Macroscope

He abolished it as fantasy. “That’s before the Christian era.”

She made no reply, but he felt her closeness, her excitement. To peer into ancient history! No man had done such a thing so directly before.

“Oh what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? / Somehow my soul seems suddenly free—”

She replied: “Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free / Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!” And she touched his hand.

Thus did she confess to him that she knew of Sidney Lanier and what he signified in Ivo’s life, and perhaps had known from the begi

He had tried to emulate the qualities of Lanier the person, to mold his character after that of his adopted ancestor — but it had not worked. Ivo could not create poetry, and he totally lacked Lanier’s wi

“Jump it to Europe,” Afra said.

He jumped it to Europe. The time was noon at Rome — and there was no settlement of man there. “Pre-Roman,” he a

“Try Egypt.”

“Nothing at Alexandria,” he said after a moment. “Not even dry land.”

“Naturally not, if it’s pre-Roman. You want Memphis.”

He headed southeast, toward the noncoded location, feeling out of sorts again.

On an eastern cha

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Afra said. “But any city is good news for us. Look for a palace or a temple; see if you can find written records to photograph. We should be able to date those.”

Ivo obliged, descending to street level near a complex of buildings he took to be significant. The street was narrow and filthy, lined by tiny mud-brick dwellings set close together and generally no more than a single story high. He could make out the straw coating of the weathered bricks, and fancied he could almost sniff the surrounding slum offal. Inferior residential districts had not begun with America, certainly!

The natives were human: slender, swarthy Mediterraneans with black hair and brown eyes. A number were naked, and these he presumed were slaves; their racial types were variable, ranging from Nordic blond to full black. Even the clothed ones gained little; they possessed none of the glorious habiliment he had thought of as ancient Egyptian. There were no gold ornaments or bright cloths, and not even shoes or sandals. Barefoot, bareheaded, the men were clad only in the wraparound schenti: white cloth held at the waist by a wide leather belt, the outfit reaching only to the knees. The women wore long tight skirts and a number were bare-breasted. The effect would have been delightful, had they been young, healthy and clean; these were not.

At the temple/palace grounds things changed abruptly. There were no women, and the men were much better dressed. They wore wide, short wigs, hairpiece quality a seeming guide to status. They wore full skirts with a short sleeve for the left arm only and overset by a pleated mantle of linen. Evidently the people he had seen on the street were of the lowest class.

Some stone was in evidence, but up close the structures were hardly impressive. The jewelry the perso

He explored several private cells, finding them routinely occupied. If this were a place of worship, it was decadent; if a palace, the Pharaoh was far away. One section even seemed to be still under construction. Here there were guards, their spears, axes and pear-shaped shields set aside as they watched lethargic slaves chipping stone under the supervision of a harried elderly taskmaster. There was no particular brutality about it; only the supervisor — probably the responsible one — showed any urgency, and his gesticulations went largely unheeded.

Ivo came in for a closer look, knowing that where there was activity of this nature there had to be some kind of blueprint or written directive. If that document were dated, or carried the name of the chief executive—

At this point another man came into the scene. His hair was divided and partly shaved above the ears, and he had a long braided lock falling in front of one ear and curling up at the end. Two bright feathers decorated the remainder of his hair. His arms were tattooed, as were his thighs, in crosshatched patterns. He wore a wrap of decorated fabric that looped around the body and anchored to one shoulder, the hem richly bordered.

This man looked up, facing Ivo. His mouth parted in an O of surprise. He gesticulated.

The guards woke up. In a moment they were beside the man, bright headpieces in place, short-sleeved metal shirts gleaming, ox-hide shields up. There were many more of them than Ivo had suspected. Some must have been summoned by the commotion from elsewhere on the grounds. Many were Egyptian, while others were racially similar to the recent arrival. Ivo realized he was dealing with a superimposition of cultures. The Egyptians must have been conquered recently.

The feather-headed man pointed. There was no question who commanded, here. The guards lifted their spears, and some dropped back to notch arrows. All looked toward Ivo.

They saw him!

Now the slaves were looking too, desisting from their labors. Frightened, they clustered on the far side of the court, while the guards formed a defensive line. Postures were aggressive, but no one took action. They were waiting for the command.

“What is it?” Afra’s voice demanded nearby, jolting him. He had thought for a moment that one of the guards had spoken audibly — a ridiculous notion. Thousands of years separated scene from viewer, and the macroscope did not transmit sound.

Almost as ridiculous a notion, actually, as that of these men of the past seeing Ivo, as though this were merely a window.

The feathered leader made his decision. His mouth moved as he barked commands. The guards began to move, closing in on—

Without answering Afra, Ivo manipulated the controls convulsively and shot straight up two hundred feet, instinctively fleeing from the situation. The faces of the warriors turned up to follow him, and he could see that they were afraid.

“Ivo, you saw something!” Afra persisted.

“Nothing,” he said, feeling himself shaking. Lanier had had courage! “Must be a little tired.” He was drifting far above the city now, finding a certain birdlike security in height.

“Maybe you should take a break,” she said with concern. “These transformations are weakening us all, and we don’t know how much of your strength this searching draws. No point in risking—”

“I’m okay.” He was ashamed to admit what form his fatigue had taken, and did not trust the result of his observation. Non-Egyptians in ancient Egypt? As rulers? He was sure Egypt had done the conquering, not the reverse.

Of course he had become sleepy, letting a dream-image replace that of the scope. He had known something like that to happen when reading: the words on the page would become more and more fantastic, until with a start he realized that his eyes were closed. Returning to the real book he would find his place, noting where the mundane text diverged from the astonishing vision — only to drift off again similarly.

He understood that this could happen to a fatigued driver, too. The man would spy something incredible, like an ocean liner crossing at an intersection, and realize that he was dreaming at the wheel. If he were sensible, he would pull over immediately and rest, lest the next nod be fatal. The mind had intriguing ways to sublimate strain.