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Nadie sabe dónde y cuándo se originó, pero una plaga se ha extendido por
todas partes. Los médicos la llaman «Trichophyton draco incendia»; los
demás, escama de dragón, una espora que marca la piel de los contagiados
con manchas negras y doradas antes de hacerles estallar en llamas. Y no
hay antídoto.
La enfermera Harper Grayson está embarazada y ha visto a centenares de
pacientes arder… o los veía antes de que el hospital se incendiara. Ahora
sólo puede fijarse en las marcas que han empezado a recorrerle la piel.
Mientras todo a su alrededor se ve envuelto en el caos por la enfermedad y
los grupos que pretenden exterminar a los contagiados, Harper coincide con
un misterioso desconocido que deambula entre los escombros con
indumentaria de bombero y las marcas de la espora. Sin embargo, no arde.
Es como si hubiera aprendido a usar el fuego a modo de escudo para las
víctimas… y de arma contra los verdugos.
Joe Hill
Fuego
ePub r1.2
Titivillus 21.10.2018
Título original: The Fireman
Joe Hill, 2016
Traducción: Pilar Ramírez Tello

Editor digital: Titivillus

ePub base r2.0
 PRÓLOGO
INCENDIOS

Harper Grayson había visto arder en la tele a un montón de gente, como

todo el mundo, pero la primera persona a la que vio quemarse en vivo fue
en el patio de detrás del colegio.
En Boston y otras zonas de Massachusetts, los colegios estaban
cerrados, aunque allí, en New Hampshire, seguían abiertos. Se sabía de
casos en el estado, pero eran pocos. Harper había oído que retenían a media
docena de pacientes en un ala segura del hospital de Concord, donde les
atendía un equipo médico con trajes de protección de cuerpo entero y
enfermeras armadas con extintores.
Harper estaba colocándole una compresa fría en la mejilla a un niño de
primero llamado Raymond Bly, que había recibido un raquetazo en la cara.
Siempre había un par de este tipo de heridos cada primavera, cuando el
entrenador Keillor sacaba las raquetas de bádminton. Siempre, sin
excepción, les decía a los chavales que se les pasaría andando un poco,
incluso cuando los pobres iban con un puñado de dientes en la mano. A
Harper le gustaría estar presente cuando el entrenador recibiera un
raquetazo en las pelotas, para así poder disfrutar del placer de decirle que se
le pasaría andando un poco.
Raymond no estaba llorando al llegar a la enfermería, pero cuando se
vio en el espejo perdió la compostura un momento: se le formó un hoyuelo
en la barbilla y los músculos del rostro le temblaron de emoción. El ojo
estaba morado, negro y casi cerrado, y ella sabía que, para el niño, verse así
daba más miedo que el dolor.
Con la intención de distraerlo, fue a por el alijo de golosinas de
emergencia, que consistía en una maltrecha fiambrera de Mary Poppins con
las bisagras oxidadas en la que guardaba unas cuantas barritas de chocolate
pequeñas, cada una con su envoltorio individual. También había un enorme
rábano y una patata, artículos que reservaba para los casos de tristeza más
graves.
Se asomó a la fiambrera mientras el niño se apretaba la compresa contra
la mejilla.
—Hm… —dijo—. Creo que me queda una barrita de Twix en la caja de
las golosinas, y me vendría muy bien.
—¿Me vas a dar a mí también? —preguntó cl pequeño con voz
congestionada.
—A ti te voy a dar algo mucho mejor. Tengo un delicioso rábano y, si te
portas muy bien, dejaré que te lo quedes. Yo me conformaré con la barrita.
Le enseñó el interior de la fiambrera para que pudiera examinar la
hortaliza.
—Puaj, no quiero un rábano.
—¿Y una sabrosa patata dulce? Esto es oro puro.
—Puaj. Vamos a echar un pulso por el Twix. A mi padre siempre le
gano.
Harper silbó tres compases de «My Favorite Things»[1] mientras fingía
pensárselo. Solía silbar fragmentos de musicales de los sesenta y fantaseaba
en secreto con que un grupo de amables arrendajos azules y descarados
petirrojos se unieran a su canción.
—No sé si es buena idea que me retes a un pulso, Raymond Bly. Estoy
en muy buena forma.
Fingió que necesitaba mirar por la ventana para pensárselo mejor… y
entonces de cuando vio al hombre que caminaba por el patio.
Desde el lugar en que se encontraba, veía perfectamente el alquitrán,
unos cuantos metros cuadrados de asfalto con algún que otro dibujo de
rayuela. Más allá había un acre de mantillo con un elaborado campo de
juegos plantado dentro: columpios, toboganes, un muro para trepar y una
hilera de tuberías de acero que los muchachos podían golpear como si
fueran gongs musicales (en privado, Harper se refería a ellas como el
Xilófono de los Condenados).
Era primera hora y no había niños fuera: el único momento del día en el
que no había una bandada de chiquillos gritando, riendo, alborotando y
chocándose por el patio delante de la enfermería. Sólo estaba aquel hombre,
un tío con una amplia chaqueta verde militar, pantalones marrones holgados
y la cara ensombrecida por una mugrienta gorra de béisbol. Cruzó el asfalto
medio inclinado, procedente de la parte trasera del edificio. Tenía la cabeza
gacha y se tambaleaba; no parecía capaz de caminar en línea recta. Lo
primero que pensó Harper fue que estaba borracho. Entonces vio el humo
que le salía por las mangas. Un delicado humo blanco le brotaba de la
chaqueta, le rodeaba las manos, se le escapaba por el cuello y se le enredaba
en la larga melena castaña.
Salió del borde del asfalto y entró en el mantillo. Dio tres pasos más y
metió la mano derecha en el peldaño de madera de las escaleras que subían
a una de las estructuras del parque infantil. Incluso a la distancia a la que se
encontraba, Harper le veía algo en el dorso de la mano, una franja negra,
como un tatuaje, pero salpicada de oro. Las manchas doradas lanzaban
destellos, como motas de polvo atrapadas en un cegador rayo de luz solar.
Había visto reportajes sobre ello en las noticias y, aun así, en aquellos
primeros momentos apenas le encontraba sentido a lo que estaba
presenciando. Las chocolatinas empezaron a caerse de la fiambrera de Mary
Poppins. Ella no las oía, no era consciente de que la caja estaba torcida y
derramaba sus minibarritas y sus Hershey’s Kisses en el suelo. Raymond se
quedó mirando la patata, que cayó con un ruido carnoso y rodó hasta
desaparecer debajo de una encimera.
El hombre que caminaba como si estuviera borracho empezó a hundirse.
Después, entre convulsiones, arqueó la columna, echó la cabeza atrás y las
llamas surgieron de la pechera de su camisa. Harper le echó un breve
vistazo a su demacrado rostro agonizante y, en un segundo, la cabeza del
desconocido se convirtió en una antorcha. Se golpeó el pecho con la mano
izquierda; la derecha seguía agarrada a las escaleras mientras ardía y
achicharraba la madera de pino. Echó la cabeza más atrás, abrió la boca
para gritar y lo que brotó de ella, en vez de un alarido, fue humo negro a
borbotones.
Raymond vio la expresión en el rostro de la enfermera y empezó a
volver la cabeza para mirar atrás, por la ventana, pero ella soltó la caja de
golosinas y lo sujetó a tiempo. Con una mano apretó la compresa fría contra
la cara del niño mientras colocaba la otra mano detrás de su cabeza,
obligándolo a apartar la mirada de la ventana.
—No, cielo —le dijo, sorprendida por la tranquilidad con la que
hablaba.
—¿Que ha sido eso? —preguntó Raymond.
Ella le soltó la cabeza y localizó el cordón de la persiana veneciana.
Fuera, el hombre cayó de rodillas e inclinó la cabeza, como si rezara a La
Meca. Estaba envuelto en llamas, convertido en un montículo de trapos
viejos que despedía un humo aceitoso a la luz de una fría tarde de abril.
La persiana bajó con un estrépito metálico y tapó toda la escena, salvo
por una chispa febril de luz dorada que resplandecía como loca alrededor de
los bordes de las lamas.
 Abril
1

No salió del colegio hasta una hora después de que el último niño se
hubiera ido a casa, pero, incluso así, era temprano. La mayoría de los días
lectivos debía quedarse hasta las cinco, ya que había unos cincuenta y
tantos niños que aprovechaban el horario de tarde de la escuela mientras sus
padres trabajaban. Aquel día, a las tres ya se habían marchado todos.
Después de apagar las luces de la enfermería, se asomó por la ventana y
contempló el patio. Descubrió un punto negro junto a la estructura del
parque, el lugar donde el cuerpo de bomberos había limpiado a mangueras
los restos achicharrados que no pudieron rascar del suelo. Harper tuvo la
premonición de que nunca regresaría a su despacho ni volvería a mirar por
aquella ventana, y estaba en lo cierto. Esa misma noche se suspendieron las
clases en todo el estado, si bien se aseguró a los ciudadanos que se abrirían
de nuevo cuando se solucionara la crisis. Aunque, al final, la crisis no se
solucionó.
Creía que tendría la casa para ella sola, pero, al llegar, Jakob ya se
encontraba allí. La tele estaba encendida, con el volumen bajo, y él hablaba
por teléfono con alguien. Por su tono (relajado, firme, casi apacible), nadie
habría averiguado que estaba nervioso. Para saber que estaba tenso era
necesario verlo dar vueltas por el cuarto.
—No, no lo he visto en persona. Johnny Deepenau estaba allí abajo, en
uno de los camiones del ayuntamiento, apartando escombros de la carretera,
y nos envió fotos desde su móvil. Era como si hubiese estallado una bomba
dentro. Parecía terrorismo, como… Espera, acaba de entrar Harp. —Su
marido bajó el teléfono, se lo apretó contra el pecho dijo—: Has vuelto por
la parte de atrás, ¿verdad? Sé que no has atravesado el centro, tienen todas
las carreteras cortadas desde North Church hasta la biblioteca. Toda la
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 CHAPTER XI

THE ESCAPE
Nanette and I sat quiet. The figure of Josefa had disappeared from
the corridor. Turber had gone out hastily with a command to Nanette
and me.
"Don't move. Stay in your chairs."
We were alone in the control room, except for the Indian, Bluntnose.
He had ignored us throughout the trip, but he was not ignoring us
now. He stood a few feet away, like a statue in the gloom, watching
us closely. A tomahawk was hung at his belt; a modern automatic
revolver was in his hand.
The aero, inside and out, was in confusion. The tramp of feet; a
babble of voices. Through the windows I could see a dark forest
glade with the yellow light of a camp fire near by. And the glint of a
starlit river, with a shadowy cove quite near us.
I whispered: "The Indian is watching us, Nanette—we mustn't move."
Turber presently came in. A short sword was strapped to his belt; and
a revolver in a holster.
"Good news," he said. "It's coming! They're bringing it by water from
up the river."
The Indian grunted.
"It will take several hours, Bluntnose. But the first of it is almost here
—a canoe is in sight."
He was jubilant. He dashed away, but I called to him.
"Dr. Turber."
He came back.
"Let us go out and see it," I said. "What is it? Your treasure?"
"Yes." He hesitated. "Nanette—if only you could see this added
wealth coming to us now!"
"I'd like to go out," she said. I could feel her fingers tighten on my
arm.
Turber spoke to Bluntnose. The fellow Jonas appeared in the corridor.
He called excitedly: "The first canoe is very nearly landing, Wolf
Turber. There's another in sight. Are you coming?"
Turber hastened away. I urged the Indian: "Let us go out and see it."
"Come, then." He shoved us before him, down the corridor to the
main side doorway. I did not see Josefa.
"Careful, Nanette." I helped her down the small ladder. Bluntnose
was very watchful. He said:
"Sit over there. Don't move."
He sat us by the bole of a great tree some twenty feet from the
vehicle. In the glow of the firelight I saw the dark shadowy forms of
Indians moving about. A group of them were waiting down by the
shore. A fat Dutchman was with them, round as a barrel in his
leather jerkin and pantaloons. He jabbered excitedly in English.
"Did I not tell you, Wolf Turber? I've done it—such a treasure! Come
here, vrouw!" His wife stood beside a tree. "This is the great Turber,
woman. Do we go with you now, Wolf Turber?"
"Yes."
"Glad I am to get out of here. The blow-hard Stuyvesant meets his
match tomorrow. Did you know that? The English are coming."
"Yes," said Turber. He turned toward the shore. The Dutchman
followed him. "Our boat is here. Unload your things, woman. Carry
them up—get them in this airship. We're going to a better world,
good wife."
His voice was lost as they moved away.
Nanette sat beside me, silent, motionless. But I knew that she was
alert—waiting for what I might command her to do.
I whispered: "Not yet. The Indian is here, close. I don't see Josefa.
But I'm watching for a chance to get away."
The pressure of her hand answered me. Brave little Nanette!
The Indian seemed never to take his eyes from us. The automatic
was ready in his hand; I could not have made a move.
Where was Josefa? If she could distract this Indian even for a
moment—
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. My mind strayed to Alan. Was he
dead? In reality, Alan and the tower were at this instant materializing
in the forest no more than a mile away.
Out in the river a long Indian war canoe appeared. It was heading for
the cove. Its paddles gleamed rhythmically in the starlight. It landed.
I saw that it was piled with moldy chests. The Indians began carrying
them to the aero. The Dutchman and his wife struggled back and
forth with their household effects.
Turber and Jonas were giving commands. Then I saw Josefa! She
was down by the shore. She spoke to Turber. I saw him reach into a
broken chest and haul forth a huge jeweled bangle. He tossed it to
her and moved away.
She came toward us. I did not move. She stood by Bluntnose.
"Look what the Wolf gave me. What jewels we have now. This
pleases me more than all Turber's platinum and golden wealth."
She was standing in front of Bluntnose, blocking his sight of us. He
pushed her away.
I cursed myself. Had my chance come and gone? But it had only
been an instant. He would have shot at Nanette and me before we
had gone ten feet.
I caught the woman's significant glance. She was trying to make my
opportunity. Nanette felt me stir. Nanette knew that the moment had
almost come.
Josefa said: "Turber wants you, Bluntnose—there is a chest that fell
in the water. These fool Indians—not Mohican like you, are they,
Bluntnose? Not one of them will dive, even for jewels."
The Indian hesitated. Turber fortunately was not within sight. There
was an Indian wading in the shallows of the shore.
"These captives—"
"He told me to watch them. Dios! If I could not shoot better than
you! Give me that ugly thing."
She took the automatic; took it gently from him. Her face was
upraised; her smiling lips were mockingly alluring.
He yielded the weapon; and suddenly leaned down and kissed her
with a rough caress.
"You bad Indian! Never let Wolf Turber see you do that! Go now—
show him you fear no river when it has jewels in it. I'll keep the
prisoners safe."
She covered us with the automatic; she stood ten feet away. "Hurry
back, Bluntnose."
He went. She stood tense. She met my glance, but did not answer it.
Her gaze roved the near-by glade. There was a moment when no one
near by was observing us. She gestured with the automatic.
"Go! Run south toward the village. I'll fire presently—and I'll tell them
you went north. Run fast!"
"Nanette—run!" I lifted her up; held her hand; we slid into the
underbrush and ran.

CHAPTER XII

IN THE FOREST DEPTHS

In the tower, Alan, with Lea, San, and Lentz, came speeding back to
this night in 1664. San plunged the tower to its swiftest pace—the
trip seemed less than an hour.
At first they sat in the lower room. Alan could not make up his mind
about Lentz. The fellow appeared loyal enough. Anxious to help; and
certainly his presence was an advantage. But Alan determined to
watch him closely, always.
Both Lea and San were startled at Lentz's appearance in the tower.
That was obvious; and several times Alan seemed to read in their
expressions that they, too, were suspicious of the man.
Lentz interpreted:
"San must stay always with the tower. He wants me to be sure you
understand that."
"Yes, I do."
"And Lea says she will go with you—"
The Turber aero was on the river bank not much more than a mile
from where the tower would land. It was Alan's plan to try and creep
up on it.
"What weapons have you?" Lentz asked.
Alan showed him the revolver. Lentz reached to take it.
"No," said Alan. "I'll keep it. What have you?"
Lentz had a knife—a long, thin blade in a sheath. Alan wondered
what else. For an instant he had an impulse to search the fellow. But
he decided it would be a wrong move. He smiled.
"That might be handier than mine. Mine makes a noise. You'll go with
me, Lentz?"
"Yes. That is what I think best. I have so often seen this forest with
the instruments—I can guide you."
"And—me?" said Lea.
"You stay here," said Alan decisively.
She burst into a flood of words to Lentz.
"She says she speaks the dialect of these Indians of 1664. She has
studied it in the dead-language books—She can talk to the Indians.
She stopped there once—they thought she was a goddess."
Lea said: "Yes. Yes—magic—this tower."
"She means," said Lentz, "they saw the tower. It was magic to them
—she says, if we meet any band of savages she can get them to help
us."
Alan decided against it. Haste was necessary; they could not be sure
how long Turber's aero would remain.
"No," he said. "Tell Lea, I think not. You and I will go, Lentz. She and
San had better remain with the tower."
Lea was disappointed, but she yielded.
Near the end of the trip San remained at the controls; the others
went to the top of the tower. It presently lurched and stopped.
Alan saw that they were in the forest. A quiet, starlit evening. From
this height at the tower's top, the distant Hudson showed plainly. A
dark, rolling area of woods, thick with underbrush. To the south a few
lights in the little city of New Amsterdam were visible. Almost directly
west, by the river, there was a yellow glow.
"That's where Turber is," said Lentz.
"Yes," Lea agreed. And she pointed southeast. Another camp fire was
off there—a mile or so away, perhaps. A band of Indians encamped.

As well as he could, Alan tried to keep in mind the lay of this strange
land. Strangely dark and sinister forest. Yet Alan was born right here
in this same Space! He had lived here all his life. This, in 1945, was
Central Park. The Turber aero lay over by Riverside Drive. But how
different now!
Out in the Hudson River a large canoe was coming south. It seemed
heading in the direction of the Turber aero.
They went back to the lower tower room. Through the windows here
the black woods crowded like a wall.
"Tell them, Lentz, to watch closely. At any sign of trouble, tell them to
take the tower and escape."
Lentz told them. They nodded solemnly. Lea gave Alan her hand.
Again, as always, its touch thrilled him. She said:
"Good-by, Alan. Good—luck."
"Good-by, Lea."
In the woods, Lentz and Alan crept through the underbrush.
"You lead," Alan whispered. He felt safer with Lentz in front of him.
But he told himself that was foolish; Lentz seemed perfectly friendly.
"Quiet, we make no noise. In these woods, it seems, savages are
everywhere."
It was rough, heavy traveling. The underbrush was thick; there were
fallen trees, tiny streams occasionally; deep, solemn glens, thick with
leafy mold and huge ferns. And the solid wall of trees. Wild brier,
dogwood, sumach, and white birch occasionally, gleaming, ghostlike,
in the gloom.
Silent, sinister recesses. At every crackling twig beneath their tread,
Alan's heart leaped. The Indians of this forest could glide through it
soundlessly. Alan felt a dozen times that he and Lentz were being
stalked.
"Where are we, Lentz? Wait a minute."
They crossed perilously on the top of a fallen tree, which spanned a
deep ravine. Lentz waited at its end for Alan to come. Lentz
whispered: "Let me help you."
There was an instant when it flashed to Alan that Lentz might push
him off. Alan drew back.
"Move on—I'll get down."
They crouched at the end of the tree. It occurred to Alan that he had
been foolish to bring Lentz. His mistrust of the fellow was growing.
But it seemed an unreasonable mistrust.
"Where are we, Lentz?"
"Halfway there, I think. Or more. We should see the light of the camp
fire soon."
They started again. Presently Lentz stopped. Alan could see him, ten
feet ahead, standing against a tree-trunk.
"What is it?" Alan advanced until they stood together. Lentz pointed.
Two eyes gleamed in the brush ahead. Alan impulsively raised his
weapon, but Lentz checked him.
"Quiet! Some animal."

Not an Indian. Alan relaxed. Of course not—human eyes do not

glisten like that in the darkness.
It may have been a wildcat. The eyes moved; there was a rustling;
the thing was gone.
"Shot would spoil everything," Lentz whispered. "Come on."
Once more they started. The stars were almost hidden by the thick
interlacing of the forest trees. Alan had long since lost his sense of
direction. This space—Eighty-Sixth Street, from the park to Riverside
Drive. How different now!
Alan was lost. He followed Lentz. But it seemed that Lentz was
bending always too much to the left. Once Alan said:
"That way, isn't it?"
"No. I think not. That is north. This is west."
But to Alan the feeling persisted. They plunged down into a dell, at
the bottom of which ran a tiny, purling brook. They waded it.
"Lentz!" he whispered.
They crouched together. There was something close ahead of them in
the woods. Figures—unmistakable human figures—stood lurking
against a tree off there!
In the silence Alan could almost hear his pounding heart. He was
afraid to move; a crackling twig would have sounded like a shot.
A moment. Then there was a rustling ahead. The figures moved.
They ran.
The underbrush cracked under them. They had seen Alan and Lentz
and were running. They reached, in a few feet, an open space of
starlight. Alan saw them clearly.
He gasped, and then he called softly, cautiously:
"Nanette! Ed—stop! It's Alan—"
It was Nanette and I, wandering lost.

CHAPTER XIII
THE TRAITOR

We stood together, there in the forest glen, for a minute or two

exchanging swift whispers. The fellow Lentz—I did not know who he
was then, unfortunately—stood a few feet from us. He was listening
to the woods. Then he came to us.
"I thought we might have been heard. Was any one following you?"
He addressed it to me.
Nanette and I had feared pursuit, but there had seemed none. We
had tried to head south—Josefa had said she would direct our
pursuers the other way. She was to have fired a shot—to make
plausible her story that we had escaped her. We had heard no shot.
Nor had Alan and Lentz. And in these silent woods the shot would
have been heard plainly.
Nanette and I were wholly lost. I realized it when I tried to tell Alan
which way we should go to reach the tower.
"We must get there at once," said Alan. He gestured toward Lentz.
He whispered: "That fellow—I may be wrong, but I don't trust him."
We could not agree on where we were, or which way might be the
tower.
"Oh, Lentz!" He came closer to us. Alan whispered: "Which way
would you say?"
The patch of starlight overhead was too small to help us. I
suggested: "I'll climb one of these trees. If I can see the camp fire at
Turber's—"
But it would take too long. By now there was undoubtedly a Turber
party of Indians in these woods searching for us. They might cut us
off from the tower, or locate the tower itself.
"I think," said Lentz, "this way."
To me it seemed that he was right.
"But that's south," said Alan.
I did not think so. Lentz said: "I led you wrong before—it was my
mistake. But I am sure now."
His frankness convinced us. We started. Lentz was leading; Alan and
I guided Nanette. Slow, careful going. We made as little noise as we
could. We came to a slight rise of ground. A distant gleam of water
showed ahead of us.
"Alan, look!"
"That's the East River."
"Yes, I think so."
It seemed so; it was very faint through the trees. Lentz had not seen
it—or he ignored it. But he heard that we had stopped; he turned
and came back.
"What is it?"
"That water—the river off there! We're going wrong."
I became aware that we were standing in a patch of starlight. "Not
here, Alan! Don't stand here!"
Almost in a panic we left the hillock and crouched in a thicket at its
foot.
Lentz whispered: "That river—that's to the east. Then Turber's aero is
off there—the western river." He pointed behind us. "And then the
tower would be this way."
It seemed so. We started again at almost right angles to our former
course. For what might have been half an hour we crept along. It
was eerie. The woods seemed empty of all human life save ourselves.
But in the silence, the insect life screamed with tumultuous voices.

We heard, in the distance, the mournful hooting of an owl. Or was it

an owl? Was it, perhaps, some Indian signaling?
My nerves were tense; I was trembling, straining my eyes to see, and
my ears to hear. It was difficult, keeping Nanette from falling. It
seemed as though the noise we made must reverberate through all
these woods. How far we went I do not know. It seemed miles.
A glow of light showed ahead of us! The tower? We stopped. Not the
tower. Why—a stockade! A high picket fence. A building. A northern
outpost of New Amsterdam!
Realization swept us. That river we had glimpsed was not the East
River, but the Hudson. We had turned exactly the wrong way; had
wandered far to the south. Or had been misled by Lentz. At one time,
until we checked him, we were headed for the Turber camp. The
fellow realized we understood. He was beside Alan; and as Alan
turned on him Lentz leaped and struck with his knife. Alan fired. The
shot roared like a cannon in the woods. It caught Lentz in the hand;
the knife dropped.
So quick, all this, that I had not moved from Nanette. Like a cat,
Lentz eluded Alan. Leaped behind a tree. And then ran, with Alan
after him.
I called, frantically: "Alan, come back! We'll lose each other!"
Alan's revolver spat again. Then he came back; we could hear Lentz
plunging off through the underbrush.
"What rotten shooting!" Alan groaned.
We seized Nanette and ran north; heedless of noise. Voices were
behind us. Torches showed back there.
"Not so fast, Alan. We're making too much rumpus!"
We slowed. Then we stopped to listen. The woods seemed full of
voices. Heavy tread of feet, pounding in the brush. Behind us. Then
ahead of us! We crouched; no use running now. We were
surrounded. Torches flared. A dog was howling. I saw, off in the
trees, the heavy figure of a man holding a blazing torch aloft. He held
an ancient fowling piece half raised; the dog was on a leash leading
him.
Figures closed in on us. They saw us in the light of their torches.
"No use, Alan."
Alan stuck his revolver in his pocket. We stood up, holding Nanette.
The Dutchman seized us, and stood jabbering. Sturdy fellows, in
shirts and broad jackets, flowing pantaloons and hobnailed shoes.
They were almost all bareheaded; hastily dressed. They stood
amazed at us. They pulled at Nanette.
"Let her alone," said Alan.
It was a mistake. English! One of them spoke English. He said:
"You English?"
They tore us apart from each other. They hurried us off. I heard one
say: "English! The damned English here already! Well can I speak it!
Ho, but our good Peter will be pleased at this midnight foray."
They dragged us south, into New Amsterdam.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BARGAIN WITH STUYVESANT

It seemed a long march. We had aroused a single fort—a northern

outpost of the city. They took us past that; following a crude
corduroy road. A noisy, blustering cortege we made in the woods.
Some fifty Dutchmen, armed with fowling pieces and swords;
carrying torches.
We came to other outposts. Our party augmented. We passed
through a long, armed stockade and were in the little city.
It was well toward midnight now. But the city needed no arousing.
The houses were all lighted. Crude log houses, most of one story, but
some with two. The winding streets, bounded by picket fences and
the houses with little gardens and vegetable patches, were thronged
with excited Dutchmen. For this was a momentous night. The English
were coming. Nichols, emissary of the Duke of York, already had sent
his demand that Peter Stuyvesant surrender this little Dutch Empire
to English rule. His fleet now had been sighted; it would anchor in
the bay tomorrow.
All day, and now far into the night, the little city had been in a
turmoil. The streets were littered with groups of jabbering patroons
firing up their great pipes and vowing that the thing was dastardly.
How dare the English duke demand their surrender! They rushed at
us; stared open-mouthed; but our captors fended them off, and
vouchsafed nothing.
I seized upon this fellow who spoke English.
"Where are you taking us?"
"To the Governor. He is in Council now."
Down by the Bowling Green, near where the main fort displayed its
flag and menaced the bay with its cannon, Peter Stuyvesant sat in
the upper story of his home deliberating with his Council upon this
crisis. But we never reached there. We went only a block or two from
the northern edge of the city. The Dutchmen on the street corners
gazed up at their tin weathercocks and prayed for a storm that would
blow Nichols's fleet to perdition. They came running out from their
gardens to regard us, and jabbered some more. The city was flooded
with words this night.
An argument broke out among our captors. We were faced about,
taken north again.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Keep you here," said our interpreter. "The good Peter will come up
to see you."
We were taken back. Out beyond the stockade, a little blockhouse
stood on a rise of ground. The woods were thick around it.
"Leave you here," the fellow told us. "There is enough trouble in the
city tonight. Peter will come up to see you." He chuckled. "Tomorrow
they will bargain with Nichols's emissary at the Bowling Green—
unless, as I hope, the Council decides to have our fort blow up these
cursed English ships as soon as they appear. But if there is a bargain,
by the gods it is nice to have you English out here secluded in the
woods as hostages."
He evidently thought we were strangely dressed, important
personages connected with the English invasion. Sent ahead,
perhaps, to stir up the Indians in the northern woods. He said
something like that; and how could we contradict it?
The log fort was a heavy-set structure. Two rooms in the lower story
with an open space like an attic under the peaked roof. We were
flung into one of the rooms. Its windows were barred with solid
planks. The Dutchmen bound us with lengths of rope and laid us like
bundles on the floor.
"Lie there—keep quiet."

They slammed the oak door upon us. We lay in the darkness. In the
next room when most of them departed, we fancied some half a
dozen had been left to guard us. We heard their voices; the light
from their candles showed through the chinks of the interior log wall.
We whispered to each other. We were worried about Nanette but she
was unhurt.
"Yes, all right, Alan. But I'm so frightened."
"At least it's better than being in Turber's hands, Nanette." If we
could escape now, there might still be time to get back to the tower.
If not—well, we might be stranded here to live out our lives in New
Amsterdam. But at least, these Dutchmen probably would not murder
us.
But could we escape? It seemed impossible. We lay in the darkness
on the log floor, bound securely.
An interval went by. There was a stir outside. Thumping. More voices.
The door opened. Peter Stuyvesant came in. He stood, balanced
upon his wooden leg and regarded us in the light of a candle held
aloft. Eyed us as though we were some monstrosities; poked at us
with the peg of his leg; and turned and stumped back to the
doorway.
And in the doorway then, I saw Wolf Turber standing! Turber, in his
black cloak, his white shirt gleaming beneath it. His sardonic gaze
upon us.
The thing struck us with such surprise and horror that neither Alan
nor I moved, or spoke. The door was left open. Turber and
Stuyvesant sat at a table. The candlelight showed them plainly. There
seemed now only one other man in the room—some trusted patroon,
no doubt.
Turber spoke this contemporary Dutch. They conversed. We could
hear them, but could not understand a word.
What they said, never will be disclosed. Unrecorded history, this! A
furtive, hidden incident—who was there ever to record it? Did
Stuyvesant think Turber some magician? Or just a rich adventurer?
A bargain was struck. From a bag Turber produced jewels. And coins,
and chunks of gold. He piled them on the table in the candlelight. He
and Stuyvesant drank from their goblets to seal the bargain.
Stuyvesant gathered up the treasure and stuffed it in the pockets of
his great-coat.
 A bargain was struck with Peter Stuyvesant.

Turber came in to us. He bent down. "If you speak or move, I'll have
them kill you now." He chuckled. "Say good-by to Nanette—quite a
little fortune I paid for her, but she's worth it."
He lifted up Nanette. He untied her thongs. She cried out—just once.
"Don't be frightened, child. I won't hurt you."
Alan and I were straining at our bonds.
"Quiet, you fools!" We had helplessly tried to menace him with
words.
He led Nanette from the room. The door closed upon us. We could
hear Stuyvesant leaving. And then Turber taking Nanette away. His
voice reached us:
"Don't be frightened, child."
There was silence.
Another interval passed. There were again guards in the room
outside. I whispered: "Alan, it must be nearly dawn."
We had no idea. There were spaces in the outer log walls where the
morticed filling had fallen away. But only blackness showed.
In the adjoining room there was candlelight, and the drowsy voices
of the Dutchmen.
"Alan, what's that?"
A thud had sounded; something striking the roof over our heads.
Then another. Off in the woods there was a shout. A war-whoop!
And other thuds. A rain of arrows falling upon the roof and the side
of the little fort.
An Indian attack! The Dutchmen in the adjoining room made short
work of getting out of this isolated building. They did not come in
even to look at us. They decamped into the woods, running for the
village stockade.
We were left alone. Helpless!
The rain of arrows kept on. We could hear the Indians shouting, but
they did not advance.
The dawn was coming. Or was it the dawn? A red glow showing
through the log walls. Red and yellow. I smelled smoke! Alan
coughed with a sudden choking.
The little log blockhouse was being bombarded with flaming arrows.
It was on fire, filling up with smoke which already was choking us!
 CHAPTER XV

THE RESCUE

Lea and San—after Alan and Lentz left them—kept watch in the
tower. They talked together in their own language.
"How long do you think, brother, that they will be gone?"
"Until dawn perhaps. We can only hope for the best. Alan is
resourceful—he got you away from Turber, Lea."
They could not guess what Alan and Lentz would do to rescue
Nanette and me. They discussed Lentz. A fellow of their own Time-
world. Their father had always put great trust in him. But Lentz had
known Turber there. Was he a traitor now? A fellow in the pay of
Turber? There had been several little things which Alan had brought
to light—things to make them suspicious of Lentz. And they knew
Alan did not trust him.
The hours passed. The forest was a black wall of silence about the
tower. Lea often stood in the doorway, staring out. Small, graceful
figure in flowing blue robe and golden hair. We had seen her on the
television like that—our first sight of her.
San would not be still. As always when the tower was at rest in a
strange Time-world, he constantly paced the room; peering
alternately from each of its windows; always within a few feet of the
tower controls so that at any hostile sign outside, in a second or two
the tower would speed away.
Time dragged by. Lea grew increasingly worried. Alan should be
back by now.
"If he would have taken me," she said. "You remember, San, when
we were here once before? There was an old chief—Silver Water,
you remember? I could have got him then to help me try for Turber
in one of Turber's passings. But you would not let me."
"You are over-bold, Lea." San shrugged. "I am helpless—always here
with the tower."
"I could, tonight, have enlisted a band of these Indians," she said.
"They worshiped me for a goddess—the 'God of Magic,' old Silver
Water called the tower."
The Indians had been prostrate before the tower, that other night,
and from its steps Lea had talked to them, while San watched at the
controls.
"That was one thing," he said. "Safe enough. But to have you leave
—tonight—off in these woods to try and find your friendly, gullible
Indians—too dangerous, Lea. Alan knew it. He was right."
She presently mounted the tower, while San remained alert below.
From the top she could see the Turber camp fire. And the Indian fire
to the southeast.
Silence. And then, far away to the south where the pale-face city
held the southern tip of the island, Lea thought she heard a shot.
Then another. But they were very faint.
Dark spread of silent woods! What was going on out there? The
shots were Alan firing at Lentz when we discovered his treachery.
But Lea could not know that.
The Hudson River shone in the starlight. Lea saw a huge Indian
canoe moving south toward the glow of light which marked the
location of the Turber aero. It was one of the canoes bringing in the
Turber treasure. But that, too, she did not know.
She went down again and joined San. They waited through what
seemed another interminable period.
"We must leave at dawn," said San.
But Lea shook her head. "We will not leave until we know Turber has
left—and Alan has failed."
And there was the chance that Alan and Lentz would be in the
woods, and return at last, unsuccessful.
"We cannot abandon them, San."
They both suddenly felt that the venture was doomed to failure.
"San! Did you hear that?"
They were at one of the windows. A cautious call had come from the
woods. A low hail.
"Lea!" It came again. "Lea! Don't start the tower! I'm coming."

Lentz's voice! They both recognized it. Lea went to the doorway. San
was alert at the controls with his gaze on her.
"Wait, San." She gestured. "Wait! I see him."
Lentz appeared from a thicket near by.
"Lea?"
"Yes, Lentz. Where is Alan?"
"I'm coming in. Don't start the tower." He approached. "Disaster,
Lea. We could do nothing. Alan was killed by Turber."
Her heart went cold. She stood on the steps. Lentz was alone. He
came up the steps, into the tower room. There was blood on his
right hand; one of its fingers was mangled. He held out the
wounded hand.
He said: "Don't start us yet, San. I want to talk to you. I've been
hurt—Turber shot me."
They stood with him in the middle of the room. For that instant the
tower controls were neglected. Lentz held out his wounded hand for
inspection. His other hand was behind him. It came up over his
head. He struck with a dagger at San.
A swift blow, but Lea was quicker. She shoved at him. The blow
missed, and San was upon him. And Lea leaped at him also, fighting
desperately. They bore him down. His wounded hand was a
handicap. The dagger was in his awkward left hand. San fought for
it as they rolled on the floor with Lea bending over them.
A brief struggle. San twisted and got the dagger, stabbed with it.
Lentz gave a shuddering cry and relaxed.
San climbed to his feet, white and shaken. Lea was trembling.
"Got him, Lea. Accursed traitor."
San's first thought was the controls. Lea stopped him.
"Wait! How do we know Alan is dead? A lie, perhaps, what Lentz told
us."
They went to the windows. There was no one in sight. A groan from
Lentz brought them back. He lay, gruesome on the floor, with the
knife in him and a red stain widening. But he was not dead. Lea bent
over him.
"Lea—I want to—tell you the truth."
He died in a moment, but before he died he gasped out the truth of
what had happened. He had lurked in the woods and seen us
captured by the Dutchmen. Had followed us—himself like an Indian,
for he was skilled in woodcraft. He had been here before with
Turber, laying plans to get the treasure. He knew these woods well.
He had seen us finally thrown into the fort with half a dozen
Dutchmen left to guard us. Then he had gone to Turber. Had told
what happened. Turber had set off to see Stuyvesant. Lentz had
come back to the tower. If he had killed San, he would perhaps have
killed Lea also, and escaped with the tower.
But now he lay dead. He gasped his last words of the confession.
Blood gushed from his lungs.

Lea turned away. There was barely time for her to tell San what
Lentz had said—they were standing at the doorway—when they
became aware of dark figures in the shadowed glade near at hand!
Again San would have flung the tower into Time. But again Lea
stopped him.
Figures of savages were out there—not menacing, but prostrate
upon the ground at the edge of the near-by thickets. It was so dark
by the forest edge—the figures were dark and motionless—that Lea
and San might not have seen them had not there come a low wail.
Mournful cry! A prostrate savage placating this magic god of the
forest. This strange tower, with a god and goddess in its doorway
standing in this glade which the redskins well knew to be usually
empty of such a vision.
Lea's thoughts were swift. Alan and I and Nanette were held by the
Dutch in an isolated fort some two or three miles to the south. Lea
could control these Indians. She had already proved her power upon
one of their chieftains.
She murmured her plans to San. It was hardly a minute from the
time they had first seen the prostrate figures.
San stood alert, watching. Lea advanced to the top of the tower
steps. She called in the Indian dialect: "Rise up, children of the
forest. I would not hurt you. I bring you only good."
She descended the steps slowly. San called anxiously:
"Careful, Lea!"
"Yes, San. Stand on your feet, men of the forest."
Slowly she advanced upon them. Watchful.
They rose at the gesture of her upraised arms. Some ten of them—
young braves prowling here in the forest, attracted by the tower's
dim light.
They trembled before Lea. Savages of the year 1664! Well might
they have thought her a goddess; white, fairy-like creature with
flowing blue robe and dangling golden tresses—and the Time-
traveling tower behind her.
"I bring you commands," she said, "from the Spirit Land where your
fathers hunt now in peace and happiness. You have a chieftain—a
man of much power here in these woods. He is called Silver Water—
name like a woman, but he is a man very old, and wise, and very
good."
One of the Indians stepped forward. "I know him. His lodge—off
there by the water of the dawn—not far."
He pointed to the southeast.
"I will go with you," she said. "Lead me. Be not afraid, young
braves."
"Lea, come back!" San called.
She turned. "I'll be careful. No danger, San. Watch out for Turber."
She followed the Indians into the dark shadows of the forest.

"But, Goddess of the Sun, I have buried the hatchet with the pale-
face intruders here." The old sachem was troubled. He sat by his
camp fire with his braves about him. The East River flowed near by.
The wigwams of his village stood along it—dark-coned shapes in the
gloom. The curious women and children hovered in the background.
Lea stood straight and commanding with her back against a tree.
The firelight painted her. She held her arms upraised.
"I am at peace here," the old Indian repeated. "The pale-face chief
with the one live leg sat here at my fire and smoked the pipe of
peace with me. And you would command me to break my oath—"
"No," she said. "There is one little fort, this side of the city. You know
it."
"I know it," he said.
"And it is in your woods."
He nodded gravely. "Yes. They press always farther, these pale-face
intruders. But I want no fighting. The white men are very good at
killing—and I have heard this day that more of the pale-face ships
are coming. One of my braves was in the city today. He came back
drunk with firewater, but he had the tale."
"Have they ever broken their word with you?" she demanded.
"Yes—many times."
"Well, it is not my wish you should start any fighting. Merely frighten
away the guards of the little fort."
"My braves," he said, "run wild when deeds of violence start. We
want no killing."
"No," she agreed. "I will be careful of that."
Lea at last convinced him. There were two gods, and another
goddess like herself, held in that little fort by the Dutch. A score of
braves and herself could go and frighten away the Dutchmen and
rescue them. If they were left there—if evil came to them—then evil
would fall upon all this forest.
He listened. Abruptly he stood up and flung his gray braids with a
toss of his head; and wound his vivid blanket around him. Dignified,
venerable figure. But he was afraid of Lea. Her curse upon these, his
forests—his people—
"It shall be as you command. You shall have thirty of my braves. In
a moment they will be ready."

The little blockhouse stood in the trees on a rise of ground. Lea, with
her Indians about her, moved silently through the underbrush. It
was her intention to creep up and surprise the Dutch guards, and to
overcome them without arousing the near-by village. The door of
the blockhouse faced the other way. The building stood black and
silent. Were we in there? Was any one in there? She did not know.
Without warning, taking Lea wholly by surprise, at the edge of the
thickets the savages knelt abruptly and shot their arrows.
"Why—" Momentarily she lost her poise.
The young brave beside her drew her back behind a tree-trunk. It
startled her. But she saw that he was reverential.
"We will go no farther," he said. "Drive them away."
The lust of battle abruptly swept over the young Indians. With the
launching of the first arrow they seemed to forget Lea. The forest
rang with their shouts. They spread out; creeping forward. And then
with flint and steel bartered from the pale-face, they set their arrows
into flame. And launched them.
The young leader standing by Lea murmured: "They are running!
See them go—off there—running for their village. The fort will burn."
It was already burning. Dry walls and roof; the flaming arrows struck
and caught the bark. Spots of spreading flame.
"Wait!" commanded Lea. "Enough!" She stopped them at last. The
fort was blazing. The Dutchmen had decamped.
She added: "Come!" But the young Indians feared to advance;
suddenly fearful of what they had done; the great pale-face village
could pour out many wrathful men upon occasion.
"Then stay here," said Lea hurriedly.

She left them. She dashed across the short intervening space. She
ran around the corner of the burning building. A prayer was in her
heart that Alan and Nanette and I were inside and still safe.
She came to the door. It stood open. The room was full of smoke.
Its candles gleamed dully; but she saw that the room was empty.
And saw a door across it.
She rushed in. The smoke choked her. She held her breath.
The door between the rooms was not fastened. She flung it open.
Saw, in the yellow glare of the burning roof—saw Alan and me lying
bound and helpless.
We called: "Lea!"
She came—saw the ropes binding us. She dashed back to get a knife
lying on the table by the candles. We rolled so that she might cut
our ropes. We were all gasping in the smoke. She helped us up; we
could barely stand at first, but with her help we staggered out into
the blessed cool air of the night.
The building was blazing all over its side and roof. To the south, by
the city stockade, the Dutchmen were shouting, but none of them
advanced. We ran back to Lea's waiting Indians. There seemed still a
chance that Turber's aero might still be there. The Indians led us to
the spot. But it was gone, and the camp was deserted.
Then we crossed swiftly east to the tower. It was daylight when we
left the braves, prostrate before the tower as it melted into a
phantom and vanished.
We were safe—all but Nanette. Of what use to me, this safety?
Nanette, to me of all the world most dear, was gone. And this time I
had a premonition that she was lost to me forever.

CHAPTER XVI

WHICH THE READER MAY SKIP IF HE CHOOSES

I think it advantageous to my narrative now to set down a few

scientific facts. The laws, for instance, under which our Time-
traveling tower operated. The Indians of 1664 thought the tower
was magic. But it was based upon solid science.
The laws of Time and Space—the true aspect of the Material
Universe—all this is, in our age of 1945, imperfectly understood. So I
set down here a few succinct truths. Those of you who care to
ponder them may do so. You will find that the scientific aspect of my
narrative is much clearer. Those of a different turn of mind may pass
over this brief chapter.
The basis of the Material Universe is Energy. Energy we can also call
by another name—Change. Everything exists because it is changing.
The living cell feeds itself and grows; multiplies itself; dies and
decays; turns to other forms, liquid and gas—and is not lost, but
reconverted. The rocks were gas, then liquid, then solid. The wind
and water erodes them—they break, they powder, they blow away,
or wash away as dust, and come again in other forms of other
things.
The atoms, the very electrons of all matter in the universe, are
breaking down or building up. All changing. All are nothing but
manifestations of Energy. And Matter itself? Take a fragment of solid
gold—we find it built of loosely massed molecules, all in movement;
and each molecule a group of agitated atoms; and each atom,
whirling electrons and a nucleus—infinitely tiny things to which we
give these arbitrary names—things which in themselves in their
essence are nothing at all save Energy!
There is no mass. Nothing of solidity! Whirlpools—vortexes of
nothingness! Of such unsolid stuff you who read this are built. And
your home, and your city, and the Earth under you, and all the stars
of the Heavens!
At the basis of all this, also, is unceasing change of position. Every
tiny fragment of everything is restless—and every thing, in its
entirety, is in motion. We move in space about our tiny Earth. Our
Earth whirls us all along; and the Sun sweeps onward, dragging the
Earth, itself following some distant Star, which with other Stars is
going somewhere. We know all this, now in 1945.
We know, too, that nothing has a continuous existence. Your body,
as you now sit reading what you may feel are idle theories, at one
instant is existing and at the next is blotted out. And lives again
another instant. A changed body, just a little different in every tiny
essence of your being from what it was before.
Like a motion picture. There is nothing difficult to grasp in that
thought. We see a motion picture as a continuous flow of
movement; but we know that in reality the seeming movement is
merely a rapid change from one still picture to the next.
So with all our Material Universe. It is as though Time, like a whirling
knife-blade, were slashing through us—blotting us out, letting us live
only in the progressive instants between the whirling blades.

"Time" is the factor of all this which we find most unnatural to

envisage in its true aspect. I would have you imagine now, what I
might term the physical aspect of Time. Consider it, for instance, as
an all-pervading etheric fluid. Consider it strewn in a line from the
Beginning to the End. Our minds are so limited that we must
conceive everything in terms of tangibility—even the intangible. So I
would have you picture Time as a stream of imponderable, invisible
fluid. Imagine it in shape so that it could lie in some gigantic pipe—
perfectly straight—of some inconceivable length. We put the
Beginning and the End to bound it.
This Time-fluid, then, you must picture as being at rest—the one
thing of all things which does not move nor change. It lies there—
forever.
But do not forget this pipe-line of Time-fluid in which all this is
happening! Let us cling to simple physical analogies. We must
imagine, for instance, that the Time-fluid is progressively of different
physical character along all its length from its Beginning to its End.
Like water in a pipe—hot at one end, cold at the other, with every
gradation of temperature in between. Or, to be just a trifle closer to
fact, perhaps, the stream of Time might be imagined as a beam of
light—red at one end and violet at the other—with every tint and
shade merging along the way.
Something then—like a Thought—is put into the pipe-line of Time at
the Beginning. If you have conceived the fluid of Time as being hot
at the Beginning—then imagine that this foreign, intangible
substance which has been placed there is the same temperature.
Because of that, let us say, it can remain there. But only for an
instant! Because the foreign substance instantly desires to change its
character. It desires, let us say, to become a bit cooler. It wants to
reexist; to perpetuate itself in changed form.
The fluid of Time at the Beginning will not tolerate anything cooler.
Will not tolerate any change at all. So it shifts a changed replica of
the restless thing along a bit. An event has occurred. A new thing
exists, beside the old thing. Both lie there side by side—and the
difference between their aspects is the change. Also, it is movement.
Not the movement of something tangible as we are wont to conceive
it. That is a fallacy; there is no such movement—nor is there
anything of absolute tangibility to move! The aspect of the old thing,
compared—like a motion picture—to the aspect of the new thing
beside it, is what we call movement.
It is also an interval of Time. And that interval—that pseudo-
movement—that tangible difference between intangible things—is all
that our human senses can perceive. They lie inert in Time. But we
are aware of the progressive difference between them. Upon it we
have built our conception of Substance, Matter. We are ourselves a
part of this ceaseless change—and to a phantom every other
phantom is solid!
I need not pursue the analogy of the Time-fluid. You can conceive
the building Universe—every instant reborn: leaving itself lying there
in Time, and changed replicas of itself existing progressively in the
new positions.