Race Against Time (8 page)

As he hesitated, a man emerged from a house a short distance along the street. He wore the usual sandals and robe and appeared to be middle-aged. For a moment John was tempted to charge up and hijack him, taking his clothing for camouflage, but he realized almost at once that he couldn't do it. He had neither training nor temperament to attack a man—particularly an innocent bystander.

He heard a noise behind him, back on the other street. Prodded by that, he ran toward the man.

"Friend!" John cried, improvising as the other turned to face him. "I got put down in the wrong zoo—er, place! I need some paint, some proper clothing. Before
they
see me!"

The man looked disgusted.
"Another
mistake! This is ridiculous." Then he had a second thought. "Which enclave uses Standards as such?"

Oops! "I mean I was supposed to be processed for the Caucasian one. But somehow..."

"I understand. Come inside, quickly. I'll give you a period costume and some paste for your face and hands. Then you can be a traveling bard just leaving the city.
They
may never even see you. And if they do—well, we do get quite a turnover in the lesser personnel here. Your face doesn't have to be familiar."

John followed him in, gratified that his problem had been solved so readily. "I—I really don't know anything about
this
enclave. What is it? Where—
when
is it?" He did know a bit from what Betsy had said—just enough so he would know if the man tried to lead him on.

"Middle Kingdom. Twenty-eighth year of Hsüan T'ung. We're supposed to be about a day's hard ride from Changan, the T'ang capital. Of course there isn't any, but
they
don't know that."

Don't bet on it, buster!
"Middle Kingdom? I'm trained in twentieth-century American geography." He hoped the man wouldn't catch on how literally he meant that. "Can you transpose to—to the Gregorian calendar?"

"Gregorian? I'm not sure. When does it start?"

"Birth of Jesus Christ, approximately. My enclave is dated about nineteen sixty—about two thousand years after that."

"Ah. Christianity! That hasn't penetrated here significantly yet. Let's see—your sage lived during the Han dynasty—somewhere around the reign of Wang Mang, I believe. But Christ was in one of the barbarian Western states. The Roman? Or was that Muhammad?"

"No. Muhammad was about six hundred years later, in Arabia." John paused, just now remembering an obscure bit of lore he had picked up from his historical studies.
The Moslems started their dating with Muhammad!
From the time he left Mecca, rather than his actual birth. John had been required to memorize that date: A.D. 622. Now he was thankful for that chore. That meant that the date of Ala's enclave was six hundred years later than he had supposed. Between A.D. 1500 and 1600.

"So this must be about seven hundred fifty by the Christian scale," the man said. "Seven hundred forty, perhaps."

"And your 'Middle Kingdom' means China? Not ancient Egypt?"

"Naturally. Many cultures had 'middle kingdoms,' but the T'ang dynasty is the most civilized place and time in all earth's history," the man said with a certain pride. "Pre-Standard, of course."

"Of course." So this was what China was like twelve hundred years ago. T'ang dynasty—John remembered it only faintly from his classroom lessons. Famous for painting, or something. "What do you do here?"

"I'm a civil-service examiner. I administer the hsiu ts'ai and send the results in to the emperor every year, and every three years the chu jen. Those are rough tests, too. Most applicants are eliminated by the hsiu, and only one in fifteen passes the chu. Of course it isn't real, except for
him."

"You actually tested the purebreds?"

"The true Mongolian, yes. Yao Pei, that is. The girl isn't eligible. I supervise all the tests. The records have to be genuine, you see, just in case. Keeps me busy, but I rather like it. It's a meaningful task, in its quirky way, and that's important. A man needs meaning, you know?"

"Yes." Did this mean there was no meaning in conventional Standard existence? Very interesting.

As they talked, John was being fitted with full Chinese apparel. "What's your job to be, in your own enclave?" the man inquired.

"Well, I haven't started yet, of course," John said, scrambling mentally for a suitable answer. "But I'm supposed to be a—an auto mechanic. Transferred in for the bus station." That should hold him, since there were no cars or buses—or, indeed, any machines at all—in ancient China. No internal combustion engines, anyway, and probably very few in the Standards' home territory, either. Not when they had such advanced equipment as the flying taxi-spheres. So chances were that this civil-service examiner wouldn't know enough to ask penetrating questions.

He was right. The man concealed his ignorance by fetching a jar of yellow paste. John hoped it would go on over the brown paste he had used not so long ago. "The real one—did
he
pass the tests?"

"Yes, strangely enough. Yao Pei is astonishingly knowledgeable, considering that he's had what we assume is a typical period schooling. I sealed him into his cell myself, so I know he spent the full three days as prescribed, without food. To him it was real, you see. I gave him obscure topics from the literature of Confucius, but he composed fully satisfactory poems—almost perfect styling. Amazing."

"You sealed him into a cell? For a
literature
test?" John didn't have to pretend astonishment. Meanwhile he studied himself in the bronze mirror. He looked Chinese.

"That's the way it's done. In the real Middle Kingdom the aspirants sometimes died from the strain. But it was the only route to status and the official posts. So we duplicate it faithfully. I myself feel that is has its merits, for you can be sure that no weak man passes. But of course it also leads to intellectual arrogance and narrowness of thought. I am certain that this was the root of the downfall of T'ang and all subsequent Middle Kingdoms. In fact"—the man brought himself up short. "I'm waxing philosophical again! Must curb that."

John had been rather interested in that philosophy, as it seemed to apply to a certain degree to his own schooling. He had not had to take his exams in locked cells without food, but he
had
had to parrot a fair amount of unoriginal lecture material. "Curb it? Why?"

The man laughed, a little nervously. "Why, indeed!" Then he changed the subject. "When Pei passed the hsiu, I rejoiced, but when he later mastered the chu jen, I began to fear. And I only hope he does not pass the last one, the chin shih."

Suddenly John's attention flagged. Was that a scratching at the front gate? Canute must have arrived!

"Thank you very much," he told the man. "I'd better go before my ignorance of this culture calls attention to me. If you will direct me to the gate...." Yes—it
was
Canute.

"Yes, that's best. The perimeter guard will pick you up once you leave the enclave, and you can explain what happened. It was bad enough before, when that Caucasian girl landed here! None of us knew what to do. The program was almost hopelessly fouled up, so she visited the Pei for a couple of hours until—" He broke off and shook his head. "But so far today Pei hasn't said anything, so maybe it's all right, though he's dangerously clever. These blunders certainly have to stop!"

"They certainly do!" John agreed heartily. He tried to think of a way to get more information on the purpose of the enclaves from this helpful man, but there wasn't time. "I really appreciate your help. I'll find my own way out."

"Oh, I'll start you on your way. I can point out your first turn, so you can"—he paused as Canute's whine grew louder—"something's out there!"

"You must be mistaken," John said quickly. Then, so as to cover any other sounds the dog might make, he had to keep talking. "I really should go by myself. Suppose
they
happened to be in the area and saw a stranger talking to the civil-service examiner?
They
could get suspicious."

"I'm sure
they're
not near here," the man protested. "And it will be much more efficient for me to show you—"

"I'm so glad you understand," John said, reaching the door at last. "Make a left turn at the next intersection and—"

"A right turn—at the second intersection, not the first. Then straight on to the main gate. But—"

"Thank you once more. Good-bye." John stepped quickly out, closing the door in the man's face.

"Good-bye?" The muffled voice came. "I don't—"

"Sorry; that's a Caucasian enclave expression." Canute was there, tail wagging. "Hide!" John whispered fiercely at him.

The man forced open the door. "I must show you...."

John stood in his way, blocking the running dog from view. "Oh, was I in your way? I'm sorry." He moved to get in the man's way again, as though accidentally.

Somewhat flushed even through the yellow coloration, the examiner finally made his way out the door, but Canute was gone.

"I must say, you have a natural aptitude for barbarism," the man observed, almost losing his Oriental presence. "Your facial contours, too, resemble the Caucasian. You are an excellent selection for that enclave."

John was aware of the man's sarcasm, but he could hardly blame him. He listened with un-Caucasian patience to the examiner's concluding remarks and finally went his way alone. What a tangle!

The dog reappeared at John's whistle and led him back into the city, disappearing whenever they encountered other people. No one recognized John as the Standard intruder, perhaps because of those un-Standard facial contours of his. At last they stopped at an attractive house with yellow walls and a red roof.

"Here? Both of them?"

Canute wagged his tail.

"How do we get in? Without alerting the natives, I mean." The dog would not understand his words but should pick up the gist from the tone.

Canute trotted around to a hidden section of the sidewall. He dug his claws into the sunbaked brick and began to climb.

"Hey! I can't follow you there!"

The gomdog went on climbing. The wall was about twelve feet high on the outside. Canute disappeared under the extended red eaves while John waited in frustration below. He had thought the dog understood—and now this!

Then Canute's nose reappeared. There was something between his teeth. A tug and haul and a length of rope dropped down.

"Good boy!" John caught the end, jerked it to be sure it was anchored, and hauled himself up the wall. He threw a leg over the top and scraped his torso under the roof. The brick did not actually support the roof, he saw, nor was it the whole wall. There was a rammed-earth filler inside and then a wooden framework. Beams rising from this met the ceiling. The perch up here was not comfortable, but it would do.

The rope was securely knotted around one of the wooden uprights. John was sure Canute could not have done that. Who, then?

Canute crawled along a beam for a few feet, to where the rising roof left a larger space. It was dark and distressingly hot here. Then he shifted over to a dark square well—a ventilation shaft?—and climbed down into it. Cautiously, John followed. He could tell by the sounds Canute made that the hole was not deep, and he was able to drop down with only a slight thump. This landing must be on an upper story. One side of this space was wood, but another was cloth. A large blanket or rug hung down, and specks of light showed through it like stars. Canute sniffed the air for a moment, then pushed past the edge of the curtain.

John's eyes had just adjusted to the darkness, and now the return to light was painful. But he squinted and followed the dog from one room to another. He was aware of painted wooden walls and ornate tapestries and elegant sculptures and bamboo furniture and knew that this was the house of a wealthy man. An official, probably. Then there was a courtyard, neatly laid out, with unfamiliar flowers around the edges. He wondered fleetingly whether they could be poppies—opium poppies.

"Who are you?"

John jumped, though the tone was quiet. Before him was a Chinese youth about his own age but more slender. John parried with his own question: "Are you Yao Pei?"

"I am." The other looked coldly at him, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm—I'm John Smith. I—"

"Show me your hand."

Surprised, John held out one hand. Pei took it and rubbed something on the palm. The yellow faded, showing the brown of Standard disguise. Pei looked down at it, then at John, not deigning to speak.

"Rub some more," John said quickly.

In another moment the brown gave way to the pink-white, and no further rubbing would change it. "So the dog did not betray me," Pei murmured.

"That was your secret entrance he sniffed out?" Suddenly it made sense. If Pei were as smart as reputed, he would have his own exit—and Canute, following the smell, would naturally have found it. A hidden rope!

"Do not speak," Pei said. He left the room, gesturing John to remain.

So Pei had made the connection to Betsy! He had to know that there was only one Caucasian boy available and what John's purpose had to be, and he would certainly be aware that he was watched much of the time.

Pei returned with a girl. She was lovely—a delicate Oriental aristocrat, poised and serene. She wore a garment of bright silk, embroidered with a portrait of a silver unicorn. Iridescent feathers decorated her copious black hair. A jeweled sash fit closely around her slender waist. Her feet were tiny.

"Meilan, go with this man," Pei said.

She only nodded.

John looked at Pei, wanting to ask his plan, if any. Pei gestured toward Canute.

"Stay," John murmured to the dog. "Lead him."

Canute looked unhappy, but he obeyed.

Meilan took John's arm and guided him firmly through the house. They saw no one, though John was sure others were near. Somehow Pei had arranged it so that there was no suspicion. Betsy must really have briefed him! They went down narrow steps and out the front gate. So the house was not on two levels; its main floor was raised.

Outside, John thought it was his turn to guide her, but she would not follow his lead. She insisted silently that they go north, away from the park. When they were out of sight of the yellow building and alone on the street, Meilan reached up to remove her pretty feathers. Then she undid her waist clasp and opened her silk dress. It came off suspiciously easily—and underneath was a rough gray shawl. From somewhere she produced a pair of clumsy sandals and put these on her miniature feet in lieu of her fancy slippers. She combed out her hair and tied it in a crude knot.