Macroscope

The terrain was rocky, houses perched upon slanted foundations, and the narrow streets curved a great deal. It was a wealthy city. Some buildings were of stone and wood, built to last, though most were of many stories and crowded into very small areas, making the streets seem like mere crevices in a solid mass of residence. Almost every house had its terrace, however, which helped.

Ivo was delivered to an antechamber where an elegant assortment of bedsheets were hung. The two guards departed, but he was sure they were not far away. What next?

A girl, bare of head, foot and breast, entered and approached him with provocative confidence. He decided to go along with whatever was expected.

Efficiently she stripped the soiled blanket from him and deposited it in a corner. She brought a basin of cold water and sponged his body down and rubbed scented ointment into his muscles. Since she was obviously trained for this and competent, he maintained his composure; but it was only the continuing feeling of unreality that enabled him to put up with such familiar handling by an unfamiliar woman. The arms and legs weren’t so bad, but the buttocks—

And how had Afra felt, being handled by him?

Then she sat him down upon a bench and brought out a horrendous iron blade. While he watched with alarm, she sharpened it assiduously against a leather strap. The insecurity of his present situation impressed him strongly.

Carefully she bathed his face and shaved him, never cutting his flesh despite the irregularity and clumsiness of the razor. She finished by rubbing perfume into his hair and combing it back.

The bedsheets he had noted before turned out to be apparel: lengths of embroidered cloth. The girl took one down and wrapped it about him in a series of convolutions surely as intricate as any of the folds of macroscopic space and pi

Suitably prepared, he followed her to his interview with Mattan.

Mattan was mortal and courteous: an official of some importance in the city, if appearances were any guide. He reclined beside a tray of pastries and ripe fruit, dressed in a bright yellow robe and assorted jewelry. The tray was a sheet of almost-transparent glass: undoubtedly a rarity in this age, and a sign of wealth and power. He gestured Ivo to a couch opposite.

“And how do you find the Hegemony of Tyre, Ivarch of Merica?” Mattan inquired politely. His voice was soft and sure.

So it was to Tyre he had come — one of the old Phoenician cities on the coast of Asia Minor. Perhaps this was as good for his purpose as Damascus. Tyre had been a leader for many centuries, until — he strained to remember — it had finally fallen to Alexander three centuries before Christ. Had it warred with anyone else? He wasn’t sure.

“You do not choose to comment?” Mattan inquired, too gently. “One could be led to the impression that you were averse to our hospitality.”

“I have not been in this area long,” Ivo said hastily, wondering what the man’s purpose was.

“Merica is very far away, then.”

“Very far.”

“But surely not so far that its citizens have not heard of the might of Tyre?”

“Not that far.”

“And what brings you here so precipitously?”

“I — got lost on my way to Damascus.”

“Your ship was wrecked?”

“In a ma

Mattan nibbled at a grape, not offering any to Ivo. “It occurs to me that we are not being entirely candid with each other, Ivarch.”

“I don’t think you would believe my story.”

“Perhaps not. Still, I would certainly like to hear it. I am informed that you were picked up thirty miles out to sea, in a region clear of enemy ships, and I can see for myself that you are not locally sired. In fact,” and he peered knowledgeably at Ivo’s face, “I am at a loss to define your ethnic heritage. Tyre is as eclectic a pot as any in the world, but you are a veritable cauldron of race! I observe traces of so many things — Mycenaean, of course, but also Egyptian, Cimmerian, Nubian and others I hesitate to mention. Yet you know the tongue of Canaan as well as any native of the Seven Cities, while professing ignorance of our ways. In fact, I do not see how your story can be anything less than incredible.”

“The tongue of Canaan?” But then, had he really expected them to speak American English? “I have no secrets, but I just don’t think my story would help you.” Or me, he thought.

“Perhaps I should judge that for myself. Is there any way I can facilitate the spi

“Well, yes. I need to know the date.” Or was that concern now pointless?

“You were not aware that this is the summer season in the thirty-ninth year of Hiram?”

“I was not aware. It seemed like winter when I was in the water.” And it did not help much. When was Hiram — presumably their king — on the Christian calendar? Five hundred BC? Two thousand?

“Nor that Hiram died six years ago?”

“No. But why did you number—”

“Forgive me for verifying your ignorance. It had entered my mind — purely as a matter of speculation, naturally — that you could be considered to be the representative of a hostile power.”

“A spy?”

“That was not precisely my term. But I am inclined to discredit the possibility. You are far too naïve.”

Ivo was becoming less so rapidly. “What happens to — representatives of hostile powers?”

“That depends on their, shall we say, cooperation. An incorrigible — that is, one who ca

The threat was adequate, whatever the condition of the facilities. Human sacrifice! And he had been shocked by Brad’s revelation of the black-market in human bodies in his own time! At least that had been for a purpose, grisly as its practice was. Here it would be sheer waste. “What of a person whose story is merely unbelievable?”

“Sooner or later it must, in the nature of things, become believable.” Mattan shrugged away the unpleasantness. “Perhaps if I were to clarify the current situation for you, you would then find it easier to relate your framework to ours.”

“I think I would.” Was Mattan permitting him to stall for time, or was he really trying to be helpful? The Tyrean was an educated and intelligent man, but Ivo needed to know more of his attitudes before trying to explain the concept of time travel — particularly when Ivo himself did not believe in it. Did Mattan, for example, believe in magic? If so, that might be the most promising approach. He suspected the man would not put up with delay beyond a certain point; the mailed fist was only casually veiled.

Mattan settled back on his couch, looked at the cedar-paneled ceiling, and took an ample breath. This was evidently the type of dialogue he preferred. “In the days of Tyre’s origin there were three equal powers, three equivalent spheres of influence that parceled the civilized world between them. The first was Egyptian, extending from northern Africa, along the banks of the emperor of all rivers — the Nile — to the fourth cataract, and as far north as Damascus. The second was Hittite, including all of Anatolia and the region of the coast south as far as Damascus. The third was Assyrian, whose sphere was east of the other two, including the remainder of greater Syria and virtually all of Mesopotamia.