“Man, you can’t. Try it. Go on, tell her you’re going to hop her four years into the future.”

Whitcomb groaned. “A giveaway—and I’m conditioned—”

“Yeh. You have barely enough latitude to appear this way before her, but talking to her, you’ll have to lie out of it because you can’t help yourself. Anyway, how would you explain her? If she stays Mary Nelson, she’s a deserter from the W.A.A.F. If she takes another name, where’s her birth certificate, her school record, her ration book, any of those bits of paper these twentieth-century governments worship so devoutly? It’s hopeless, son.”

‘Then what can we do?”

“Face the Patrol and slug it out. Wait here a minute.” There was a cold calm over Everard, no time to be afraid or to wonder at his own behavior.

Returning to the street, he located his hopper and set it to emerge five years in the future, at high noon in Piccadilly Circus. He slapped down the main switch, saw the machine vanish, and went back inside. Mary was in Whitcomb’s arms, shuddering and weeping. The poor, damned babes in the woods!

“Okay.” Everard led them back to the parlor and sat down with his gun ready. “Now we wait some more.”

It didn’t take long. A hopper appeared, with two men in Patrol gray aboard. There were weapons in their hands. Everard cut them down with a low-powered stun beam. “Help me to tie ’em up, Charlie,” he said.

Mary huddled voiceless in a corner.

When the men awoke, Everard stood over them with a bleak smile. “What are we charged with, boys?” he asked in Temporal.

“I think you know,” said one of the prisoners calmly. “The main office had us trace you. Checking up next week, we found that you had evacuated a family scheduled to be bombed. Whitcomb’s record suggested you had then come here, to help him save this woman who was supposed to die tonight. Better let us go or it will be worse for you.”

“I have not changed history,” said Everard. “The Danellians are still up there, aren’t they?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“How did you know the Enderby family was supposed to die?”

“Their house was struck, and they said they had only left it because—”

“Ah, but the point is they did leave it. That’s written. Now it’s you who wants to change the past.”

“But this woman here—”

“Are you sure there wasn’t a Mary Nelson who, let us say, settled in London in 1850 and died of old age about 1900?”

The lean face grinned. “‘You’re trying hard, aren’t you? It won’t work. You can’t fight the entire Patrol.”

“Can’t I, though? I can leave you here to be found by the Enderbys. I’ve set my hopper to emerge in public at an instant known only to myself. What’s that going to do to history?”

“The Patrol will take corrective measures…as you did back in the fifth century.”

“Perhaps! I can make it a lot easier for them, though, if they’ll hear my appeal. I want a Danellian.”