“In heah.” The hissing whisper was taut in his ear. “Quickly.”

A door slid open just a crack. They burst through, and the other man closed it behind them. An automatic lock clicked shut.

“Ih don’ tink dey vised us,” said the man grimly. “Dey better not ha’!”

Saunders stared at him. The other man was of medium height, with a lithe, slender build shown by the skin-tight gray clothes under his black cape. There was a gun at one hip, a pouch at the other. His face was sallow, with a yellowish tinge, and the hair was shaven. It was a lean, strong face, with high cheekbones and narrow jaw, straight nose with flaring nostrils, dark, slant eyes under Mephistophelean brows. The mouth, wide and self-indulgent, was drawn into a reckless grin that showed sharp white teeth. Some sort of white-Mongoloid half-breed, Saunders guessed.

“Who are you?” he asked roughly.

The stranger surveyed him shrewdly. “Belgotai of Syrtis,” he said at last. “But yuh don’ belong heah.”

“I’ll say I don’t.” Wry humor rose in Saunders. “Why did you snatch me that way?”

“Yuh didn’ wanna fall into de Watch’s hands, did yuh?” asked Belgotai. “Don’ ask mih why Ih ressued a stranger. Ih happened to come out, see yuh running, figgered anybody running fro de Watch desuhved help, an’ pulled yuh back in.” He shrugged. “Of course, if yuh don’ wanna be helped, go back upstaiahs.”

“I’ll stay here, of course,” he said. “And—thanks for rescuing me.”

“De nada,” said Belgotai. “Come, le’s ha’ a drink.”

It was a smoky, low-ceilinged room, with a few scarred wooden tables crowded about a small charcoal fire and big barrels in the rear—a tavern of some sort, an underworld hangout. Saunders reflected that he might have done worse. Crooks wouldn’t be as finicky about his antecedents as officialdom might be. He could ask his way around, learn.

‘‘I’m afraid I haven’t any money,” he said. “Unless—” He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket.

Belgotai looked sharply at them and drew a whistling breath between his teeth. Then his face smoothed into blankness. “Ih’ll buy,” he said genially. “Come, Hennaly, gi’ us whissey.”

Belgotai drew Saunders into a dark corner seat, away from the others in the room. The landlord brought tumblers of rotgut remotely akin to whiskey, and Saunders gulped his with a feeling of need.

“Wha’ name do yuh go by?” asked Belgotai.

“Saunders. Martin Saunders.”

“Glad to see yuh. Now—” Belgotai leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper— “Now, Saunders, when’re yuh from?”

Saunders started. Belgotai smiled thinly. “Be frank,” he said. “Dese’re mih frien’s heah. Dey’d think nawting of slitting yuh troat and dumping yuh in de alley. But Ih mean well.”

With a sudden great weariness, Saunders relaxed. What the hell, it had to come out sometime. “Nineteen hundred seventy-three,” he said.

“Eh? De future?”

“No—the past.”

“Oh. Diff’ent chronning, den. How far back?”

“One thousand and twenty-seven years.”

Belgotai whistled. “Long ways! But Ih were sure yuh mus’ be from de past. Nobody eve’ come fro’ de future.”