As if in obedience to some grandiose playwright’s wishes the man that could be none other than the shadowy employer of Burton’s drinking companion entered carrying a fine leather diplomatic pouch. By his look Mister Stevenson had just enjoyed a dalliance of the most agreeable kind. The man was tall, blonde, and near to sixty. His body and hands had the look of a pugilist, but not his face. On seeing his ‘boss’ enter, Randy gave a lazy parody of military salute, took his master’s coat, and even held his chair out for him as the man took his seat. Randy then refused to sit in the presence of his employer, alternately lighting their cigars, filling their wine glasses and pacing like a panther.

Richard rose to shake the American’s hand, “Mister Stevenson I presume?”

“Yes, and you are, I presume, Captain Richard Francis Burton, late of the British Consulate at Saul Paulo?”

Fame does have its disadvantages.

“You have the better of me Sir. What is your business, if you do not mind, since you seem to know all about my affairs?”

“Richard, I see no sense in beating around the bush with a man of your intellect. I am a team leader employed by a secret society dedicated to exploration and the preservation of humanity. Our organization is simply called The Service. I am myself a retired professor of mathematics and a teacher of the Japanese martial art of Karate. I have been charged with recruiting you Sir.”

My God! Some upstart American geographic society means to recruit me as a double agent?

“Why Mister Stevenson, I am flattered. However, I am sure that you are aware of my service to Her Majesty the Queen, and that my employment by an American party would bring my honor and no less my patriotism into question.”

Stevenson was blunt and self-assured. “I do understand this, and, as a life-long Anglophile I would expect no less from a man such as you. Let me explain. You see, ours is not a nationalistic organization. We have members of all races among us. In fact, our Sponsor is an immensely old Chinese diplomat, and one of our co-directors is a Black man—a most highly accomplished scientist. The Service is a secret society dedicated to salvaging the unique aspects of humanity. We seek you as our first choice as an agent from pre-Twentieth Century earth.”

Pre-Twentieth Century?

Surely the man has misspoken.

Burton was numb, momentarily blank; even his unequaled intellect momentarily unequal to the task of conceptualizing that which he had just heard. He took a swallow of port, his glass thoughtfully refilled and fortified by Randy. This small courtesy gave him a chance to set this man back and begin pondering as he made small talk. “Why Mister Stevenson I envy you the quality of your companionship; a scholar; a loyal warrior in the Biblical sense; and a courteous host as well.”

Mister Stevenson took a step back in his mind, appearing to decide on a more tactful approach, and smiled at his man. “Mister Randy—this is so odd, Southern wordage by an obvious Yankee—please present the contents of my briefcase to Captain Burton.”

With that Randy reached beneath his boss’ chair and produced the fine leather diplomatic pouch and removed three objects, placing them with great care, one by one, before Burton, without any narrative what-so-ever.

The first object was set out before him with much reverence. It was a hoop of gold, no platinum! The hoop spanned 8 inches and its body was a half-inch thick, about as thick as his ring finger in fact. There were 4 etched dials, each with 9 numbered bands. He took the thing in his hand and felt its lightness even as he sensed its indestructible quality. By its weight it must be hollow, but it felt solid, unnaturally so. A small, almost imperceptible hatch was located next to one of the dials. As he began to consider this Randy spoke up, “You may slide it aside Rick.”

When he slid the seemingly weighty panel the size of one’s fingernail he seemed to be looking at the ends of a bundle of platinum wires with a hollow translucent quality. Randy narrated in his raspy voice, “Those are the keys Rick. We thread one around your wrist just under the skin. Actually it is supposed to work if we just wrap it around your wrist, but will cause a permanent ring to appear, like a tattoo, once the device is used. The whole thing is called an event capacitator Rick. It’s our time-machine. We set the dials, grab hold with the keyed left hand, and are reborn in the time for which we calibrated it. I like to think of it as travel by reincarnation, although most of my colleagues are of the opinion that it is in fact a form of unthinkably advanced transportation.”

Mister Stevenson spoke up, “We can wage our debate at a different time Mister Randy. Please show Richard the rest please.”

Randy sounded contrite, and reflexively addressed his employer in an odd fashion, “Yes Sensei, sorry.”

The hoop was taken by Randy and placed back into the diplomatic pouch which these men called a briefcase. Then a somewhat cheap book, a heavy soft-cover affair not unlike a large dime novel with worn lower corners was produced. Randy held it reverently for a moment and then placed it before him with almost an apologetic tone to his voice, “I’ve read it cover-to-cover three times Rick. I like the footnotes—very informative.”

The cover of the book was painted yellow. The artwork on the facing page consisted of the paintings of three swords including an enlarged royal blade of the Middle-ages with a Latin inscribed Celtic crosspiece. Before this noble arm was crossed a Turkish scimitar and a two-handed medieval Scottish claymore. Just above this presentation of arms in art was printed in black:

Richard F. Burton

The Book Of

The Sword

With 293 Illustrations

Good God man! I have often thought of Time in terms of Fate, something of the eternally male force of the natural order. But these men mean for me to believe in Time as a place or perhaps a roadway or river? Could this be a clever fabrication?

Burton picked up the heavy cheaply made volume supposed to have been written by his hand in some imagined future and turned to the title page, which indicated that it was published by Dover in New York.

He then turned to the copyright page to examine the publication notice. His eyes went immediately to the minutia at the bottom to discover a claim of various editorializing slights and a notice that the volume was originally published in 1884 by Chatto and Windus in London.

Everything seemed to be in order down to the publisher’s claim to have meddled in his presentation—something they could never forego it seemed.

Now, as his intestines proclaimed the authenticity of this book—which he had been contemplating as a magnum opus, rather than some mean little paperback—and the resulting chill travelled up his spine, his eyes were drawn like two boys to a candy jar, to a notice at the top of the page—this cannot be for the good —which read:

Important Notice:

When originally published in 1884, this book was intended by the author to be only the first part of an exhaustive three-volume work on the sword. Unfortunately, Parts II and III, which are described in some detail in the Introduction and referred to at various points throughout the book, remained incomplete at the time of the author’s death in 1890 and were therefore never published.

Blast! Was Isabel gone as well?

His eye caught a boxed notice on the facing page, a dedication by himself to Alfred Bate Richards—yes, dear Alfred. This is indeed the genuine article. What of Isabel?

He felt his eyes heavy with mist as he looked up at Mister Stevenson, who, seeming to understand, nodded to Randy, who proffered a large hardbound book with a gaudy green paper covering. The American’s tone was conciliatory, “Richard, I can only imagine how shocking this must be to you. We offer you these two volumes to mull over until the day after next. I will have all you need sent to your room so that you might relax in privacy, while you consider our offer.”

Richard felt his voice catch in his throat as he refused to be distracted by the hefty tome being placed before him, “I do not, Sir, recall the offer. Perhaps I am just daft or drunk. Could I have it put to me again Mister Stevenson?”

Randy stepped back to make sure the conversation proceeded without any prying ears, for he stalked around the table in a territorial fashion seemingly to insure their privacy. Mister Stevenson showed a note of nervousness in his voice, “Richard, we have been assigned to contact you and then convince you to come forward with us to the 21st Century. From that point you will be trained on this time-travel equipment—of which there are duplicates—and then assigned to a series of missions like our own; journeying into the deep past to bring forward the doomed genius’s of antiquity. Our higher-ups thought your facility with languages and cultures would make you the perfect time-traveler.”

“Mister Stevenson, what of my life here, in this Time?”

“According to this slim volume I still have a good two decades remaining to wiggle under Fate’s cruel thumb.”

The man pounced like some Yankee selling kitchen wares to Mrs. Grundy. “Richard, according to our information you disappeared into the wilds of this region with two drinking companions at about this time, and resurfaced in Lima Peru in March of next year. Richard, as a time-traveler you can live a lifetime in the passage of six months here, a decade at least. For us certain times can literally be made to stand still.

“You will have the option of returning to live out your life here, of not returning, or perhaps of affecting a compromise of some sort. For instance, you might write the books that remain to be completed and drop them off in Peru in March of Eighteen-sixty-nine and then continue on another path of your choosing. It is your choice. The large book there is a biography of you by an eminent historian, which includes a bibliography of your major works.”

“Richard, I might also add that medical science has advanced at a rate you could scarcely imagine. We are aware of your ill-health resulting from the years of tropical adventure. This could be addressed. You could live longer Richard, with more years than would otherwise be left to you to ponder the Secrets of the Universe; perhaps another ten years to fathom the Gnosis.”

The American took a deep breath. “Richard, I’m not going to lie to you. There is a lot about time-travel that we do not understand yet. We are operatives on our first mission and the technology has come to us from people who live hundreds of years in our future. Other time-travel teams have had mixed results. There are not many promises I can make, other than that you will be paid one-hundred-thousand dollars per year, which I think converts to about fifteen-thousand American dollars in this time. You will have a security man like Randy here for your missions, and possibly a technical support person, like a medic.”

“Jan, will I have my pick of the ancients that we are to bring in tow? And, and, will I be able to explore that Machu Picchu place Randy mentioned.”

He stopped himself from leaning forward any more, as he suddenly found himself completely sober and pointing his finger rudely and incisively at Jan, who took a breath and clasped his hands behind his head before answering. “Richard, I was just a mathematics teacher at a community college and I got to pick you—the cherry assignment. I’m not grubbing around in the stone-age trying to put a leash on some caveman. I’m sitting here enjoying a drink with one of the greatest genius’ to walk the earth. A man of your stature will certainly have his pick of the litter. I warn you though if you want Archimedes you’ll have to box me for the honor.”

Richard felt his face crease into a wide grin as Jan’s face also lightened into a smile. “You are the numbers man so you can have the fussy old inventor. I think I’ll satisfy myself with kings, prophets and philosophers.”

As Richard began to extend his hand to seal their contract with an American style handshake, Jan put up a staying hand. “We will shake to friendship and an amicable parting. I will not accept your agreement to this endeavor until you have read these two books—one by you and one about you—and pondered the ramifications.”

They shook hands and Jan rose to be cloaked by Randy, an unlikely manservant if ever I have seen one.

The American then saluted. “I leave you with my man Richard. He will see you safely home when you are done. I have business to attend to—yes, of the most amicable kind. The Donessa is a fine beauty.

Burton stood and saluted the American Geographic Time Captain. “Yaas Mister Stevenson, enjoy your night. I shall finish my revel with your man and you shall have your informed answer at supper, at this table, tomorrow. Two books in one day—one slimmer than I would have liked—is no bother, I assure you Sir.”

Burton sat back down across from Randy and got roaring drunk listening to tales of time-travel misadventures, and the even more interesting tales of Randy’s life as a tribal White criminal of sorts in 21st Century America. Eventually, though, the last glass ran dry and they staggered up the street to the White House to the sinister jingle of Randy’s spurs. A notion then occurred to him, and being drunk, he blurted it out, “Mister Randy, why, having come by magic carpet and then ship, do you tramp about in spurs.”

Randy, being equally intoxicated responded with as much honesty, “Oh Rick, because I had some business out on the pampas. I had to make certain that you didn’t leave town with the two adventurers that Blunt mentioned—it couldn’t very well have been Boss Jan and me, could it.”

As the drunk often do, Richard blurted out his suspicions in a hoarse whisper that could have been heard in London, “The Don and the Tyrollian adventurer suspected in his murder. You murdered them did you?”

Randy then stiffened up with feigned indignation, with the back of one hand upon his brow, and the other apparently beseeching the almighty, and then spoke as if reading for a production of King Leer, “Rick, I did not have sex with that woman!”

For some reason this absurdly unrelated denial struck them both as hilarious and they fell together laughing and continued to stagger up the street.