‘You seem to know a lot about all this,’ Tack observed.

Traveller showed him the screen of the instrument he was holding, and on it Tack saw the woman again as he had earlier seen her through his own eyes.

‘You see what I see,’ Tack stated.

‘I see a recording of what you’ve seen—and I’ve only just been going through it.’

Tack stared at him and guessed what was coming.

Traveller continued, ‘Iveronica has supplied Coptic and Meelan with an energy feed to track back to the Umbrathane base. I have availed myself of the opportunity presented and will continue to follow—parasitic on the same feed.’

‘But you cannot follow them unless I am with them?’ added Tack.

Traveller shrugged. ‘Should you escape, Iveronica might learn of it and cut off that feed. You stay with them.’

Tack felt that the andrewsarchus said all he himself wanted to say by approaching the bole of the tree, cocking its leg, and pissing like a waterfall before finally sauntering away.

‘You must not leave us,’ Berthold implored Polly, after taking his nth draught from the second jar of strong beer he had opened, then wiping his foam-covered beard on his filthy sleeve. He had not even bothered to change out of his jester’s suit, which smelt strongly of stale sweat and chicken grease—not the most appealing combination.

‘As I already told you, it’s not something I have much choice about. I cannot explain why, Berthold, and I’m not sure I need to.’

Anger flashed in the man’s expression, as it had done more and more frequently since Mellor had relayed the bad news before himself slumping into drunken slumber.

‘Think of the coin! Think of the excellent food we receive!’

The coin was irrelevant to her, but Polly was thinking more and more about the sackful of bread and pies and shrivelled apples, for indefinable power now networked her body from the scale, hooking into unlocatable places in her and pulling taut. Soon, she knew, she must again travel through time. Presently she might have the choice of when this would happen, but if she left it any longer, that choice would be taken away from her. She had hoped Berthold would drink himself into a stupor, so she could quietly take her leave along with the food sack. But he had passed through the mournful weary stage of drunkenness, and was now growing ever more insistent and aroused.

‘You must stay!’ he repeated, staggering towards her and grabbing her arm, eyes glaring bloodshot in the lamplight cast from a nearby tent.

Polly merely shook her head. But this suddenly became too much for Berthold, for he put down the jug and grabbed her by both arms.

‘My Lady Poliasta.’ He pinned her back against the wagon, pushing his face to hers. She turned her head aside, to avoid a mouth that smelt as if its tongue had died and putrefied inside it. Undeterred, he groped inside her greatcoat, first fondling her breasts then trying to find access to her crotch. When her clothing defeated him, he started trying to tear it away.

‘Well, this doesn’t exactly convince me to stay with you,’ said Polly.

‘I will wed you. You’ll be both my wife and exotic companion. Together we’ll travel the country and people will marvel at your beauty and at my skill!’

Worse offers than this had been put Polly’s way—as had better ones. She didn’t really need to consider further, since she knew she was out of choices anyway. Swaying her hips closer to his hand as if to encourage him, she brought her knee up hard.

Doubled over, Berthold staggered back clutching his codpiece, and made a sound like a duck being flattened by a steamroller. He collapsed onto his side, still coiled up tight. The things he said between agonized groans were a revelation to Polly—she hadn’t realized such words had such a history. Quickly she ducked under the wagon’s awning and grabbed up the food sack from where it rested by the snoring Mellor. Stepping out again, she saw that Berthold was up on his knees now, his face lowered to the ground as he clutched his testicles.

‘I’m sorry. I have to go now,’ said Polly quietly, turning and walking away into the night.

The grass was already dew-covered and her breath misted the air. Shortly she reached some trees and turned to look back. The King’s hunting lodge looked warm and welcoming, with lights in its windows and smoke billowing from its chimneys, as did the encampment outside it, where the raucous party showed no signs of flagging.

Time to go—and to go into time.

‘I always felt that you were full of wit,’ she told Nandru, aloud. ‘Or was I thinking of some other word?’

‘Poliasta!’

Berthold.

‘Damn,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he know when to give up?’

I’m sure he’s full of ardour.

‘Shut up, Nandru,’ she growled.

Polly concentrated on relaxing her control of that internal tension generated by the scale, and she felt a tug into the ineffable.

‘Polly! My pretty Polly!’ Berthold gasped. ‘We must drink together and toast our union!’

Berthold was staggering closer clutching a beer jug in his right hand, yet still, somehow, she found herself unable to leave this time. She drew the automatic earlier secreted in her coat pocket.

‘Come no closer, Berthold!’ she warned.

The man who shot at her during the Second World War had not been dragged through time with her, but he had been at least ten paces away from her. But the killer, Tack, from her own time, had been much closer.

‘Stop where you are!’

Berthold ignored her, for how could he possibly realize what she was pointing at him? Aiming to one side, she pulled the trigger, and whatever fates existed were on her side in that moment. Her shot went closer to him than expected, smashing the beer jug. Knocked off balance, Berthold staggered and fell on his backside. But that humiliating position was still more inviting than where Polly now fell.

‘Polly!’ his cry echoed after her, and died away. Moving through chill blackness, Polly pocketed her gun and kept a firm hold on the food sack. As the scale pulled her through a void without dimension, she gazed down at the roiling of an impossible sea in all shades of non-colour. Her mind strained to breaking point as it sought to encompass something outside the scope of its natural evolution. Her breath burst from her in a groan—then she was sucking on nothing. There seemed some sensation of movement this time, of actually travelling, rather than the brief black hiatus she had previously experienced. Soon it must end, surely soon… but it went on interminably and Polly discovered how horrible it was to asphyxiate. And even this dark world went away as she blacked out.

Collecting the water container from where he had abandoned it, Tack then headed for the tributary to which Traveller had directed him. The andrewsarchus was now, according to Traveller’s instruments, somewhere over on the other side of the estuary. Tack knew that when he did finally attain his freedom, he wanted it to be accompanied with a shitload of the technology these strangers used.

Finally coming to the stream, he expanded the water container and filled it, then headed back to the beach as quickly as he could. Already he had been gone for longer than he should have been, and though he had a plausible explanation—like climbing a tree to save his life—he wondered if Coptic would allow him time to explain. Building up a sweat as he lugged the heavy container, he soon spotted Coptic jogging down the beach towards him, his weapon drawn.

‘You took too long,’ Coptic said. ‘Put down the water container.’

Tack held onto it firmly, knowing this was all that might stop Coptic attacking him. But Coptic stepped forwards and backhanded him, the blow lifting Tack off the ground so hard he felt sure his neck had snapped. He thumped down backwards on the sand in a daze, and coming to he saw that somehow Coptic had rescued the container from spilling its contents.