‘How long?’ Tack asked.

‘Fifty years, or thereabouts—I lose track.’

‘Who are you?’

‘The name’s Thote. Poor Thote, stranded here; a casualty in a war that never ends or begins. Forgotten by those who sent me into battle.’

Tack thought the guy was laying it on a bit thick.

‘And you are?’ Thote asked.

Tack wondered to which of the two warring factions this old man belonged, and if that made any difference to any danger he might represent. Confident that, should he need to, he could take him down, he replied, ‘My name is Tack, twenty-second-century human, sent to assassinate Cowl.’ He watched for the other’s reaction.

‘Then we are allies,’ said Thote, suddenly standing more upright. ‘And I know about you, Tack. You are Traveller Saphothere’s protégé and perhaps our best hope. Join me at my camp for some food—since I have no doubt you are hungry. Tell me your tales, then be on your way.’

Tack returned his carbine to its holster and took up his two packs. This provoked no reaction from the old man, so Tack guessed he would make his move, if any was intended, at some later point.

‘Lead on,’ he said.

Thote turned and began to trudge back up the beach.

‘How is it you are here?’ Tack asked, as they walked.

‘The torbeast reared up from its lair, in its dead-end alternate, to attack Sauros and I was sent out as a spotter, and to delay it if I could. I used a displacement sphere and took out five per cent of its mass, dropping that into the Earth’s core. But it hit my mantisal when I was in interspace, damaging it and knocking me down in this place.’

‘You managed to pull me down here as well,’ Tack observed.

‘I did that.’ Thote glanced back at him. ‘My mantisal, though badly damaged, remains out of phase here. It can generate enough of a field to funnel travellers down into this time.’

‘Resourceful.’

‘Yes… I can do that, but I cannot leave here, or find sufficient nutrition to keep me alive for my full span.’

Tack did feel sympathy, but knew there was little he could do. Should he try to drag the man along with him at this stage in his journey, Thote would end up with the pseudo-mantisal materializing in his body, killing him instantly. Soon Thote turned inland from the beach and led the way to his encampment in the rock field. He had built himself a small stone hut, which was roofed with large empty carapaces. Before the entrance was the remains of a fire scattered round with fish bones. To one side lay a basket woven from some of the tougher growths that grew in the area, which contained dried stems for the makings of future fires. In front of the hut, Thote eased himself down into a bucket chair, obviously carved from a boulder over a long period of time.

‘I’ll prepare some food shortly,’ said the old man.

Seating himself nearby, Tack said, ‘No need—here.’ He opened his supply pack, took out one of the rations containers and tossed it over, noting the hand that caught it moved as fast as a snake.

‘There’s water over there.’ Thote gestured to where one of the collapsible water containers used by other travellers rested against a rock.

‘No need, I’ve drunk enough,’ said Tack, now increasingly suspicious of anything this man might offer him.

Thote opened his rations and began to eat, fast, one thin bony hand pecking up the food like an albino chicken. Then abruptly he stopped eating, his face turning grey. He jerked out of his seat, grabbed up his glass staff and stumbled forward, retching. Too rich for him, assumed Tack, after fifty years on the meagre diet provided by this environment. Tack stepped forwards, and, only as the staff lashed out towards him did he spot the red line glowing inside it like a lightbulb filament. The staff merely brushed his chest as he pulled away, but the discharge of energy from it slammed into him like a spade, flinging him backwards through the air. Hitting the ground heavily, he fought against the paralysing shock, pulling his handgun just as Thote bore down on him with the butt of the staff. Thote halted as Tack levelled the gun at him.

‘Um… Umbra… thane?’ Tack managed, pushing himself up onto one elbow.

‘Everything I told you is true,’ said the man, his voice less quavering now.

‘Well… tell me what you were trying to do?’

‘Just take your supplies.’

Tack realized that fifty years alone here had also impaired the man’s ability to lie convincingly.

‘No, that’s not it.’ Tack hauled himself up onto his knees. Thote’s gaze flicked to Tack’s left forearm and quickly away. ‘It’s my tor you were after. But surely you know you couldn’t use it — it’s genetically keyed to just me.’

Thote’s expression wrinkled with contempt. ‘Is that what they told you, primitive? Is that their explanation to you for sending you alone on your pathetic mission?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Tack growled.

‘Like the girl who passed through here fifty years ago, you’re just a piece of temporal detritus. In your case primed and filled with poison, then sent on its way.’

Here was another one of those arrogant Heliothane, like others in Sauros and New London, who obviously thought Tack a waste of time and energy. With a kind of weariness he noted the old heliothant turning himself slightly sideways to present a smaller target. Any moment now he would try for Tack’s gun.

‘What girl?’ Tack asked, trying to forestall the inevitable attack.

‘She called herself Polly. Just another of Cowl’s uptime samplings.’

Polly.

Almost from the instant Traveller Saphothere had captured him, Tack had forgotten the girl who had been the reason for him ending up on this insane journey. He felt a sudden loneliness—a craving to be with someone from a more familiar era. Almost distractedly he watched Thote tensing to make his strike.

‘Don’t try it,’ Tack warned. ‘Tell me about this Polly. What did you do with her?’

‘Drugging her was simple,’ said Thote. ‘I put just a bit in the food I gave her, since I needed to keep her alive.’

‘Why alive?’

‘Because at the moment of a torbearer’s death, the tor itself begins to feed directly on the substance of its host’s body and thereafter shifts unremittingly back to Cowl.’

‘What happened?’

Thote looked momentarily puzzled. ‘She should not have been able to. The drug acts on the cerebrum first before paralysing the nervous system.’

‘She escaped?’

‘She…’ Thote fell forwards, his legs sagging, then abruptly he twisted round, the staff leaving his hand in a glittering wheel towards Tack’s head. Like a spring uncoiling, he then hurled himself forwards in a flat dive. It was well done, and had not time and bad diet left the man so weakened, he might have been a formidable adversary. But he was not quite fast enough. Tack ducked under the flying staff, sidestepped quickly and brought his gun butt down on the back of Thote’s neck. He stepped away as the man hit the ground, rolled and came up in a crouch.

‘No,’ warned Tack, but he wasn’t getting through. Thote had that look in his eye: he didn’t care. This was his last chance. Tack pulled the trigger as the man came at him again. Five rounds hit Thote square in the chest and flung him back. He collapsed in the cold ashes of his own fire, coughing blood from his shattered chest, then just tipped over into a foetal curl. Tack walked over to check his pulse; it was best to be sure. Confirming Thote was dead, Tack turned and picked up his packs, then went into the man’s hut to find somewhere to sleep.