Free Times Without Number by John Brunner Page B

to anyone

of what I've told you. For if this truth were to become known to those

who are not ready for it -- why, the sky would fall!"

When Don Miguel turned and walked to the door, he was surprised to find

the floor still firm beneath his feet.

PART TWO

The Word not Written

I

The quatrocentennial year was dying in a blaze of glory. The winter

weather had been kind, and New Year's Eve proved to be fine and mild,

spiced with a wind whose nip was just enough to sharpen the step to

briskness and put colour in the faces of the people. Bonfires had been

lit at sunset in most of the main streets of Londres, and around them nut

vendors, potato bakers and kebab men with their rapier-like skewers laden

with alternate lumps of meat, kidney and onion cried their hot wares.

There had been a great mock battle on the Thames as dusk fell; natives

and visitors had flocked in their thousands to witness the finest

reconstruction ever presented of the battle between the all-conquering

Armada and the gallant but pitiful English ships four hundred years ago --

a re-enactment correct in every detail, thanks to the Society of Time.

Even so there were a few nationalist diehards in the crowd who shouted

objections to the display, maintaining that it was an insult to them

and their ancestors. But most of the spectators answered with jeers,

for they regarded themselves as subjects of the Empire regardless of

what blood happened to flow in their veins: Spanish, English, French,

Mohawk, Cherokee, Sioux . . . Soon enough the civil guards quieted the

disturbance, and when a golden barge hove in sight bearing His Most

Catholic Majesty Philip IX, Rey y Imperador, the loyal shout which

greeted its appearance echoed across all Londres.

Smiling, bowing graciously from side to side, the King was rowed over the

same water that shortly before had been blood-red with the fires of mock

battle. Another barge followed, bearing the Prince Imperial, his Princess,

and their children, and behind that again came the barge of the Prince of

New Castile. The King's barge had sixteen oars a side; those of his sons

had twelve, and at one of the oars sweated and cursed Don Miguel Navarro.

Whoever the blazes had thought up this delicate tribute to the royal

family, he muttered to himself, ought by simple justice to have been

pulling on the oars too. But it was fairly certain that he wouldn't

be. He was probably simpering and dancing attendance on the King or the

Prince Imperial.

Even though they were going with the stream, they were pulling against

the last surge of the tide, and it called for real work to keep up with

the King's barge, as it had eight more oars and was anyway less heavily

laden. As a gesture of loyalty the idea was splendid; as a job it was

abominable.

It was small consolation to reflect that this ceremony was the outcome

of many months of behind-the-scenes intrigue at Court, and that precisely

because he was Commander of the Society of Time the Prince of New Castile

was going to play host this New Year's Eve to his father, elder brother,

and a gang of foreign dignitaries, chief among them the Ambassador

of the Confederacy of the East. Certainly it was a great and signal

honour for the Society to have been chosen as the focus for the climax

of the quatrocentennial year, but like a good many royal favours it

had its drawbacks. Don Miguel struggled to ignore the ache in his arms

and thought of the white elephants -- sacred, hence obligatory to feed

regardless of expense -- which the Kings of Siam were reputed to give

to subjects they intended to ruin.

He was in no mood for merrymaking anyway, what with the aftermath of

the revelations Father Ramón had recently confided to him concerning

the Society's exploration of unreal branches of history. With personal

friends, in a place and among company of his own choosing, he might

have passed a pleasant enough New Year's Eve, but as things stood he