Read Online Race Against Time by Piers Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Piers Anthony
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premeditation.
Confused, the vendor let him pass. John turned another corner, dodged down a narrow alley, turned again, and came up against the city wall. This place—Wei, Betsy had called it—looked large only because it was strange. It was actually only a few hundred yards across.
A sentry paced along the top of the wall. John ducked back out of sight, stifling his loud-seeming panting, but found that he had nowhere to go. The street had no close offshoots, and the houses here were like blank screens: impassive and forbidding. No porches, no windows. Even their front gates were shielded by smaller walls.
But he heard people coming behind him. By now there were a number, and they had a pretty good idea where he was. John ran back toward the wall, hunching low so as to avoid discovery by the soldiers there, and found what he had prayed for: a space where the slanting wall surface parted from the vertical house surface. He scrambled in.
By this time Canute should have located the real Chinese, Yao Pei and his female counterpart. Maybe the dog was already on his way back, to pick up John's own trail. All he had to do was hide and wait and let Canute sniff him out. But where? He couldn't get into any of these formidable residences, and even if he could, it would only raise another shocked cry from the owner.
One slipper turned against a piece of rubble in the crevice. John jumped and caught himself by spreading his arms against the walls on both sides. If he got a foot jammed here....
He intersected another street. His hands were filthy, and his tunic was badly smudged, but neatness was nothing compared to his giveaway color and clothing. Should he walk down this block, hoping that he would not be spotted? No—that would be begging for trouble he couldn't afford.
As he hesitated, a man emerged from a house a short distance along the street. He wore the usual sandals and robe and appeared to be middle-aged. For a moment John was tempted to charge up and hijack him, taking his clothing for camouflage, but he realized almost at once that he couldn't do it. He had neither training nor temperament to attack a man—particularly an innocent bystander.
He heard a noise behind him, back on the other street. Prodded by that, he ran toward the man.
"Friend!" John cried, improvising as the other turned to face him. "I got put down in the wrong zoo—er, place! I need some paint, some proper clothing. Before they see me!"
The man looked disgusted. "Another mistake! This is ridiculous." Then he had a second thought. "Which enclave uses Standards as such?"
Oops! "I mean I was supposed to be processed for the Caucasian one. But somehow..."
"I understand. Come inside, quickly. I'll give you a period costume and some paste for your face and hands. Then you can be a traveling bard just leaving the city. They may never even see you. And if they do—well, we do get quite a turnover in the lesser personnel here. Your face doesn't have to be familiar."
John followed him in, gratified that his problem had been solved so readily. "I—I really don't know anything about this enclave. What is it? Where— when is it?" He did know a bit from what Betsy had said—just enough so he would know if the man tried to lead him on.
"Middle Kingdom. Twenty-eighth year of Hsüan T'ung. We're supposed to be about a day's hard ride from Changan, the T'ang capital. Of course there isn't any, but they don't know that."
Don't bet on it, buster! "Middle Kingdom? I'm trained in twentieth-century American geography." He hoped the man wouldn't catch on how literally he meant that. "Can you transpose to—to the Gregorian calendar?"
"Gregorian? I'm not sure. When does it start?"
"Birth of Jesus Christ, approximately. My enclave is dated about nineteen sixty—about two thousand years after that."
"Ah. Christianity! That hasn't penetrated here significantly yet. Let's see—your sage lived during the Han dynasty—somewhere around the reign of Wang Mang,
Confused, the vendor let him pass. John turned another corner, dodged down a narrow alley, turned again, and came up against the city wall. This place—Wei, Betsy had called it—looked large only because it was strange. It was actually only a few hundred yards across.
A sentry paced along the top of the wall. John ducked back out of sight, stifling his loud-seeming panting, but found that he had nowhere to go. The street had no close offshoots, and the houses here were like blank screens: impassive and forbidding. No porches, no windows. Even their front gates were shielded by smaller walls.
But he heard people coming behind him. By now there were a number, and they had a pretty good idea where he was. John ran back toward the wall, hunching low so as to avoid discovery by the soldiers there, and found what he had prayed for: a space where the slanting wall surface parted from the vertical house surface. He scrambled in.
By this time Canute should have located the real Chinese, Yao Pei and his female counterpart. Maybe the dog was already on his way back, to pick up John's own trail. All he had to do was hide and wait and let Canute sniff him out. But where? He couldn't get into any of these formidable residences, and even if he could, it would only raise another shocked cry from the owner.
One slipper turned against a piece of rubble in the crevice. John jumped and caught himself by spreading his arms against the walls on both sides. If he got a foot jammed here....
He intersected another street. His hands were filthy, and his tunic was badly smudged, but neatness was nothing compared to his giveaway color and clothing. Should he walk down this block, hoping that he would not be spotted? No—that would be begging for trouble he couldn't afford.
As he hesitated, a man emerged from a house a short distance along the street. He wore the usual sandals and robe and appeared to be middle-aged. For a moment John was tempted to charge up and hijack him, taking his clothing for camouflage, but he realized almost at once that he couldn't do it. He had neither training nor temperament to attack a man—particularly an innocent bystander.
He heard a noise behind him, back on the other street. Prodded by that, he ran toward the man.
"Friend!" John cried, improvising as the other turned to face him. "I got put down in the wrong zoo—er, place! I need some paint, some proper clothing. Before they see me!"
The man looked disgusted. "Another mistake! This is ridiculous." Then he had a second thought. "Which enclave uses Standards as such?"
Oops! "I mean I was supposed to be processed for the Caucasian one. But somehow..."
"I understand. Come inside, quickly. I'll give you a period costume and some paste for your face and hands. Then you can be a traveling bard just leaving the city. They may never even see you. And if they do—well, we do get quite a turnover in the lesser personnel here. Your face doesn't have to be familiar."
John followed him in, gratified that his problem had been solved so readily. "I—I really don't know anything about this enclave. What is it? Where— when is it?" He did know a bit from what Betsy had said—just enough so he would know if the man tried to lead him on.
"Middle Kingdom. Twenty-eighth year of Hsüan T'ung. We're supposed to be about a day's hard ride from Changan, the T'ang capital. Of course there isn't any, but they don't know that."
Don't bet on it, buster! "Middle Kingdom? I'm trained in twentieth-century American geography." He hoped the man wouldn't catch on how literally he meant that. "Can you transpose to—to the Gregorian calendar?"
"Gregorian? I'm not sure. When does it start?"
"Birth of Jesus Christ, approximately. My enclave is dated about nineteen sixty—about two thousand years after that."
"Ah. Christianity! That hasn't penetrated here significantly yet. Let's see—your sage lived during the Han dynasty—somewhere around the reign of Wang Mang,
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