Leo Frankowski - Stargard 1 - Crosstime Engineer

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Leo Frankowski - Conrad Starguard 1 - The Crosstime Engineer
Book 1 of the Adventures of Conrad Starguard
Prologue
"DAMN IT! I have five doctorates!" she shouted.
He looked up from the pile of Polish government forms on his desk and surveyed the dumpy, middle-
aged waitress in front of him. Why me, Lord?
"So?" he said dryly. "It happens that, academically, you are below average at this installation. I have
nine. I am also your boss, and you are screaming at me."
"But it isn't fair!"
"Right. But then nobody ever claimed that the Service was fair-or that the universe was either, for that
matter. This is your first day here. If you have a problem, you may tell me about it. But if you raise your
voice one more time, I will bounce you off three of these walls before you hit the floor. One of my
doctorates is in martial arts. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, what precisely is your problem?" He leaned back, his fingertips touching to form an arch.
"Everything!" she shouted, and then remembered her situation and started again quietly. "This is all a
mistake. I shouldn't be in twentieth-century Poland. My field is ancient Greece. And this fat forty-year-
old body! Doctrine is that one should start out a tour of duty as a teenager! And having to tend tables at a
bar! And-"
"Hold it and keep your voice down! Now, you say there's been a mistake. Let's check the record." He
touched four nondescript spots on his battered wooden desk, and a display appeared in front of him,
individual letters glowing white in the air.
"Hmmm... born in North America, 62,218 B.C.... approved for child rearing; eleven children... retired at
forty-five, attended Museum University 62,219 B.C. to 62,192 B.C.... doctorates in medicine, Slavic
languages, psychology, and Greek literature... accepted into the Historical Corps..."
"First assignment, Periclean Athens! God, what luck! Do you realize that I have twice petitioned to
vacation in Periclean Athens and have been turned down both times? More people want to visit than
there are natives in the city. And you get it as a first assignment!"
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"Well, sir, my usual body isn't this flabby mess. And if you know the right people-"
"Humph. Then I recommend a program of diet and exercise. In any event, your record there was less
than outstanding... meddling in local politics, interfering with an assassination."
"But a hetaera was supposed to be interested in politics. "
"Your examiners felt otherwise. Well, let's see... After fortyone years in Athens, you returned to the
university and obtained a doctorate in ancient Egyptian languages. *. were turned down four times on
assignments in the ninth through thirteenth dynasties, respectively... eleven other requests denied...
eventually you volunteered for an open assignment and got twentieth-century Poland."
"Faced with this assignment, you requested the shortest possible tour of duty. It happens that your
predecessor served twenty-seven years of a fifty-one-year tour, then quit."
"She quit? But that means--"
"Right. She was dismissed from the corps. What she does with the rest of her life is up to her. Most
quitters end up drinking themselves to death out of boredom, although I hear the anthropology people
are always looking for folks to track the migration patterns of Homo erectus."
"Living off the land in prehistoric Africa?" She shuddered.
"Right. Now, I don't see where you have a legitimate bitch. You volunteered for an open assignment and
lucked out to the extent of indoor plumbing. You wanted a short assignment, and this one is only twenty-
four years long. It obviously requires that your body match that of your predecessor, and the job fits
nicely with your doctorate in Slavic languages."
"I got that when I was trying for a slot in the court of Casimir the Great."
He threw his hands up. "Damn it, young lady! Isn't it about time you grew up? We are out here writing
the definitive history of mankind! The glory spots are few and far between. Most of it is plain, dirty
grunt work, doing a mundane job well. And right now, your job involves serving drinks to a drunken
tourist." He tapped a few places on his desk, and the display changed. "His drink is getting low. You'd
better get back out there. I see that you haven't loaded the capsule yet."
"Loaded what capsule?"
"You didn't read your duty sheet? Damn, but you're inefficient! We are scheduled to ship nine tons of
barley to the thirteenth century at 0227 tonight. You are to load it into the capsule."
"So now I'm a stevedore as well as a bar wench?"
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"You think filling out government forms is a more pleasant occupation? Get out of here and get your ass
to work!"
She stomped out, and he returned to his stack of forms. What on Earth do they do with all of these
things? They can't possibly have time to read them all. What is the psychology of it? Hmm-'The
Psychology of Governmental Forms in Twentieth-Century Eastern Europe'... There's a paper in that!...
Chastised, the waitress went about her duties in a black humor. She swore bitterly as she manhandled
sacks of grain onto a primitive lift truck, too angry to notice that the slots in the wooden skids under the
sacks matched the forks on the truck. "Damn! Not even a bloody antigrav field! As if the primitives
could understand it even if they could find this place!"
Working in that ineffective manner, with runs up two flights of steps every fifteen minutes to check on
her lone customer, it took her two hours to complete the loading. By then her uniform was torn, her
nylons were in shreds, and she'd broken the heel from one of her shoes.
"Ridiculous clothing!" she muttered as she stomped up to the main floor in her stocking feet. In her
anger she turned off the lights behind her but forgot to close the doors.
Chapter one
The High Tatras are magnificent in the early fall. I had arranged to spend my yearly vacation
backpacking in the mountains south of Cracow, and for the most part my timing had been excellent.
The weather had been perfect, the color change was at its peak, andsince it was just past the usual tourist
season-I had whole mountains to myself. The farmers were getting in the harvest, and all the children
were back in school, All the teachers were back in school, too, which was unfortunate. I usually scored
pretty well with schoolteachers.
Vacationing, I generally ended up with some agreeable female companionship, but such had been sadly
lacking this trip. I had been three weeks without, and frankly, my horns were showing.
Well. My allotted two-week holiday from the Katowice Machinery Works was almost up, and there was
one small errand I had yet to perform. I lived with my mother, and she had read a magazine article about
the Zakopane Agricultural and Horticultural Research Station. I was going to be near Zakopane, so it
seemed reasonable to her that I should visit the station and buy her some seeds.
Just why seeds purchased at the ZAHRST should be any different from seeds purchased in Katowice
was not explained. Neither was her sudden interest in gardening, although I suspect that she had visions
of me in the backyard, hoeing up carrots, instead of being out with my friends. In any event, to keep
peace in the family I had promised to buy some seeds.
The station was served by a hiking trail as well as a road. I took the trail because the pleasures of
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walking are degraded by road dust and noise and because I am not friendly with the fat, motorized
tourist who says, "You mean you walked up here?"
The store was empty when I arrived. Empty, except for a few million seeds. It is incredible how many
different kinds of plants there are. One rack had seeds for more than eighty different varieties of roses.
Another had almost as many kinds of beets, lettuce, and strawberries.
The prices on everything were low-trivial, reallyso the thought hit me: The old girl wants seeds? Well,
she's going to get seeds! Thousands of them! Not that I'm going to stick any of them into the ground!
This slightly sadistic train of thought was interrupted as a magnificent pair of breasts came in from the
back room. These breasts were followed by an equally magnificent young lady.
"Sorry. I didn't know anyone was out here. Can I help you?" Her eyes were a glorious pale green that
floated in a field of red freckles. Her hair was that incredible natural red that you see maybe once in a
decade, and, oh yes, dear God, she could help me in so many wonderful ways!
However, sad experience has taught me that pouncing on them tends to frighten them off. So I smiled,
making sure that my mouth was closed and that I wasn't drooling.
"I expect so. My mother wanted me to buy her some seeds. "
"Then you've gotten to the right place." She returned my smile. Glory! "Did your mummy give you a
shopping list?" She was wearing a light print blouse and was definitely without a bra. Nothing in there
but healthy Polish girl!
"Well, no. Actually, she was pretty vague about it. I was hoping to get some friendly expert advice."
"I think I qualify as a friendly expert. Where does she live?" She was still smiling, a good sign.
"We have a house just outside of Katowice."
"And what sort of soil do you have?"
"I don't know. It stays on the ground and is reasonably polite about it."
"No, silly! I mean is it sandy or clay or loam? What color is it? What's growing there now?"
"Well, it's sort of brownish. It doesn't stick to your shoes like clay, and we are presently harvesting great
quantities of prizewinning crabgrass." I set my pack on the floor, using it as an excuse to edge a little
closer, still smiling. She didn't retreat.
"Okay. That's something to go on. Now you have to decide on what you want."
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I knew exactly what I wanted. But patience was still needed.
"I thought we might get a little of everything and let her do the choosing later."
"Sensible. Do you like strawberries?"
"I absolutely love strawberries." Strawberry blondes even more.
"Then these are definitely for you." She reached across to one of the stands and gently bumped me with
her hip. First contact! And she had initiated it!
"Now, this variety is perfect for a home garden. The strawberries come in all during the growing season
from early spring to frost, and it's a perennial." She wore the slightest hint of perfume.
"You've talked me into it."
"And these are great if she wants to do some canningthey all come in at once."
"Sold." She wore a skirt and nylons. None of this modern pants nonsense.
"And this is a new climbing variety."
"The wonders of modem science."
And so we went up and down rows, throwing seed packages into a brown paper bag. Following her was
a pleasure. She was as perfect behind as she was in front.
"You're certainly enthusiastic about your job. Do you make a commission on all this?"
"Of course not, silly. This is a state-owned facility. But sales do count toward my efficiency rating."
"Well, we wouldn't want you to get a poor efficiency rating... uh, what is your name?"
"Anna."
"Anna. A lovely name."
"And yours?"
"Conrad."
"Hmm... Conrad has such a strong, masculine sound." She was still throwing seeds into the bag.
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"Anna, what do people around here do when they're not selling seeds?"
"Not much, once the tourist season is over."
"But there must be some place where you folks hang out."
"Well, the group here at the station usually stops for a drink at the Red Gate Inn." She was still smiling.
"And where is this wonderful establishment?"
"Oh, it's not all that wonderful. But it is sort of quaint. It's been there for hundreds of years, and they've
never even built a road to it."
"Then how do you get there?"
"You came in by the trail, didn't you? Then you must have come from the south; you would have passed
it coming from the north."
"An inn on a hiking trail?"
"About half a kilometer down. You know, that trail is ancient. It shows up on the oldest maps. Once it
was the only road through here. Caravans used to travel on it."
Caravans? Zakopane is surrounded by some of the highest mountains in the Carpathians. Unless you
travel by the modem, dynamiteblasted road or you are a mountain climber or a helicopter pilot, there is
only one way in or out-north. Within a hundred kilometers-to both the east and the west-there are
ancient mountain passes into Czechoslovakia, but this area is one huge cul-de-sac. Nothing medieval
would have traveled through here. The area's only natural resources are good hiking, great skiing, and
magnificent scenery-none of which are particularly transportable by caravan mule.
However, I did not want to spoil her romantic notions. I wanted rather to encourage them.
"Amazing. I really must see this place. Is there any chance that you would be by there this evening?"
"There is an excellent chance." She winked. "I live just beyond the inn."
The world was wonderful. Anna was wonderful. And yes, I was wonderful, too, so my mood wasn't
seriously dampened when she figured up the bill. It seems that while the price of a pack of seeds was
trivial, 342 times trivial equals substantial. Actually, it took a fair bite out of a week's pay.
But I wasn't going to let that bother me. Not when there was an evening with Anna to look forward to.
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The trail to the Red Gate Inn wound among pine forests below the High Tatras.
I had earned my engineering degree in Massachusetts, studying at the expense of a wealthy American
relative. My summers had been free, and I had spent one of them hiking in the Appalachians. They were
good mountains, but somehow they were never mine. These Tatrasthis Poland-is my country, and I love
it.
The Red Gate Inn was a surprisingly large place. Besides a restaurant and a taproom, it had rooms for
rent and housing for its workers.
It was about four in the afternoon when I arrived, and I realized that I hadn't asked Anna about her
quitting time. Well, she would get there when she got there.
The restaurant was tempting, but a meal with Anna was more tempting, so I went into the taproom, a
lovely old cavern with huge oak beams and polished ancient furniture. Only the lighting and the taps
themselves were modem.
They brewed their own beer, a rarity not to be passed up in these days of commercial fizziness. It was an
excellent beer, and I was into my third stein by five-thirty. Also my tenth cigarette. I kept looking at the
clock on the wall because I wasn't wearing my watch.
I owned an excellent watch, a solar-powered, solidstate, digital thing. It had a calculator with trig
functions, and it played Chopin to wake me in the morning. But I was on vacation, and the whole idea of
a vacation is to get away from things like clocks and timetables and delivery schedules and factories.
Not that I was complaining about my job. I worked for a healthy organization and had a decent,
competent, understanding boss who generally let me do things sensibly, i.e., my way. Designers are all
prima donnas.
We designed and built specialized industrial machinery, normally one-of-a-kind things to perform some
industrial task-assembling carburetors, for example. My end of it involved designing the electronic and
hydraulic controls for the machines, usually little more than specifying offthe-shelf components and
programming a simple computer to run them. As a result, I rarely spent more than a few weeks on any
one project, which kept things interesting. I got into all sorts of unusual processes. My job also involved
a pleasant amount of business travel, finding out what the end-user really wanted and then making the
machine work for him.
I asked the waitress about the workers at the station.
"Well, sir, it's hard telling. Those scientist people, they don't keep regular hours, you know. Another
beer, sir?" Her Polish was quite bookish.
The restaurant was doing a surprisingly good business-I was checking it about every fifteen minutes-but
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only one other customer was in the taproom, another male hiker whom I certainly didn't want at my table
when Anna came. If she came. I lit another cigarette.
Despite the considerable amount of beer I had drunk, I was getting irritated by seven o'clock. To give
myself something to do, I decided to repack my knapsack and put all the seeds at the bottom. This got
me to reading the labels on the envelopes.
For one thing, most of those seeds did not come from the Zakopane station. Half of them came from the
Soviet Union, and at least a quarter of the envelopes read "Printed in U.S.A." That seed store was purely
a commercial operation!
For another, I got to looking at what I'd spent half a week's pay on. Five kinds of strawberries, okay. Six
kinds of lettuce, fine. Blueberries and raspberries, maybe. Seven kinds of potatoes? Perhaps. But that
redheaded bitch had sold me six packages of wheat! Can you imagine my mother growing wheat in her
tiny subdivision backyard? Not to mention rye, oats, barley, and four kinds of maize! And sugar beets.
Bloody-be-damned sugar beets! And flowers. Fully a hundred varieties of flowers. One envelope read
"Japanese Roses. Nature's fence. Absolutely impenetrable to man or beast. Grows to four meters in
height and breadth. Caution: Do not plant on small properties." And trees. I had fifty kinds of trees! Next
year I wouldn't have to come to Zakopane. I could plant my own damned forest!
The next time the waitress came by, I asked her again about the group from the station.
"Well, sir, it's going on eight o'clock, and I'd guess that if they're not here by now, they won't be getting
here. They don't always come. Another beer, sir?"
"No. No more beer, please. Vodka. A large glass."
I repacked my knapsack, seeds and all, and settled down to a monumental drunk.
Eventually the waitress got fairly adamant about my leaving--we were the last ones up-so I settled the
surprisingly large bill and walked for the door with my pack on my back. I then decided that another trip
to the rest room was in order. The rest room was in the basement, and I had made the trip quite a few
times that evening.
But this time there seemed to be a lot more steps than before, and the lights were out. I must have
stumbled around for twenty minutes without finding either the rest room or a light switch. I sat down to
rest.
For the past two weeks, I had been sleeping in meadows and on rock piles. I could be comfortable
anywhere. I relaxed, laid down, and fell asleep.
Chapter Two
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I awoke with fluorescent lights shining in my face. My back and arms were simultaneously sore and
numb; I had fallen asleep wearing my knapsack. My forehead was trying to split just above my
eyebrows to relieve internal pressure. My bladder was painfully full, and my teeth were rusty.
I had not the slightest idea where I was, and I had to slowly and painfully rehearse in my mind the
events of the previous day. Ali. Yes. The magnificent bitch. The idiot seeds. The inn. I must be in the
basement of the inn.
Slowly, I got to my feet, half wishing that my head would explode and be done with it. I had been
sleeping on sacks of grain, probably barley. Oh, yes. They brewed their own beer. I must be in the
storeroom.
My pack seemed undisturbed. I checked my wallet, and everything was in order, though yesterday's
stupid spending had left me with barely enough cash to pay my bus fare home.
The double door out was weird-thick steel like a bank vault or like something you might find in a
submarine. Old buildings sometimes collect strange features. Perhaps it had been a bomb shelter.
But I couldn't waste time puzzling that out. It had become urgent that I find a rest room.
Beyond the strange doors was a large room filled with boxes and bales; it was nothing like the hallway
with the rest room. I found a staircase, which I climbed frantically. If I was in a basement, then up had to
be out. I could always go in the bushes.
Through the doorway at the top of the stairs, I found myself in the familiar hallway, dimly lit with gray
light from a high window. I must have been in a subbasement. As I rushed to the rest room, the door
closed behind me with a solid click.
But there was no rest room, just another storage room filled with huge, foul-smelling crocks of
sauerkraut.
My bladder could stand no more, and the room was dark. I walked behind the door and urinated on the
wall.
Please understand that I was a civilized, educated, and profoundly housebroken young man. I felt
extremely guilty about desecrating someone's storeroom. As my bladder deflated, other problems
occurred to me. How was I to explain my presence in the basement? At best, the owners might demand
of me the price of a night's lodging, which I didn't have. At worst, they might accuse me of being a thief,
and no end of trouble would come of it all. Best to leave as quietly and quickly as possible.
I tiptoed to the ascending staircase that began directly in front of the door at the top of my previous
climb. But the door that I had just come through had become a solid fieldstone wall without the slightest
hint of a crack.
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Well, I was severely hung over and probably still a bit drunk. I had never had hallucinations before, but I
knew that such things were possible. But it was probable that I was in serious trouble. So, pack still on
my back, I climbed the staircase, unbarred a door, and walked quickly down the trail without looking
back.
I went at least a kilometer before I dared to stop, dig out my canteen, and drink it dry. As my fear of
being caught lessened with each step, so did my mood become darker. Instead of returning from my
vacation refreshed and eager for a new project, I was broke, sore, hung over, and horny. Hangovers
always make me horny, and the "affair" with the redhead had not helped a bit. The weather had turned
gray and cold, and I was not in a tolerant mood. Then a lunatic medievalist trotted toward me down the
trail.
In retrospect and at a distance, he was not a bad sight. He rode a massive black stallion and wore a white
surcoat with a huge black cross. His white shield also bore a black cross, which was repeated again by
the eye-and-nose slit on his authentic-looking barrel of a helmet. He was sheathed in chain mail from his
neck to his toes. A lance was at his back, a sword was at his waist, and various instruments of mayhem
hung over his saddlebow.
As we approached each other, the idealized image faded and details became visible- The surcoat was
shabby, and the shield was dirty. His chain mail was not of the fine rings seen in museums but of circles
as big as a man's wedding ring and of iron that would have been better used for coat hangers. His helmet
and weaponry were of poorly beaten wrought iron, and his horse was not well fed.
I must confess that Poland has its fair share of lunatics and more than its share of medievalists. Once a
year, the whole city of Cracow is turned over to those strange people-mostly students-for a weekend.
Actually, the Juvenalia is a pretty good party, but I was not in the mood in the Tatras.
Still, I needed to find a bus home, so I flagged him down.
"Hi there!" I waved as he drew up alongside.
He stopped abruptly, stiffened his back, and removed his dented helmet, which he balanced on top of the
other ironmongery on his saddlebow. His hair, at least, was authentic. It was very long, very blond, and
very greasy. His eyes were ice-blue, his nose had been broken, and scars crossed his forehead and cheek.
I had the feeling that he was doing what he was doing because he could not afford a motorcycle.
He shouted at me in something that was probably German. My American was quite good, and I could
speak a little English, but German was quite beyond me.
"That's very nice. You are very good at keeping in character, but would you please speak Polish?"
"I talk some Pole. What hell you want?"
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file:///G|/eMule/Incoming/Leo%20Frankowski%20-%20Stargard%201%20-%20Crosstime%20Engineer.txtLeoFrankowski-ConradStarguard1-TheCrosstimeEngineerBook1oftheAdventuresofConradStarguardPrologue"DAMNIT!Ihavefivedoctorates!"sheshouted.HelookedupfromthepileofPolishgovernmentformsonhisdeskandsu veyedthedum...

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