The Sterkarm Handshake (23 page)

Per stepped away from Joe and toward her.
“Vah?”

Joe said, “Elf-Land?”

“He thinks he's in Elf-Land. He thinks we're—he thinks
I'm
an Elf. He thinks you're one of his own, lost in Elf-Land, like him. When he says ‘Elf-Gate,' he means the Time Tube.”

“Bloody hell!” Joe said. “And this home he wants to go back to, this—”

“He means his own time.”

“So. He really
could
give me land and a house. No kidding.” Not just a bedsit, from which he could be evicted. Not just some low-paid job, where he'd be turned off as soon as it suited his boss. But a house and land, as a gift, a reward, his forever. Freedom.

“Joe!” Andrea said. He never heard her. He grabbed Per by the arm and jerked him backward, never noticing that Per reached for his dagger. “If I take you—to the Elf-Gate—if I go home with you—you'll give me a house?”

Per relaxed, realizing that Joe meant him no harm. He frowned as he listened, watching Joe's face, and caught enough of the words to more or less understand.
“Ya. Oh lant.”

“You mean it?” Joe asked. “You really mean it?” He didn't want to go back five hundred years for nothing.

“Joe!” Andrea said. “Think! You don't want to do this!”

“I do!” Joe said.

“We're talking about five hundred years ago! And in a very remote, backward part of the country. Think what that means! So he'll give you a house! It'll be a drafty hut with the rain coming in and no furniture at all! You'll sleep on the floor! You'll be hungry most of the time, and cold, and wet, and there'll be no medical care, and it'll be dangerous—”

“You mean just like now?” Joe said. He stared at her, and she hadn't a thing to say. Joe turned back to Per. “D'you mean it? About the house and land. Can you really do it? Do you mean it?”

Per understood, and his face lit with a smile. Taking Joe's arm, he tugged at him until they were squarely facing each other. Joe, moving obediently into place, noticed some passersby glancing at them and saw that the kid was at least half a head taller than he was. He'd thought that people in the past were all short. He stood as tall as he could and straightened his own shoulders, to make his heavier build obvious.

Per took both of Joe's hands, pressed them together as if in prayer, and placed both of his own around them. His left foot he placed on top of Joe's right foot, bare toes on soggy old sneaker. He looked into Joe's eyes, his own wide with the seriousness of what he was about to do, and the anxiety to get it right.
“Yi, Per Toorkildsson Sterkarm, tar thine hander—”

Joe lost him after that, but Per sang the words out in such fine style that, looking into the boy's intent face, Joe felt his hair prickle. The clasped hands, the foot on the foot … This was no joke or game. The lad was nervous but serious. Joe had never seen a clergyman perform a wedding or funeral with as much conviction. Without taking his eyes from the boy's face, he said to the girl, “What's he say?”

She didn't answer. Per went on, speaking with emphasis and swing, until he ran out of words and finished with a solemn, wide-eyed nod.

“What's he say?” Joe demanded.

Andrea didn't want to answer, but refusing to translate was as hard as ignoring a ringing phone. “He said, ‘I, Per Toorkildsson Sterkarm, take your hands between my hands and place my foot on your foot, and swear to be your lord, to guard you and guard yours until the day I die.' Happy?”

“Now thu,”
Per said, and shook Joe's hands between his own.
“Yi—”
He nodded to Joe.

Joe, his hands still between Per's, and his foot under Per's foot, said, “I, Joseph Sterkarm, put my hands between your hands—”

My hands are between his, he thought, because I'm giving them and their use to him.

Half guessing, half prompted by Per, he stumbled on, “—and my foot under your foot—”

My foot's under his foot because he's top dog, that's what I'm agreeing to. What the hell am I getting into?

“—and swear to be your man, to guard you and to guard yours, until the day I die.”

The words seemed to take on such vivid meaning, they were like solid, heavy objects, taking up space and pressing in on him.

Swear to be your man. Like a belonging, a useful tool.

To guard you and guard yours. But now more like a dog. He felt the hackles rising on the back of his neck and his teeth baring, like faithful Gelert standing over the fallen cradle of the little prince.

Until the day I die. God, that had a long, distant and doomy ring!

Andrea said, “He believes every word of it, Joe. How about you?”

Joe could see the belief in Per's face. He thought: But he swore to guard me and mine too—if I ever have anything to call mine. And he means every word of that as well.

Per took his foot from Joe's foot, dropped his hands and, stepping closer, put his arms around Joe's shoulders and hugged him.

Joe's muscles stiffened and, without actually rebuffing the hug, he tried to hold himself away from it. More people were walking through the underpass—the office workers were returning to work—and they looked at the kid hugging him and hurriedly looked away, some of them smirking. To hell with them! Joe thought. This ceremony was more important than what some crowd of house livers thought. He even half raised his arms, meaning to hug the kid in return, but wasn't sure that he was supposed to. He stood there, awkward, his arms held up.

Per kissed Joe, first on one cheek, then on the other. He did it bashfully. It was the first time he'd taken a man into service, and though he knew it was his place, as the master, to offer the kiss, he felt shy at presuming to kiss a man as old as his father.

Joe felt the shyness and thought it funny that his new lord and master was shy of him. As Per drew back from him, he put his hands on the lad's shoulders.

“Lant,” Per said.
“Oh ayn hus. Yi giffer thu min urd.”

Joe had worked for other masters, schoolmasters, who'd promised that if he worked hard and got qualifications, he'd get a good job. He'd known they were lying at the time. He'd left school, been unemployed, and joined the Army. He'd done a couple of years, left and got a job in the building trade. Work two weeks, off for six.

He'd worked for another master, a building contractor, and he'd been known as a good worker. In return he'd been laid off at the first sign of a slump in trade. Good workers came expensive.

He'd paid taxes to his masters in the government, paid tax on everything he'd bought. In return he'd got to sleep in all the cardboard boxes he could beg, and a police force to move him on at three in the morning.

None of those masters had held his hands, looked into his eyes, and solemnly sworn to guard him and guard his until the day they died. Joe squeezed Per's shoulders between his hands, then whacked him on one shoulder and pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes. “I'll take you to Dilsmead Hall. And if there's any such thing as an Elf-Gate there, we'll find it!” He started off along the underpass and when Per, coming after him, took his hand again, he didn't pull away.

Andrea ran after them. She said, “All right, all right, you win. Why don't we take a taxi? I'll pay.”

Joe stopped and looked from her to Per. “Okay. Sure. Why not?” It had been a long time since he'd ridden in a taxi. All in all, this was turning out to be an interesting day.

11

21st Side: Per Gaw Hyemma

The taxi pulled up at the gate of Dilsmead Hall, and the green-uniformed security guard came out of his hut. Andrea wound down her window to show her pass. “I've got two guests with me. We're all expected.”

The guard nodded and, taking her pass, went back into his hut to phone reception.

“This might be your last chance, Joe,” Andrea said.

“I'm sticking,” Joe said. He wasn't sure it was the right thing to do. He suspected that he was making a bloody fool of himself, but between curiosity and the hope of gain, he was stuck. Besides, Per, though leaning over the driver's shoulder and examining the steering wheel and gear stick with interest, was keeping a grip on Joe's hand that was likely to leave bruises. Joe doubted if Per would allow him to leave.

The barrier across the drive lifted, and the security guard stepped out of his hut, returning Andrea's pass with a smile and a touch to his peaked cap. The taxi moved forward into the long driveway. “Here we go!” Andrea said, and crossed her fingers.

It hadn't been too difficult for her to convince Joe that they stood a better chance of reaching the Time Tube with her assistance, especially when she'd shown him her pass. Joe understood how security worked. It had been harder to persuade Per, and to her vexation, Joe's words had counted more with him than hers. If Joe thought they should go with her, he eventually conceded, then so be it, but Joe was to lead the way, not Andrea. Per feared an ambush.

“You know the office for that taxi company that's just along here?” Andrea had said to Joe. “Just take us there.” Going around the ring road would mean they avoided the city center, keeping Per away from the old buildings that he might recognize. She couldn't see that it would be helpful, at that moment, to puzzle and confuse him any more than he was already.

Joe had led the way around the ring road, and Per had gone happily with him, holding his hand. The noise and rush of Elf-Carts so close beside them was still fearful, but Per took courage from Joe, who'd been in Elf-Land longer, and had obviously learned what should and shouldn't be feared. Joe didn't seem bothered by the Elf-Carts at all, so Per ignored them as much as he could. His hopes of reaching home rose, and still holding Joe's hand, he turned and offered his other hand to Andrea. She'd taken it, smiling.

At the taxi office, the woman controller had invited them all inside, to sit on a broken sofa, among piles of old magazines. She'd offered them cigarettes and either didn't notice that Per was barefoot, and holding hands with Joe, or didn't care. When Andrea asked if she could use the phone, the woman waved her hand, puffed on her cigarette and said, “Knock yourself out!”

Andrea dialed reception at Dilsmead Hall, and confirmed that she was coming in for three sharp. She'd be bringing a couple of guests with her. “It's all arranged. I'll be signing them in.” She held her breath, but reception just said, “Very well, Miss Mitchell, that's noted.”

When the taxi arrived, getting Per into it was a small problem. He went out to it calmly enough, hand in hand with Joe and Andrea, but when Joe opened the back door, Per pulled back and let go of Joe's hand. He stooped, peering into the car's small interior. The idea of getting into an Elf-Cart and riding away in it was thrilling, but actually climbing into that tiny space and being enclosed, trapped, by the magic was something else altogether.

Andrea's reassurances had been soothing; it was good to feel that she cared about him. But however much she cared, she was an Elf, bound to an Elf-Master.

Joe had climbed into the car and beckoned to Per from inside, repeating,
“Air rikti, air rikti.”
It's all right. Joe was picking up words from Per pretty quickly.

Per didn't wish to appear afraid in front of Joe, and if Joe thought the cart was safe, then it must be. Folding himself up far more than was necessary, Per climbed into the backseat. Andrea quickly shut the door and got in beside the driver. She wondered if without Joe she could have persuaded Per to get in at all.

After telling the driver where to go, she'd turned around to watch Per, and reached between the seats to offer him her hand. For the first few moments after the car pulled away, he'd looked terrified, but after that, realizing that they were still alive and in one piece, he'd begun to grin and to look through the windows, even kneeling on the seat to watch the road and the cars behind. At all times he kept hold of Joe's or Andrea's hand, or both.

Now the taxi was crawling up the long graveled drive to Dilsmead Hall itself. The house hadn't existed in Per's time. Per ducked to peer at it through the windshield, and was obviously impressed by its size, its marble pillars, and marble steps leading up to the door—another Elf-Palace. At the last curve of the drive before the house a big flower bed was planted on a sloping bank. Blue lobelias made the letters FUP against a background of white alyssum. Per pointed and exclaimed, recognizing FUP's logo from the 16th-side office.

The taxi rounded the drive's final bend and drew up at the door. Andrea paid the driver and they got out, Per seeming as reluctant to leave the Elf-Cart as he'd been to get into it.

“Listen,” Andrea said, as they stood at the foot of the marble steps. “
Per, lutta
. There'll be guards inside. I think some of them have guns. Pistols, Per, Elf-Pistols. Do
nothing
to alarm them. Do no even look at them funny. Per, art thou listening? This be important. If thou wants to gan through Elf-Gate, you must do as I say. Joe, tell him to do what I say.”

Joe pointed at her and said to Per,
“Air rikti.”

Per nodded. He understood that if they could reach the Elf-Gate and go through it without having to fight, that was much the preferable choice, especially as his leg and his head both hurt. But no matter what anyone said, it might still come to a fight. He knew that he would have to keep careful watch about him as they went into the Elves' den. He would have to listen to the voices, even though he couldn't understand the words they spoke. He would have to watch the faces and the movements of all those in sight. He would have to watch, and listen, for the approach of others. His hands would have to be kept free, ready to fight, so there could be no more holding hands.
“Yi forstaw.”
I understand.

“Joe?” Andrea turned toward him. “I can't stop you, but do you really want to do this? If we don't make it through here, you're going to end up in jail; you might get hurt. If we do make it through—Joe, you'd better be really sure this is worth it.”

Joe's heart beat quicker. He felt slightly sick. She spoke so seriously that she convinced him all over again, just when he'd begun telling himself that this was all a hoax, being filmed for some TV program. Run away, he thought; it's always safer. Yeah, run back to sleeping in a cardboard box and eating out of rubbish bins. He gestured toward the steps. “After you.”

Andrea shrugged and led the way into the reception area of Dilsmead Hall. Per and Joe followed.

They pushed through the double doors at the entrance and came into a cool, shadowed hallway. The floor underfoot was mosaic. Couches and soft chairs were arranged around low tables and screened from the door by racks of potted plants. On the far side of the room a receptionist sat behind a curved wooden desk furnished with a computer and several telephones. A security guard in a green uniform leaned against the desk, chatting to her. Doors led from the hall on either side and at the rear of the room, next to the desk

Andrea said, “Keep by me and keep calm, whatever happens. Don't run, don't fight.” Rapidly, she repeated it for Per. Then they were at the desk, and the receptionist and the guard were looking at them. Perhaps they'd noticed that Per had no shoes or socks on his feet, and that Joe had slept in his clothes.

“Afternoon,” Andrea said, and showed her pass. “I'm Andrea Mitchell, and these are my two guests.”

The receptionist picked up a clipboard and looked through the papers on it. The guard studied them with what Andrea felt to be suspicion, though he didn't say anything. “I did phone …” she said nervously, when the receptionist seemed to be taking a long time.

The woman looked up, smiling. “That's fine. If your guests can just fill out these badges …” She pushed the sheet of security badges across the desk, together with a pen, while she prepared the clear plastic holders and clips.

Joe and Andrea glanced at each other, and then Joe moved forward and picked up the pen. Andrea, feeling her chest tighten and her mouth turning dry, said, “Oh! This is embarrassing. Um. I'm afraid Mr.— Armstrong”—she nodded toward Per, who was standing silently at her side without any understanding of what was going on—“Mr. Armstrong is—sort of—dyslexic. You know? Would it be all right if I filled in his badge for him?”

The woman looked at her blankly.

Leaning forward, Andrea said, “He can't read or write.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the woman said, looking aside, embarrassed. “Of course. Yes. That would be all right.”

“Thank you.”

Joe was finishing filling out his badge. He'd given his real name. Why not? With any luck, he wasn't going to be around after today. Against “Company/Institution,” he filled in the name of the last construction company he'd worked for; it sounded official, and hopefully no one would check on it in the next hour or so.

Per had been looking at the receptionist and wondering at her extraordinary, uncanny Elvish beauty—her hair, her lips and the skin around her eyes such strange colors! He was distracted when Joe began to write and watched him with admiration. Joe must have been a man of some standing before he'd been taken into Elf-Land, if he could read and write. Maybe that was why the Elves had taken him.

While the receptionist folded Joe's badge and fitted it into its plastic holder, Andrea filled out the badge for Per, giving “Peter Armstrong” as his name, and “Bedesdale Holdings” as his company. As she watched the receptionist tear off the badge and fold it, she thought: We're getting away with it; we're getting away!

She glanced at her watch. It was five to three.

The meeting was the usual séance, where idiots who couldn't string two words together, and idiots who could drivel on for hours without ever making a point, competed to see which could render Windsor comatose sooner. He could see Bryce, sitting on the other side of the circle of easy chairs with a dreamy expression that proved he hadn't heard a word that had been said for the last twenty minutes. It was understandable. Accounts had fielded one of each kind of bore, to try and prove that the 16th Project wasn't viable.

Windsor bided his time, knowing that as soon as his chance to speak came, he could sway the rest onto his side. He looked at his watch. Just after two. If he was going to check up on Andrea Mitchell, he'd better make his move.

The next time the driveler from accounts paused for breath, Windsor rattled his own notes and said, “Could I put in a word? Thank you, Martin.” He saw relief on several faces around the circle, and Bryce brightened and sat up in his chair. “We needed to hear that, but time marches on, and I'm sure we've all grasped accounts' view of things.”

There was some laughter. Martin from accounts subsided.

“If I could just hit you with some other figures that you might find of interest …” Briefly, in a way he knew to be accomplished, Windsor went through some figures he'd obtained for the South American Project, where FUP was already bringing through hardwood and plant samples. “I know that with my present audience, I don't have to mention the price we could charge for mahogany if the market's managed properly.”

There was more laughter, a further perking up of interest, and knowing looks from one to another. Bryce looked around at the other people in the room with him. He didn't know how much could be charged for mahogany, and was suddenly keenly aware of how he was regarded by his present company: the stupid security man, all brawn, no brain.

“Furthermore,” Windsor said, “the science boys are confident that, in the next few years, the plant samples we're bringing back are going to yield a cancer vaccine. I'll just mention two facts, gentlemen. One, a cancer vaccine will be more profitable even than mahogany.” A burst of laughter recognized that. “And two, many of these plants are extinct here, 21st side, where we haven't, let's face it, always taken the greatest care of our natural assets. Now, it's true we aren't going to get any mahogany from the 16th Project, and probably no cancer vaccine either, but we don't know what other vastly profitable folk medicines we might be overlooking. And we know for certain that, 16th side, we have gold, we have oil, we have natural gas, just for starters. And yet, because of a few teething problems and a few unexpected expenses, accounts wants us to abandon the project. Gentlemen, this would be throwing away a million to save a fiver. Let me—let me just tell you something about what we've got 16th side. I have an advantage over accounts—instead of reading columns of figures, I've actually been there.”

This produced a buzz of interest and made the faces of the men from accounts go hard.

Windsor launched into a description of the 16th. Bryce, listening, noted that he mentioned not a word about the problems that had actually taken him through the Tube. Instead he spoke confidently about the beauty of the place, the colors, the freshness, the clean air, the peace, until several people at the table looked as if they might inquire about package tours. Then he made them laugh by describing the Sterkarms' charming but pressing hospitality and contrasting it with the discomfort of their home and the vileness of their food.

“They live in this paradise, and they don't have the slightest appreciation of it! Really, we'll be doing them a favor by taking it over and showing them what it can be!”