The Year of the Ransom

15 April 1610

The spacecraft was black, lest they on Earth see a star pass over them, swift before sunrise or after sunset, and know they were watched. Nevertheless a broad one-way transparency filled it with light. It was orbiting dayside when Everard arrived, and the planet stretched vast, blue swirled with white around the ruddinesses that were continents.

His cycle appeared in the receiver bay and he jumped off without pausing to love the sight as he had done often and often. The gravitor put full weight under his feet. He hastened to the pilot deck. Three agents whom he knew, though centuries sundered their births, awaited him.

“We believe we’ve acquired the moment,” said Umfanduma immediately. “Here’s the playback.”

Another vessel, of those that between them kept Machu Picchu under surveillance, had taken the data. This was the command ship. Everard had come as soon as messages transmitted through space and relayed through time reached him. The image was from minutes earlier. At ultramagnification after light had crossed atmosphere, it was blurry. Yet when Everard froze its motion and peered closer, he saw metal shine on the head and torso of a man. That one and another were getting to their feet beside a timecycle, on a platform where the view swept from end to end of the great dead city, on to the mountains around. Dark-clad people crowded near.

He nodded. “Got to be,” he said. “We don’t know just when Castelar will make his break for freedom, but I’d guess it as within the next two or three hours. What we want to do is hit the Exaltationists right afterward.”

Not before, because that did not happen. We dare not undermine even this forbidden pattern of events. The enemy dares do anything. That is why we must destroy him.

Umfanduma frowned. “Tricky,” she said. “They always keep a machine aloft, well equipped with detectors. I’m sure they’re prepared to flee at an instant’s notice.”

“Uh-huh. However, their scooters are too few to carry them all at once. They’d have to ferry. Or else, likelier, abandon those who aren’t so lucky as to be right by the transportation. We won’t need many of our own. Let’s get organized.”

In the span that followed, the ships filled with armed vehicles and their riders. Tight-beamed communications flickered back and forth. Everard developed his plan, gave out his assignments.

Thereafter he must stand by, try to keep his nerves quiet, abide the word. He found it helpful to think about Wanda Tamberly.

“Now!”

He leaped to the saddle. Gunner Tetsuo Motonobu was already in place. Everard’s fingers flew over the console.

They hung aloft in enormous azure. A condor wheeled afar. The mountainscape spread beneath, a majestic labyrinth, intensely green save where snow flashed on peaks or gorges plunged shadowful. Machu Picchu was mightiness in stone. What would the civilization that created it have done, had fate allowed it to live?

Again Everard could not pause to wonder. The Exaltationist sentry hovered yards off. He saw the man clearly in thin air and candent sunlight, astounded but fierce, snatching for a sidearm. Motonobu fired his energy gun. Lightning flared, thunder crashed. The man dropped charred from his mount and fell as Lucifer fell. Smoke trailed him. The vehicle wavered out of control.

We’ll take care of it later. Down!

Everard didn’t overjump the space between. He wanted an overview. As he power-dived, wind roared around an invisible force screen. The buildings swelled in his vision.

His fellow Patrolmen were raking them with fire. Bolts flew hell-colored. When Everard got there, the battle was over.

—Evening yellowed the western sky. Night rose from the valleys to lap ever higher around the walls of Machu Picchu. It had grown chilly and hushed.

Everard left the house he had used for interrogation. Two agents stood outside. “Round up the rest of the squad, bring out the prisoners, prepare to return to base,” he said wearily.

“Have you learned something, sir?” asked Motonobu.

Everard shrugged. “Something. The intelligence staff will get more out of them, of course, though I doubt it’ll prove of much use. I did find one who’s willing to cooperate in return for a promise of comfortable surroundings on the exile planet. Trouble is, he doesn’t know what I wish he did.”

“Where—when those that got away have gone?”

Everard nodded. “The ringleader, name of Merau Varagan, took a bad sword wound when Castelar fought free. A couple of his men were about to whisk him off to a destination he alone knew to tell them, for medical care. So they were in a position to scram with him when we showed up. Three more managed it too.”

He straightened. “Ah,” he said, “we succeeded as well as could be looked for. The bulk of the gang are dead or under arrest. The few who escaped must have scattered randomly. They may never find each other. The conspiracy’s broken.”

Motonobu’s tone was wistful. “If only we could have come earlier, arranged a proper trap. We’d have bagged the lot.”

“We couldn’t because we didn’t,” said Everard sharply. “We are the law, remember?”

“Yes, sir. What I also remember is that crazy Spaniard and the havoc he may yet make. How’re we going to track him down . . . before—it’s too late?”

Everard made no reply, but turned toward the esplanade where the vehicles were parked. To the east he saw the Gate of the Sun on its ridge, etched black against heaven.