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Overview
College student, ex-marine, and martial artist Malcolm Lockridge is in prison awaiting his trial for murder when he receives an unexpected visit from an extraordinarily beautiful woman named Storm. Claiming to be a representative of the Wardens, a political faction from two thousand years in the future, Storm offers the astonished young man a proposition: freedom in return for his assistance in recovering an unspecified lost treasure. But it is not long before Malcolm realizes that, in truth, he’s been recruited as a soldier in the Wardens’ ongoing war against their rivals, the Rangers. And this war is different from any that has ever been fought, because the battlefield is not a place but time itself.
Traveling backward and forward through corridors connecting historical epochs separated by thousands of years, Malcolm is soon embroiled in a furious conflict between the forces of good and minions of evil. But the deeper he is pulled into this devastating time war, the clearer Malcolm’s ultimate role in humankind’s destiny becomes, causing the troubled young soldier from the twentieth century to question whether he’s been chosen to fight on the side of good or evil . . . and if such a distinction even exists.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497694200 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/30/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 209 |
| Sales rank: | 157,708 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
In 1952 he met Karen Kruse; they married in Berkeley, California, where their daughter, Astrid, was born, and they later lived in Orinda, California. Astrid and her husband, science fiction author Greg Bear, now live with their family outside Seattle.
Poul Anderson (1926–2001) grew up bilingual in a Danish American family. After discovering science fiction fandom and earning a physics degree at the University of Minnesota, he found writing science fiction more satisfactory. Admired for his “hard” science fiction, mysteries, historical novels, and “fantasy with rivets,” he also excelled in humor. He was the guest of honor at the 1959 World Science Fiction Convention and at many similar events, including the 1998 Contact Japan 3 and the 1999 Strannik Conference in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Besides winning the Hugo and Nebula Awards, he has received the Gandalf, Seiun, and Strannik, or “Wanderer,” Awards. A founder of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, he became a Grand Master, and was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame.
In 1952 he met Karen Kruse; they married in Berkeley, California, where their daughter, Astrid, was born, and they later lived in Orinda, California. Astrid and her husband, science fiction author Greg Bear, now live with their family outside Seattle.
Read an Excerpt
The Corridors of Time
By Poul Anderson
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1965 Trigonier TrustAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9420-0
CHAPTER 1
The guard said, 'You got a visitor,' and turned the key.
'What? Who?' Malcolm Lockridge rose from his bunk. He had been lying there for hours, trying to read a textbook – keep up with his course work – but mostly with his gaze held to a crack in the ceiling and his mind awash in bitterness. If nothing else, the noises and stinks from the other cells distracted him too much.
'I dunno.' The guard clicked his tongue. 'She's a dish, though.' His tone was more awed than otherwise.
Puzzled, Lockridge crossed the floor. The guard stepped back a little. One could read his mind: Careful, there, this guy's a killer. Not that Lockridge appeared vicious. He was of medium height, with crew-cut sandy hair, blue eyes, blunt snub-nosed features that reflected no more than his twenty-six years. But he was wider in chest and shoulders, thicker in arms and legs, than most men, and he moved like a cat.
'Don't be scared, son,' he fleered.
The guard reddened. 'Watch yourself, buster.'
Oh, hell, Lockridge thought. Why take my feelings out on him? He's been decent enough. Well, who else is there to hit back at?
Anger died away as he walked down the corridor. In the grindstone sameness of the past two weeks, any break was treasured. Even a talk with his lawyer was an event, though one to be paid for afterward with a sleepless night, raging at the man's bland unwillingness to fight his case. So he gnawed the question of who this might be today. A woman – his mother had flown back to Kentucky. A dish – one girl friend had come to see him, and she was kind of pretty, but that had been a morbid 'How could you?' scene and he didn't expect her to return. Some female reporter? No, by now the local papers had all interviewed him.
He came out into the visiting room. A window opened on the city, traffic noises, a park across the street, new-leafed trees and heartbreakingly blue sky full of swift little clouds, a breath of Midwestern springtime that made him doubly aware of the stench he had left. A couple of guards kept watch on those who sat at the long tables and whispered to each other.
'Over there,' said Lockridge's escort.
He turned and saw her. She stood by the assigned chair. The heart jumped in him. My God!
She was as tall as himself, a dress, simple, subtle, and expensive, showed a figure that might have belonged to a swimming champion, or to Diana the Huntress. Her head was carried high, black hair falling to the shoulders and shimmering with a stray sunbeam. The face – he couldn't quite tell what part of the world had shaped it : arched brows over long and tilted green eyes, broad cheekbones, straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils, imperious mouth and chin, tawny complexion. For a moment, though the physical resemblance was slight, he recalled certain images from ancient Crete, Our Lady of the Labrys, and then he had time only to think of what was before him. Half frightened, he approached her.
'Mr Lockridge,' she said, not as a question. He couldn't place her accent either; perhaps just a too perfect enunciation. The voice was low-pitched and resonant.
'Y-yes,' he faltered. 'Uh —'
'I am Storm Darroway. Shall we sit down?' She did so herself, as if accepting a throne, and opened her purse. 'Would you like a cigarette?'
'Thanks,' he said automatically. She flared a Tiffany lighter for him but she did not smoke herself. Having something to do with his hands steadied his nerves a little. He took his chair and met her gaze across the blank surface that divided them. In some corner of turmoil he wondered what anyone of her appearance was doing with an Anglo-Saxon name. Well, maybe her folks had been unpronounceable immigrants and changed. Yet she had none of the ... humbleness, the desire to please, which that suggested.
'I'm afraid I haven't had the, uh, pleasure of meetin' you before,' he mumbled. Glancing at her left hand: '–Uh, Miss Darroway.'
'No, of course not.' She fell silent, watching him, her countenance gone expressionless. He began to fidget. Stop that! he told himself, sat straight, looked back and waited.
She smiled with closed lips. 'Very good,' she murmured. Crisply: 'I saw an item about you in a Chicago paper which interested me. So I came to learn more for myself. You seem to be the victim of circumstances.'
Lockridge shrugged. 'I don't want to give you a sob story,' he said, 'but yes, that's right. Are you a reporter?'
'No. I am only concerned with seeing justice done. Does that surprise you?' she asked on a sardonic note.
He considered. 'I reckon so. There're people like Erle Stanley Gardner, but your kind of lady —'
'Has better ways to spend her time than crusading.' She grinned. 'True. I need some help myself. Perhaps you are the one who can give it.'
Lockridge's world was tilting around him. 'Can't you hire somebody, Ma'm – Miss?'
'Some qualities cannot be bought, they must be given, and I have not the means to search deeply.' Warmth entered her tone. 'Tell me about your situation.'
'Why, you saw the papers.'
'In your own words. Please.'
'Well – gosh – there isn't much. I was headin' back to my apartment from the library, one night a couple weeks ago. That's in a kind of run-down district. A bunch of teen-agers jumped me. I reckon they figured to beat me up for kicks and for what little money I had. I fought back. One of 'em hit the sidewalk and cracked his head. The rest made off quick, I called the police, and the next thing I knew, I was charged with second degree murder.'
'Can you not claim self-defense?'
'Sure. I do. It doesn't do me a lot of good. No witnesses. I can't identify any of those punks; the street was dark. And there's been a lot of trouble lately between their sort and the college. I was caught up in one small riot before, when some of the high school crowd tried to bust into a picnic. Now they say this fellow and me must've had a grudge fight. Me, with combat trainin' pickin' on a chee-ild.' Rage welled up in him tasting of vomit. 'Child, hell! He was bigger and hairier than I am. And there were a good dozen of 'em. But we got an ambitious D.A.'
She studied him. He was reminded of his father, long ago on the farm in Kentucky's hills, watching the ways of a young bull he had acquired. After a pause, she asked, 'Are you remorseful?'
'No,' he said. 'That's countin' against me too. I'm no good at actin'. Oh, I sure didn't set out to kill anybody. I pulled my punches right along. Pure accident that the punk fell the way he did. I'm sorry it happened. But my conscience feels clear. There I was, mindin' my own business, and – suppose I hadn't known how to handle myself. I'd've ended in the hospital, or dead. Everybody would've said, "How awful! We must build still another youth recreation center."'
Lockridge's shoulders slumped. He crushed out his cigarette and stared at his hands. 'I was foolish enough to say that to the Press,' he continued dully. 'Along with a few other remarks. They don't seem to like Southerners much around here, these days. My lawyer says the local liberals are also makin' me out a racist. Shucks, I hardly ever saw a colored man where I came from; and you can't get to be an anthropologist and keep superstitions about race; and those hoodlums were white anyhow. But none of that seems to make any difference to people's feelin's.'
His anger turned on himself. 'I'm sorry, Miss,' he said. 'I didn't mean to whine.'
She reached toward him, but checked herself. He looked up and saw that the strange, beautiful face had taken on a pride that came near to arrogance. Yet she spoke low, almost tenderly: 'You have a free heart. I was hoping for that.'
At once she became all impersonal business. 'What are your prospects at trial?'
'Not so good. The court appointed me a lawyer who says I ought to plead guilty to manslaughter and get off with a lesser sentence. I can't see that. It's not right.'
'I gather you have no money for a protracted contest.'
Huh? he thought. A woman like her, tallan' like a stage professor? 'No,' he said. 'I been livin' on a graduate fellowship. My mother swears she'll mortgage her place to raise a stake, she bein' widowed and none of my brothers rich. I hate for her to do that. Course, I'll pay the debt off if I win. But if I don't—'
'I think you may,' she said. 'Am I correct in believing that William Ellsworth in Chicago is one of the nation's best criminal lawyers?'
'What? Why – why — He's hardly ever lost a case, they say.'
Stupefied, Lockridge gaped. He began to tremble.
Storm Darroway stroked her chin. 'A good staff of private investigators could track down the members of this boy-gang,' she said thoughtfully. 'Their whereabouts that night could be established in court, and skilled cross-examination break their lies. We could also find character witnesses for you. Your life has been blameless, has it not?'
'Well—' Lockridge clamped teeth together. He achieved a sort of smile. 'Reasonably so. But look, this'd cost a fortune!'
'I have a fortune.' She brushed the question aside. Leaning forward, the luminous eyes searching out every detail about him: 'Tell me of yourself. I shall need information. Where did you get this combat training you mentioned?'
'Marines. And I was stationed in Okinawa, got interested in karate and attended a dojo.' In his hammering daze he scarcely noticed how she drew his life from him: the boy-hood of work, forests, hunting, and fishing; restlessness that ended in his enlistment at seventeen; the enlightening shock of other lands, other peoples, a world more wide than he had imagined; the birth of a wish to learn. 'I read quite a lot in the service. Afterward, back in the States, I went to college on my savin's, decided to go in for anthropology. They have a good department in the university here, so I am – I was buckin' for my master's Ph.D. later on. Could be a good life. I like primitive people. They're nothin' to get romantic about, they've got troubles as bad as ours or worse, but there's somethin' there that we've lost.'
'You have traveled, then?'
'Some field trips, to places like Yucatán. We were goin' back this summer. I reckon that's washed up for me, though. Even if I got off the hook in time, I'm probably not very welcome around here any more. Well, I'll find another place.'
'Indeed you might.'
Storm Darroway glanced around, lynx careful. The guards, less bored than usual, were watching her, but they were out of earshot if she talked softly.
'Listen, Malcolm Lockridge,' she said. 'Look at me.'
With pleasure, he thought. His spine tingled.
'I am going to engage Ellsworth to defend you,' she said. 'He will be instructed not to consider expense. If you are convicted, he will appeal. But I do not think that will be necessary.'
Lockridge could only whisper, 'Why?'
She tossed her head. The long locks flew back and he saw a tiny, transparent button in her left ear. Hearing aid? Somehow the thought that she was also troubled and imperfect warmed him. The walls between him and the world came down and he sat in spring sunlight.
'Let us say it is wrong to cage a lion,' she answered. There was no coquetry about her; the words rang.
Her mask clamped down. She sat utterly relaxed and went on, cool of tone. 'Besides, I require assistance. The task is dangerous. You seem much better fitted than some slogg I might hire off the street. The payment will not be niggard's.'
'Miss,' he stammered. 'I don't want any pay for – for anything at all.'
'You will need travel funds, at least,' she told him. 'Immediately after the trial, Ellsworth will give you an envelope with a check and instructions. Meanwhile, you are not to speak a word about me. If asked who is financing your defense, say a wealthy distant relative. Is that clear?'
Only later, trying to make sense of the whole fantastic matter, did he wonder if she was some kind of criminal, and refuse to believe that she could be. In this moment, he knew a command when he heard one, and nodded dumbly.
She rose. He stumbled to his feet 'I will not return here,' she said. Her hand clasped his, a swift firm gesture. 'We will meet again when you are free, in Denmark. Now good-bye and good heart to you.'
He stared after her until she was gone, and then down to the hand she had taken.
CHAPTER 2September 14, her letter had said, at nine in the morning. Lockridge woke early, couldn't get back to sleep, and finally went for a long walk. He wanted to say farewell to Copenhagen anyhow. Whatever the job Storm Darroway had for him, it would scarcely be here – not when he was directed to buy backpacking equipment for two, a rifle, and a pistol – and he had fallen in love with the city.
Bicycles swarmed the streets, weaving in and out of auto traffic, the last workward rush. Their riders didn't have the beaten look of American commuters: placid portly men, young fellows in business suits or student caps, girls with fresh faces and blowing blonde hair, all openly enjoyed life. The gay glitter of Tivoli was like champagne in the blood, but you needn't go there to taste the Old Vienna spirit. Sufficient was to walk down Langelinje, sea winds in your nostrils, ships bound for the outposts of the world; stop to pay your respects to the Little Mermaid and Gefjon of the Oxen; go past royal Amalienborg, left along the canal through Nyhavn where centuries-old seamen's taverns sleepily recalled last night's fun, across Kongens Nytorv with a pause for a quick beer at an outdoor café; and on among Renaissance churches, palaces, counting houses, whose slender copper-sheathed spires pierced the sky with loveliness.
I got so damn much to be grateful to that woman for, Lock-ridge reflected, and not least that she had me arrive here three weeks ahead of time.
He had wondered why. Her instructions were to get ordnance maps and familiarize himself with the Danish topography, spend many hours in the Old Nordic section of the National Museum, and read several books that thoroughly explained the exhibits. He obeyed conscientiously, puzzled but not questioning his luck. There were ample chances for recreation, and no lack of companionship. The Danes were friendly, delightfully so in the case of two young ladies he had met. Maybe that was Storm Darroway's idea: for him to recover from the ordeal behind him, and work off enough biological steam that he wouldn't be making passes at her – wherever they were bound.
The reminder was jolting. Today! He quickened his steps. The hotel she had ordered him to use hove into view. Trying to ease the tension that gathered in him, he took the stairs to his room rather than an elevator.
He had not long to pace and chain-smoke. The phone rang. He yanked it off the hook. The clerk said, in excellent English, 'Mr Lockridge? You are asked to meet Miss Darroway outside in fifteen minutes, with your baggage.'
'Oh. Okay.' For a moment he bristled. She was treating him like a servant. No, he decided. I've been so long in the northern states I've forgotten what a real lady expects. No reason to get a bellhop. He slipped a pack onto his shoulders, took the other one and his suitcase in his hands, and went down to check out.
A gleaming-new Dauphine stopped by the curb. She was at the wheel. He had not forgotten her looks, that was impossible, but when her dark head leaned out the window, he drew a breath and the Danish girls fell from his awareness.
'How do you do,' he said lamely.
She smiled. 'Welcome back to freedom, Malcolm Lock-ridge,' the husky voice greeted him. 'Shall we start?'
He put the gear in the trunk and joined her. She was wearing slacks and sneakers, but looked no less imperial than before. She slipped the car into traffic with more skill than he could have shown. 'Whew!' he said. 'You don't waste time, do you?'
'There is little to spare,' she answered. 'I want to be across this country before nightfall.'
Lockridge pulled his eyes from her profile. 'I, uh, I'm ready for whatever you've got in mind.'
She nodded. 'Yes, I read you aright.'
'But if you'll tell me—'
'In a moment. I gather you were acquitted.'
'Completely. I don't know how I can ever thank you.'
'By helping me, of course,' she said with a touch of impatience. 'But let us discuss your own situation first. I need to know what commitments you have.'
'Why – none, really. I'd no idea how long this job would take, so I haven't applied for another. I can stay with my mother till I do get one.'
'Does she expect you back soon?'
'No. I stopped off in Kentucky to see my folks. Your letter said not to let on, so I only told them my defense had been handled by somebody rich who thought I was gettin' a raw deal and now wanted me in Europe as a consultant on a research project that might or might not take quite a while. Okay?'
'Excellent.' She dazzled him with a look. 'I did not misjudge your ingenuity either.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Corridors of Time by Poul Anderson. Copyright © 1965 Trigonier Trust. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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