“A megamillion—maybe more. More than enough, certainly, to permit you to retire from time-lifting and to take up residence on Get-Rich-Quick Street. But it doesn’t exist, and it never did, so get out of here, Mallory, and stop squandering my valuable time.”
Mallory withdrew a small stereophoto from his breast pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Have a look at that first—then I’ll go,” he said.
Perfidion picked up the photo. “An ordinary enough yellow bowl,” he began, and stopped. Suddenly he gasped, and jabbed one of the many buttons that patterned his desktop. Seconds later, a svelte blonde whom Mallory had never seen before stepped out of the lift tube. Like most general-purpose secretaries, she wore a maximum of makeup and a minimum of clothing, and moved in an aura of efficiency and sex. “Get me my photo-projector, Miss Tyler,” Perfidion said.
When she returned with it, he set it on his desk and inserted the stereophoto. Instantly, a huge cube materialized in the center of the room. Inside the cube there was a realistic image of a resplendent silver table, and upon the image of the table stood an equally realistic image of a resplendent golden bowl. Perfidion gasped again.
“Unusual workmanship, wouldn’t you say?” Mallory said.
Perfidion turned toward the blonde. “You may go, Miss Tyler.”
She was staring at the contents of the cube and apparently did not hear him. “I said,” he repeated, “that you may go, Miss Tyler.”
“Oh. Yes . . . yes sir.”
*
When the lift-tube door closed behind her, Perfidion turned to Mallory. For a fraction of a second the predator was visible behind the smoky windowpanes of his eyes; then, quickly, it ducked out of sight. “Where was this taken, Tom?”
“It’s a distance-shot,” Mallory said. “I took it through one of the windows of the church Joseph of Arimathea built in Glastonbury.”
“But how did you know—”
“That it was there? Because it had to be there. Some time ago, while escorting a group of tourists around ancient Britain, I happened to witness Joseph of Arimathea’s landing—and happened to catch a glimpse of what he brought with him. I used to think that the Grail was a pipe dream, too, but when I saw it with my own eyes, I knew that it couldn’t have been. However, I knew I’d need evidence to convince you, so I jumped back to a later place-time and got a shot of it.”
“But why a shot, Tom? Why didn’t you lift it then and there?”
“You concede that it is the Grail then?”
“Of course it’s the Grail—there’s not the slightest question about it. Why didn’t you lift it?”
“Well, for one thing, I wanted to make sure that lifting it would be worth my while, and for another, Glastonbury wasn’t the logical place-time from which to lift it, because, assuming that the rest of the legend is also true, it was seen after that place-time. No time-thief ever bucked destiny yet and came out the winner, Jason; I play my percentages.”
“I know you do, Tom. You’re one of the best time-lift men in the business, and the Past Police would be the first to admit it. . . . I daresay you’ve already pinpointed the key place-time?”
Mallory grinned, showing his white teeth. “I certainly have, but if you think I’m going to divulge it, you’re sadly mistaken, Jason. And stop looking at my hair—it won’t tell you anything beyond the fact that I’ve been using Hair-haste. Shoulder-length hair was the rage in more eras than one.”
Perfidion smiled warmly, and clapped Mallory on the back. “I’m not trying to ferret out your secret, Tom. I know better than that. Lifting is your line, fencing mine. You bring me the Grail, I’ll sell it, take my cut, and everything will be fine. You know me, Tom.”
“I sure do,” Mallory said, taking the stereophoto out of the projector and returning it to his breast pocket.
Perfidion snapped his fingers. “A happy thought just occurred to me! I’ve got a golp date with Rowley of Puriproducts, so why don’t you join us, Tom? You play a pretty good game, as I recall.”
Mollified, Mallory said, “I’ll have to borrow a set of your jetsticks.”
“I’ll get them for you on the way down. Come on, Tom.”
Mallory accompanied him across the room. “Keep mum about this to Rowley now,” Perfidion said confidentially. “He’s a potential customer, but we don’t want to let the cat out of the bag yet, do we? Or should I say ‘the Grail’.” He took time out to grin at his little joke, then, “By the way, Tom, I take it you’re all set as regards costume, equipment and the like.”
“I’ve got the sweetest little suit of armor you ever laid eyes on,” Mallory said.
“Fine—no need for me to offer any advice in that respect then.” Perfidion opened the lift door. “After you, Tom.”
They plummeted down the tube together.
*
It had been a good game of golp—from Mallory’s standpoint, anyway. He had trounced Rowley roundly, and he would have inflicted similar ignominy upon Perfidion had not the latter been called away in the middle of the game and been unable to return till it was nearly over. Oh well, Mallory thought, encephalo-guiding his rohorse through the ancient forest, there’ll be other chances. Aloud, he said, “Step lively now, Easy Money, and let’s get this caper over with so we can return to civilization and start feeling what it’s like to be rich.”
In response to the encephalo-waves that had accompanied his words, Easy Money increased its pace, the infra-red rays of its eye units illumining its way. In places, light from the rising moon seeped through the foliage, but otherwise darkness was the rule. The air was cool and damp—the sea was not far distant—and the sound of frogs and insects was omnipresent and now and then there was the rustling sound of some small and fleeing forest creature.
Presently the ground began to rise, and not long afterward the trees thinned out temporarily and rohorse and rider emerged on the moonlit crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys. In the distance Mallory made out the moon-gilt towers and turrets of a large castle, and knew it to be Carbonek beyond a doubt. He sighed with relief. He was all set now—provided his masquerade went over. Conversely, if it didn’t go over he was finished: his sword and his spear were his only weapons, and his shield and his armor, his only protection. True, each article was superior in quality and durability to its corresponding article in the Age of Chivalry, but otherwise none of them was anything more than what it seemed. Mallory might be a time-thief; but within the framework of his profession he believed in playing fair.
In response to his encephalopathed directions, Easy Money picked its way down the slope of the ridge and re-entered the forest. Not long afterward it stepped onto what was euphemistically referred to in that day and age as a “highway” but which in reality was little more than a wide, hoof-trampled lane. As Mallory’s entire plan of action was based on boldness, he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches and encephalopathed the rohorse to keep to the center of the lane. He met no one, however, despite the earliness of the hour, nor had he really expected to. It was highly improbable that any freemen would be abroad after dark, and as for the knight-errants who happened to be in the neighborhood, it was highly improbable that any of them would be abroad after dark either.
He grinned. To read Le Morte d’Arthur, you’d think that the chivalry boys had been in business twenty-four hours a day, slaying ogres, rescuing fair damosels, and searching for the Sangraal; but not if you read between the lines. Mallory had read “Arthur” only cursorily, but he had had a hunch all along that in the majority of cases the quest for the Sangraal had served as an out, and that the knights of the Table Round had spent more time wenching and wassailing than