From where he was standing, Chuck saw a big, barrel-chested man leap down from the cab of the truck. The man wore a pith helmet that shaded the strong, ruddy features of his face. He wore a white cotton shirt, open at the throat. Black, curling hair spilled from the throat of his shirt, ran down his muscular arms like short, dark weeds. He had dark brown eyes set on either side of a short, bulbous nose. His lips were thick, and his teeth were clamped tightly on the soggy end of a cigar.
“Where’s the Time Slip?” the man shouted. His voice was gravelly, as if it had been tossed into a cement mixer and poured before it had mixed well. The voice grated on Chuck’s nerves, made him wince slightly. He watched as one of the policemen walked closer to the big man.
“You’re looking at it, Mister,” the policeman said.
The man waved a hamlike hand at the grassy area behind the fence. “You mean that’s it? Where’s the machine? I don’t see anything but grass.”
“The controls are in the building up ahead,” the policeman said.
The man nodded curtly and started back for the truck. He put one booted foot up on the running board and then turned his head. “Open the gate,” he said. “We’re coming through.”
The other policeman spoke for the first time. He was bigger than the first and he carried his rifle with a lethal air of authority.
“Just a second, Mister,” he said. “Let’s see your papers.”
“What?”
“Your papers. This ain’t a ball park, Mister. This is a government project.”
The big man took his foot off the running board and placed his hands on his hips. A broad smile covered his face, splitting it open in a gleaming burst of enamel. “Do tell,” he said.
“You see that sign?” the policeman asked. He gestured with his head at the sign in front of which Chuck was standing.
“I see it,” the big man said.
“Well, read it and weep. It says authorized persons only. If you’re authorized, let me see your papers. If you’re not you can turn those jalopies around and head for home.”
The big man continued to smile as he moved closer to the policeman. Chuck noticed, though, that he was smiling only with his mouth. His eyes were hard and unwinking.
“My name is Dirk Masterson,” he said, the smile never leaving his face.
The policeman stared right back at him. “My name is Pat MacDougal. That still don’t make you an authorized person, until I see your papers.”
“Mr. MacDougal…”
“
“Mr. MacDougal, perhaps you didn’t understand me. I said my name was Dirk Masterson. This is my party, and we’re scheduled to leave on a slip in about thirty minutes. I suggest you open your gate.”
From behind the truck, obscured by the bulk of the larger vehicle, Chuck heard a man shouting, “Having trouble, Mr. Masterson?”
Masterson did not turn his head. “None at all, Brock,” he called. To MacDougal, he said, “Open the gate, policeman.”
Under the steady force of his gaze, the sergeant wavered slightly.
“How do I know you ain’t a tempo?” he asked.
“A
“A tempomaniac.”
Masterson laughed, throwing his head back. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Open that gate at once.”
“That gate stays closed until I see your papers,” MacDougal said. “You can just pretend I’m St. Peter.”
Masterson doubled his fists, and the muscles on his arms bulged with the effort. “Arthur!” he shouted.
Chuck saw the movement behind the windshield of the truck as the driver slid across the seat. He watched as a tall Negro swung his legs over the side and leaped down to the ground, a spurt of dust rising beneath his heels.
“Yes, Mr. Masterson?” he asked.
He was bigger than Masterson, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. He wore a white T-shirt, and the color of his skin was soft against the cotton. His head was compact, covered with close-cut hair that fitted his skull like a cap. The features of his face were classical, almost chiseled from black marble, Chuck thought. He watched as the Negro began walking toward Masterson with purposeful strides.
“See what this idiot wants,” Masterson snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Arthur said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers which he handed to MacDougal. “I imagine he’s looking for these,” he said, his teeth flashing against his face.
“If you had papers, why didn’t you show them in the first place?” MacDougal complained. He took the papers and examined them carefully while Arthur waited. “These are fine,” he said. “If you’ll get back in the truck, I’ll open the gate.”
“You’ll be reported for this, you know,” Masterson said softly.
Arthur grinned, taking the papers back, and said, “He was only doing his job, Mr. Master…”
“Nobody asked you,” Masterson snapped.
The grin vanished from Arthur’s face. For an instant a hurt expression flickered in his eyes. And then it was gone, replaced by the quiet planes of his emotionless features. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Let’s get back to the truck,” Masterson said. He turned to the guard once more and repeated, “You’ll be reported for this.”