he explored the

gunman's half open mouth, withdrawing a dental plate. He made no

sound but Blake sensed his triumph as he freed from underside of the

plastic denture a small disc which he wrapped in his handkerchief and

stowed away in an inner pocket.

"Care to wash now?" Blake asked casually.

Kittson stiffened. He looked up, straight into Blake's eyes. And his own

eyes were strange ones—almost yellow, unblinking, like those of some

hunting feline, he low, unblinking, like those of some hunting feline. They

continued to bore into Blake—or to try to—but he met stare with stare.

The agent got to his feet.

"I would, for a fact," his voice was mild, deceptively so, Blake believed.

He was certain that in some way he had surprised the man, had failed to

respond as the other had expected him to.

When Kittson was wiping his hands there came a knock at the door.

"My men," the agent appeared as certain of that as if he could see

through the wall. Blake unlocked and opened the door.

Two men stood outside. Under any other circumstances Blake might

not have given them a second glance, but now he watched them with

double intentness.

One was almost as tall as Kittson and his wide boned, freckled face was

surmounted by a thatch of bright red hair only partially concealed by his

hat. The other, in contrast, was not only short but small, delicately boned,

almost fail. They gave Blake flickering glances as they passed him, and he

felt as though he had been measured, catalogued and filed for all time.

"Okay, chief?" asked the red haired one.

Kittson stepped aside to reveal the man on the floor. "He's all yours,

boys———"

Between them they brought the gunman to partial consciousness and

took him out. But Kittson remained and, when they were gone, locked the

door for the second time.

Blake watched this move with raised eyebrows. "I assure you," he kept

his tone light, "I have no connection with the departed."

"I am sure you have not. However—"

"This is a matter which should not concern me—is that it?"

For the first time Kittson's tight lips moved in a shadow smile. "Just so.

We would rather no one knew about this little episode."

"My foster father was on the police force. I don't talk out of turn."

"You are from out of town?"

"I'm from Ohio, yes. My foster parents are dead. I came here to enter

Havers," Blake answered with the exact truth.

"Havers—so you are an art student?"

"I have hopes," Blake refused to be drawn. "But five minutes of

checking on your part will support all my statements."

Kittson's shadow smile broadened. "I don't doubt that at all, young

man. But tell me one thing—just why did you open your door at that

crucial moment? I'll swear you couldn't have heard us coming up the

corridor, not through these walls and—" He was frowning now, watching

Blake with that same hunting cat intensity, as if the young man presented

a problem which must be solved.

Blake lost a fraction of his assurance. How could he possibly explain

those queer flashes of foreboding, which he had had at intervals all his life,

warning him of danger to come? How could he explain to this man that he

had been sitting in the dark for at least an hour certain that trouble was

ahead and that action on his part was necessary?

Then, moved perhaps by that unblinking, demanding stare, he plunged:

"I just had a feeling that something was wrong—that I must open the

door."

And those tawny eyes held his as if they would bore into his skull and

lay bare every one of his thoughts. Suddenly he resented that suggestion of

invasion, and found he was able to break away from that odd hold, that

compulsion.

But to his surprise Kittson was nodding. "I'll buy that, Walker. I've faith

in hunches. Well, it was a good thing for me that yours—" He paused, froze

into immobility except for a gesture with one hand which held Blake as

quiet. Kittson might be listening, but thought Blake strained his own ears

he could hear nothing at all.

A second later there was a discreet tap at the door. Blake got up.

Kittson was as still as a hunter waiting for prey to come within striking

distance. But his head turned to Blake and he shaped words with such

exaggerated lip movements that the younger man could read them.

"Ask who?"

Blake went to the door, his hand dropped to the catch but he did not

release it as he asked, "Who's there?"

"Hotel security officer." The reply was prompt, only slightly muffled by

the barrier. A hand came over his shoulder with a scrap of paper. Block

letters read, "Say— check with desk."

"Let me check with the desk," Blake called. He flattened himself against

the door. There was no objection, no answer from without. But, after a

moment, Blake heard the faint footfalls of someone moving away. He went

back to his seat on the bed.

Kittson had preempted the single comfortable .chair and was gazing

out into the air shaft as if he found the brickwork beyond of absorbing

interest.

"I take it that that was not the hotel dick?"

"No, he was not. Which puts us all in a jam of sorts." Kittson took out a

cigarette case, offered its contents to Blake, and snapped a lighter for

them both. "That was an attempt to discover what had happened here.

Unfortunately it means that you have now been linked with us. And that

leads to complications all around.

"There are good and sufficient reasons why we do not want our actions

to become public. We shall have to ask you to cooperate with us."

Blake stirred. "I'm just an innocent bystander. I didn't come here to

play cops and robbers. And I'm not even asking what I'm mixed up

in—which I believe shows some restraint on my part." Again Kittson

smiled faintly and Blake continued, "I just want to go about my own

business…"

Kittson tossed his hat on the desk and leaned back his black head to

blow a perfect smoke ring. "And we'd like nothing better than to see you

do just that. But I'm afraid it's too late for second thoughts now. You

should have had those before you opened your door. Others have taken an

interest in you, and that might prove—at the best—embarrassing. At the

worst—" his eyes glinted like gem stones through the smoke and Blake felt

an odd chill, almost a suspicion of that same uneasiness which had drawn

him into this adventure. Kittson was implying things, and the force of his

implications was heightened by the very vagueness of his words.

"I see that it begins to dawn on you that this is serious. When must you

report at Havers for classes?"

"The new term begins next Monday."

"A week. I'm going to ask you to play along with us for that period. If

we have any luck this case will be settled by then, or at least your part of it

will. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise I might be taken care of for my own good and yours?" Blake

demanded. But he recognized the voice of authority. This man was used to

giving orders which were obeyed without question. If he said "Remove

Blake Walker and put him on ice," Blake Walker would be removed with

the same speed and efficiency as the gunman had earlier been extracted

from this room. No one ever gained by ramming a stone wall head on.

Better follow orders—at least until he could learn more about the setup.

"All right. What do I do?"

"You vanish. Here and now. How much luggage do you have?"

Kittson was on his feet, across the room to open the closet before Blake

really understood that reply to his question.

"One bag." Something, perhaps the power of the other's personality

swept Blake into action he would not have considered an hour before. He

snapped the suitcase shut and took out his wallet to count out some bills

on the top of the chest.

"I take it that we do not check out formally." It was more a statement

than a question and he was not surprised as Kittson swiftly agreed.

The gray light outside the window had brightened very little. It was five

minutes after seven, but the dusk within the room was that of evening as

the agent snapped off the light. Blake shrugged into his top coat, picked

up his hat and bag, ready to follow as the other beckoned him out into the

hall.

They did not take the turn leading to the elevator, but instead went to a

firedoor. Stairs, five floors of them, silent and deserted as the hall had

been—then Kittson paused for a moment before another door, giving the

impression of listening. Down another flight of stairs, narrower, not so

well lighted, threading through a place of storage compartments to more

steps going up. They emerged on the open street with the chill drizzle of

sleet in their faces. Blake was sure that his guide not only knew exactly

where he was going, but that they had been unobserved throughout that

flight. His belief in the efficiency of the agent's organization was settled for

all time as a taxi came in at the curb almost as they crossed the strip of

pavement. Kittson opened the door and Blake obeyed the implied order.

But to his surprise the agent did not join him. Instead the door slammed

shut and the cab pulled away.

For the moment Blake was content to follow orders and see where all

this stage managing would leave him. But, as he had more time to think

and was out of the range of Kittson's electric personality, he was surprised

at his own compliance with every suggestion the agent had made. If this

wasn't some weird dream it came very close to it. Undoubtedly the wisest

thing for him to do would be to stop this cab and disappear on his own.

Only he had a very strong suspicion that Kittson would sooner or later

catch up with him again and that then their relationship would be on a far

less easy footing.

The taxi wove through the narrow roads in the central park in a shuttle

pattern which completely baffled Blake's scant knowledge of the city. Then

they came out on the main streets once more. Morning traffic was on the

move and the cab rounded busses, bored between trucks and private cars.

It slowed at last to whip into a narrow alley running between blank walled

buildings which might be warehouses. About three-quarters of the way

down this the driver pulled to a stop.

"Here y'are."

Blake reached for his wallet. But the driver said, without turning

around, "It's already paid, Mac. You go in that door, see? Elevator there.

Punch the top button. Now make it snappy, Mac, this here's no place to

park!"

Blake went on in to be confronted by the glass frosted panel of a

self-operating elevator. He punched the top button and tried to count the

floors as he moved upward creakily, but he was not sure whether they

came to stop before nine or ten.

Beyond was a scrap of hall, hardly more than standing room before a

single blank door. Blake knocked and the portal opened so speedily that he

thought they must have been awaiting him.

"Come in, Walker."

Blake had been expecting Kittson. But the man who greeted him was

the elder of the agent by at least ten years. He was shorter and his hair

was brindled with gray threads among the dark brown. But, as

inconspicuous as he might have been in a crowd, there was a quiet

distinction in his air. He was as much a personality in his way as the more

aggressive Kittson.

"I am Jason Saxton," he introduced himself. "And Mark Kittson is

waiting. Just leave your things here."

Deftly separated from coat, hat and bag, Blake was ushered into an

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