The Wanderer’s look ranged down the hall to lay hold upon him. “This is needful,” he went on, word by slow word. “I lay no slur on you when I say that you are only half-grown, and would die bravely but uselessly. All who are men have first been boys. No, I tell you instead that yours shall be another task, more hard and strange than vengeance, for the welfare of that kindred which sprang from your father’s father’s mother Jorith -” did his tone waver the least bit? – “and myself. Abide, Alawin. Your time will come soon enough.”
“It… shall be done… as you will,” lord,” said Hathawulf out of a stiffened gullet. “But what does this mean… for those of us who ride forth?”
The Wanderer regarded for him for a while that grew very still before answering: “You do not wish to know. Be the word good or ill, you do not wish to know.”
Alawin sank to his bench, laid head in hands, and shuddered.
“Farewell,” said the Wanderer. His cloak swirled, his spear swung about, the door shut, he was gone.
1935
I didn’t change clothes till my vehicle had brought me across space-time. Then, in a Patrol base which masqueraded as a warehouse, I shed the garb of the Dnieper basin, late fourth century, and donned that of the United States, middle twentieth century.
The basic patterns, shirts and trousers for men, gowns for women, were the same. Differences of detail were countless. Despite its coarse fabrics, the Gothic outfit was more comfortable than a tie and jacket. I stowed it in the baggage box of my hopper, along with such special items as the little gadget I’d used to listen in, from outside, on the proceedings in the hall of the Teuring sachem. Since my spear wouldn’t fit, I left it strapped to the side of the machine. I wouldn’t be going anyplace on that except back to the milieu where such weapons belonged.
The officer on duty today was in his early twenties – young by current standards; in most eras he’d long since have been an established family man – and somewhat in awe of me. True, my status as a member of the Time Patrol was almost as much a technicality as his. I had no part in policing the spatiotemporal lanes, rescuing travelers in distress, or anything glamorous like that. I was merely a scientist of sorts; “scholar” was probably more accurate. However, I did make trips on my own, which he was not qualified to do.
He peered at me as I emerged from the hangar to the nondescript office, allegedly of a construction company, which was our front in this town during these years. “Welcome home, Mr. Harness,” he said. “Uh, you had a pretty rough go-around, didn’t you?”
“What makes you think so?” I replied automatically.
“Your expression, sir. The way you walk.”