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his questions about this century. Don’t leave him
alone! And Chet... be careful. I’m only going to say this once, so
listen closely. I’m fond of Fenimore LaDaven, but he is a scoundrel
and a rake. He is a libertine who will lie, cheat and steal to meet
his ends. He will swallow you whole if you let him. Do you
understand?”
    “No, not really.” Chet felt bewildered.
    Knife patted his shoulder. “Just remember,
okay? Now run.
Run!
”
    Chet
ran.
He reached the top of the
grade and scrambled around other students to Professor Tibbet’s
side. Professor Tibbets seemed utterly bowled over by this course
of events.
    “Professor, it occurs to me that the man will
be disoriented when he wakes up. He won’t know what century he’s
in, so someone should ride with him. I’d love to help out the team
with our new... find.”
    Graduate students began volunteering loudly
to accompany the unconscious man. Although their words were more
sophisticated, they sounded like children yelling,
Pick me,
pick me!
    Professor Tibbets took off his wire-frame
glasses, rubbed them on an embroidered pocket square and focused on
Chet, ignoring the others. “You found him, didn’t you, Chet? You
and Journey, along with her friend.”
    “Yes, Professor.”
    “I see. Seems to me you have the right. Quiet
down, you lot! Chet found him first, Chet gets dibs. Clementina and
I will follow in her automobile to meet you at the hospital. Though
it seems to me, my boy...”
    “Thank you, sir!” Chet didn’t wait around to
hear what Tibbets had to say.
    The ambulance technicians had loaded Fenimore
into their double-tall, station-wagon like vehicle, the tiny light
on top twirling around and around. A sour-faced nurse stood to one
side, supervising her patient’s transfer.
    “Excuse me, but I’m to ride alongside him,"
Chet told them, expecting another argument.
    The techs barely shrugged. “Don’t get in my
way,” the nurse grumbled at him.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Chet scrambled inside, and the
door was slammed behind him.
    The station wagon was roomier than it looked
on the outside. Chet hovered anxiously while the nurse checked
Fenimore’s pulse and blood pressure, but she seemed bored. In fact,
after hooking up an IV, she climbed up to the front seat to smoke
and gossip with the techs. Someone turned on the radio; the
top-hits station had a crackle of underlying static. Chet hated
that kind of music. Of course, he didn’t like any cultural artifact
under a hundred years old, and even that was pushing it.
    The medical personnel weren’t looking back at
all. Chet swallowed. He was very nearly alone with the unconscious
man. He studied Fenimore’s gear with a historian’s eye, anxiously
trying to ignore the breathtaking beauty of his face and hands.
Fenimore was dressed in what had once been a white cotton shirt,
puffy and romantic as Abyss, with a wide crocheted collar. It was
half unlaced, revealing dusty chest hair. He had a sword scabbard
at his side. Empty, Chet noticed. He did have a long hunting blade
strapped to his chest, filthy as the rest of him. Chet wished he
had a magnifying glass so he could inspect the piece more
thoroughly. Instead, he leaned over it, squinting, trying to
ascertain its origins. The scabbard was intricately woven leather,
the pattern of the most artisanal, skilled Tache
craftsmanship...
    There was a flurry of movement. Chet was
grabbed and dragged downward by a powerful grip. Cold steel touched
his throat. A pair of feral, bloodshot eyes bore into him. “Tell me
why I shouldn’t cut your throat, yellow-skinned pumpion.”
    Chet froze, the blade at his throat—the very
one he’d been admiring a second ago—sharp and real. Very, very
sharp. He gazed directly into the snarling face of Fenimore
LaDaven.
     

Chapter 4
Wet Flight
    What plea, what reasoning, would Fenimore
understand? “Knife sent me!” Chet choked out.
    The blade was reluctantly removed from his
throat. Fenimore settled back onto the