Illustration by Darryl Elliott

United Nations Resolution XIII of 2036:

On the second Saturday of November 2036 the Glenwood High School of Glenwood, Virginia held its Homecoming Game and the American ship, John F. Kennedy, was still on hold at Moon Base.

“The drum!” shouted someone in the bleacher seats below. “It exploded!”

No, decided Daniel Beckwith, as he examined the scene through binoculars, the drum had not exploded. Actually, a girl had materialized almost exactly in front of the drum, and boy and drum had come crashing down on her. And with that, the halftime parade of the Glenwood Gladiator high-school band had come to a chaotic halt.

“Excuse, please.” “Heads up.” “Let me through.” He clambered down through standing rows of unheeding students and hurried out across the football field. A moment later he pushed his way through the cluster of band members and looked down at the girl.

She lay on her back. Some sort of towel or mat covered most of her, including her face. She wore a long muslin cloak. At that moment she thrust the mat aside and looked up at the circle of faces. Her eyes reached his and stopped.

Why me? he wondered. He had never thought of himself as particularly handsome. In fact, strong arguments to the contrary could be made. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and dark, deep-set eyes. A nose broken years ago in a football scrimmage and never properly set gave him a pugnacious look, totally at odds with his personality.

And how about her? He could see at a glance that she was a beauty. She was fair, with red-tinted blonde hair done in braids around her head. She had pink cheeks and gray-green eyes that were still locked into his. Her dark-hued cloak revealed the contours of a very shapely body.

She was breathing hard. A fair-size purse of cordovan leather, looped to her neck by a gold chain, lay on her chest.

His nose wrinkled. He recognized the smells of field and turf and cleat-torn earth. Nothing strange about those. No, it was something else. It was the odor of electrical equipment. Ozone? he wondered. Odd.

He knelt down. “Are you all right?”

She peered up at him and frowned, as though she did not understand him. She struggled to a sitting position and pulled the mat over her front. She continued to look at him curiously, and then she said something that he couldn’t understand. It was a question. He could tell that much. A question in a foreign language. Which one? He knew a few words in half a dozen. As a wild guess, it sounded as though it might be Arabic. One of the worst, yet he felt relief. Arabic meant she was probably an exchange student, perhaps from Egypt or Syria, some place like that. Somebody would turn up to take care of her, and she would certainly know a few words of basic English.

He repeated, “Are you all right?”

“Inglizi?” she asked slowly, searching his bearded face.

Ah, he thought. We’re making progress. Despite the fair complexion, she’s definitely Arabic. That’s the Arab word for English. And it’s equally clear that she doesn’t understand English. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to recall some of the “Phrases for Travelers” in his two-cartridge course in Arabic. He said, “Ismee Daniel Beckwith.” My name is Daniel Beckwith. “Miin hadirtak?” May I ask who you are?

She answered distinctly. “Az-Zahra.”

“Az-Zahra, tsharraft bi-mariftak.” Az-Zahra, I am pleased to meet you. Could she understand him? He knew his accent was atrocious. Courage, Beckwith! He continued, with halting lapses. “Min wayne hadirtak?” Where are you from?

She brightened. “Ana min Cordoba.”

Ah, he thought. Cordoba? Hmm. There’s Cordoba Spain, Cordoba Argentina, probably Cordobas all over Latin America. Perhaps she knew Spanish. He wasn’t very good at it, but certainly it was better than his Arabic. Try for Spain. He said slowly, “¿Cordoba? ¿Usted es de Cordoba en España?”

She was beaming. “¡Sí! Cordoba en España.” She got to her feet and rolled up her mat. Rows of rhinestones were sewn into the fabric, and they refracted a dazzling spectral display as the sunlight struck them. Standing there in her black leather slippers, she seemed a little below average height, perhaps five-foot-two or -three inches. Yet there was something regal in her bearing.

She said, “¿Habla vuesa merced Español?”

He claimed no expertise in the language; yet, it seemed to him there was something odd about her pronunciation. No matter. It was all recognizable, even that archaic “vuesa merced”—“your grace”—which had devolved into the abbreviation “usted” more than five centuries ago. He replied cautiously, “Un poco.”

She looked up at him very seriously. “Digame, por favor, Sidi Beckwith, ¿que año?”

What year? The question shook him. And what’s this “sidi” business? Cid? Medieval Spanish for “lord”!

He watched her carefully as he replied. “El año es dos mil treinta y seis.” Two thousand thirty-six.

She considered that a moment, then looked up at him. “¿Año de los cristianos?”

Christian era? “Sí.”

“Un tiempo muy largo,” she mused. A very long time. “¿Pero Cordoba vive todavía?” But Cordoba still lives?

He wasn’t exactly sure how to reply. He said simply, “Si.”

“Ah. Es bueno.” She looked around through the circle of students and band members. Off to the west she could see the ridge of the Shenandoah Mountains. “Manzar jamiil,” she murmured.

Back to Arabic? Did she say, what a beautiful view? Let’s keep this in Spanish. At least I had a couple of years of that in school. In this very high school, no less. Twenty years ago? Seems like yesterday. He said, “¿Usted es estudiante de cambio?” Are you an exchange student?

She gave him a puzzled look. “¿Estudiante de cambio? No comprendo.”

Not an exchange student? Very curious. Then who was she? He looked over to the west. It was about three-thirty, on a crisp November afternoon. The sun was already sinking down toward the hill crests. The field would soon be in shadow, and the temperature was going to drop abruptly. She was not dressed for this. He had to get her out of here.

“¿Dónde habita usted? Llevaré a casa.” Where do you live? I will take you home.

She shook her head firmly. “Habito en Cordoba. No puedo volver.”

So she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—return to Spain. But that wasn’t the point. She had to have a local residence. She hadn’t simply dropped out of the sky. Or had she? He was missing something vital.

Meanwhile, back to reality.

Leave her here? Walk away from this before it became any messier? Ah, Beckwith, you sucker, he thought. You’ve done it again. Beckwith the volunteer. Who was it who took the car-struck dog to the vet? Beckwith. Who tried to protect the little old lady from the mugger? Beckwith. Beckwith, the man who gets kittens down out of trees.

He kept thinking, she belongs with somebody. But who? She doesn’t seem to know. Maybe the accident has temporarily disoriented her. Where do you take lost children? To the sheriff’s office? Well… He visualized the scene. “She claims she’s from medieval Spain, Sheriff.” The sheriff would probably hold them both until the state psychiatrist could drive up from Richmond.

He studied her as 3he stood there. The inspection was mutual. She was looking at him curiously, too; her mouth was twisted in a half-smile. She seemed radiantly healthy, young. Especially, young. She was holding her rolled-up mat against her chest, but it provided no real warmth. She was shivering.

“Hace frío,” he said. “Hay que salir.” It is cold. We have to leave.

“Sí.” Then she hesitated. “¿Dónde vamonos?” Where are we going?

“A casa. A mi casa.” Home. My home.

She considered that. “¿Sidi Daniel Beckwith, es vuestra merced un buen hombre?”

Was he a good man? He said, “Dios solamente es bueno.” God alone is good.

She smiled. “Creo que El Sidi estes sufficiamente bueno. Iré con vuestra merced.”

So, thought Beckwith, I am sufficiently good, and she will go with me.

He took her arm, shouldered a path through the mixture of curious faces and band instruments, and headed toward the parking lot.

He stopped. A dark-haired man in a gray cape stood in front of them, blocking their way.

“Smerll…” muttered Beckwith. He stared at the other briefly, then shook his head. Depend on his ancient opponent to appear whenever it was possible to foul up the action. He held the girl tighter as he brushed past the Ethics Director of the Metropolitan Bar. He knew Smerll would be watching them.

“¿Quien es?” she whispered. “¿Un amigo?”

“No.” The reply was brusque.

Irwin Smerll. Long ago they had been classmates right here at Glenwood High. Irwin Smerll had lost out to Beckwith in the election for president of the senior class. That was just the start. The football squad had voted Dan Beckwith MVP—Most Valued Player. Irwin had lost by one vote. And that ranking had followed them both into college, and then through law school.

Beckwith’s only serious girlfriend during his law school years and his apprentice year with a prestigious D.C. law firm had been Ellen May Burgess, daughter of Malcolm Burgess, the rich and powerful senator from Ohio. The young lawyer’s duties in the law firm frequently involved emergency assignments that took him out of town or locked him into the communications room to assemble last-minute information for a courtroom appearance. More and more often he had had to break dates with Ellen May. When he reneged on his promise to take her to the inauguration balls of 2032, she bade him farewell.

Ellen May had married Irwin Smerll, and her senator father had got Smerll the position of Ethics Director in the Metropolitan Bar. Here, Smerll flourished. But Beckwith heard interesting rumors. Ellen May recited daily to her wincing mate the sterling virtues of the man she had not married, but wished she had.

Dan Beckwith did not like to think about Smerll. Or Ellen May. He was quite happy the way he was. Once a week Mrs. Kuiper (who was sixty-five and a bit slow) came in and cleaned his apartment. His relationships with the women at his office were pleasant but strictly business. He was content to live alone.

So now he held the girl tightly by the arm, hunched his head down between his shoulders, and suppressed an urge to look back. He knew the other lawyer would be looking at him—and at the girl. All he wanted to do just now was to get to his car and head out to his apartment and decide what to do with this exotic specimen from fantasy land.

He needed to have a long talk with her, and he didn’t look forward to it. His thoughts jarred to a halt as they were walking into the entrance to the parking lot. She was tugging at his sleeve and asking him something.

“¡Que son… esos!” With a broad sweep of her free arm she indicated some hundred or so parked cars.

Had she never before seen a car? Was this possible? Even the wildest aborigines knew what a car was. But not this strange creature. “Son cars,” he said. “Son los coches sin los caballos.” Horseless carriages. Maybe she could understand that.

“Coches,” she repeated in wonder, “¿Sin caballos?”

“Sí,” he said.

“¿Dónde están los caballos?”

“No hay los caballos, señorita. Los coches usan los motores, no usan caballos.” The cars use motors, not horses. He opened the car door. “Favor de entrar.”

Hesitantly, clumsily, she climbed in, and he closed the door behind her. She jumped. He walked hurriedly around to the other side, got in, and started the car. She stifled a gasp. He let the motor idle a moment, and then reached for the seat-belt button—and changed his mind. What would she think when padded arms snaked around her and clicked together over her stomach and chest? Maybe he’d better skip the safety measures and simply drive very carefully. Not too much too soon.

Her next question was spoken so softly he could hardly hear it. “¿Sidi, por favor, que lugar es este?” What place is this?

“Es Pueblo Glenwood,” he said.

That evidently meant nothing to her. Not surprising. “En Virginia,” he added. “Casi cincuenta kilómetros sud de Washington.” He looked at her curiously. “En los Estados Unidos.” No sign of understanding. He concluded very slowly. “¿En la America del Norte?” It was a question.

Nothing. Apparently she had never heard of Virginia, Washington, the United States, or North America.

Good God, he thought.

She said calmly, “¿Quantas leguas está el Pueblo Glenwood de Cordoba?” How many leagues is Glenwood from Cordoba?

Not miles, not kilometers—leagues.

He made some quick estimates. A league… three miles? And how far away was Spain? He said, “No sé exactamente, pero creo que Cordoba es casi dos mil leguas de aquí.” Cordoba is two thousand leagues from here.

“Dos… mil… leguas…” She pronounced the words with slow satisfaction. “Bien. Muy bien.”

Really? he thought. Whom are you running from, young lady? Somebody back in Cordoba? A very strange Cordoba where the primary language is Arabic, and automobiles are unknown? But as for Arabic, that hadn’t been used in Spain since the early Middle Ages, when all central Spain belonged to the Moors. He grunted. He didn’t like to think about the implications. She looked over at him inquiringly, but he just shook his head. Later, az-Zahra, later. Let me get into the tube, then we’ll have a free half hour, just to talk.

He headed off through the lot exit and toward the entrance of the underground tube that led toward the southern suburbs of the nation’s capital.

He noted through the corner of his eye that she was taking it all in. She was looking everywhere: out the car windows toward the rows of buildings; inside the car, at the dashboard, the dials, the controls. Several times she whispered something. In Arabic? He caught the last one. Allah akbar. God is wonderful.

He said, “Dispense usted, por favor. Hay que llamar mi bufete.” I have to call my office.

She watched attentively as he punched in the calling code. The face of an attractive middle-aged woman appeared on the dashboard visi. Az-Zahra jerked. “¡Que cosa…!”

“Beckwith Patents,” said the lady on the screen in a quiet cultured voice. “May I help you?”

“D. B., Millie,” said Beckwith.

“Two calls, D. B. One visitor, a new client, with an invention. I put him down for Monday at ten.”

“That’s fine, Millie.” He cleared his throat, wondering how he could explain his companion simply and quickly to the office manager. There was no way. He said, “Emergency, Millie.”

Her eyes widened briefly. “Go ahead.”

“I’m headed back from Glenwood. I have a young lady in the car with me. I found her wandering around on the football field at half-time. She speaks Arabic and Spanish—no English. She has no friends or relatives in the area, and nowhere to go. We’ll be in my apartment within the hour. Can you meet us?”

Millicent Rutherford sighed. “D.B…”

“Millie…”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

The screen twinkled, then grew dark.

The girl stared over at him in awe. “¿La magia?”

Magic? “No. Es solamente un…”—he searched for a word—“visi. Un visi del car.”

And now it was suddenly semi-dark, and they were in the long looping descent into the tubes. She began to breathe even faster. A few minutes later the tube computer shunted him into a line of passenger cars, and he turned off his ignition. The magnetic cables would pull them into Alexandria in half an hour.

He turned in his seat and faced his passenger. “Az-Zahra,” he said bluntly, “¿Cuando nació usted?” When were you born?

She replied firmly, “Nací en el año mil doscientos y veinte.”

A.D. 1220.

Either she was telling the bare-bones truth or she was the most accomplished liar he had ever encountered. “¿Cuantos años tiene usted?” How old are you?

She was equally forthright. “Dieciseis.” Sixteen.

Good lord! Suddenly he foresaw all sorts of nasty possibilities. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Kidnapping. Smerll would love this. “¿Salió usted de Cordoba en el año mil doscientos treinta y seis?” You left Cordoba in 1236?

“Sí, es verdad.”

“¿Derecho a Glenwood?” Straight to Glenwood?

“Sí.”

“¿Como viajó usted?” How did you travel?

“Usé mi alfombra.”

Alfombra…? Carpet? Rug? She used her rug? Is that what she was telling him? It made no sense. “¿Alfombra?” he repeated.

“Sí. Aquí.” She held up the mat.

She was asking him to believe that she had traveled across the Atlantic on her trusty little rug. Her magic carpet. He closed his eyes briefly. I don’t have enough troubles? he thought. The U.N. Resolution… our ship hasn’t even started yet… we’ll lose the big race to Jupiter… Congress will slaughter the Space Agency… my best client… they’ll drop their patent program… in another six months I won’t be able to make a payroll… and now this very strange juvenile female… and to top it all, Smerll… an omen?

He sighed. “Digame concerniendo su vida en Cordoba.” Tell me about your life in Cordoba.

During the trip in the tube, she described in melodious antiquated Spanish her life in Cordoba. Beckwith listened in marveling disbelief.

Her father, Hasan ibn Masud, was a member of the highest class of nobles, with a genealogy that traced back to the Prophet. Additionally, he was a very rich merchant, and owned great estates and manufactories. His ships voyaged regularly to all ports of the Mediterranean, as well as through the Pillars of Hercules and north to France, England, and Scandinavia.

Her mother had been a very great beauty. When her parents were married, the caliph himself had sent a jeweled parasol to shield her mother from the July sun as her women escorted her to the Great Mosque.

“Ah, Sidi (she told Beckwith), when I was a child, life was good in Cordoba! I played in our gardens and in our orange and olive orchards. I had the run of father’s workshops. I watched them make delicate glassware in the glass shop. I rode my own pony out to the tanneries, where they made special leathers, and shoes, and jackets.

“As a child, I had no worries or fears. But as I grew older, I began to understand that there were grave threats to our idyllic existence. Over the centuries my ancestors had conquered most of Spain, but now the original owners were taking it back, city by city, province by province. They called it the reconquista.

“When I was twelve my father introduced me to an old man who had his own corner in the rear of one of our tapestry shops. This was al-Hakim, the wizard weaver. His eyes burned. I bowed respectfully, but I trembled, for I knew what was said of him. He was dumb from birth, yet he talked with djinns. He was going to teach me how to weave my own very special prayer rug. How to say? Mi alfombra de oración. Yes, this very rug that I hold here in my hands.

“Yes, very, very special. The gold and silver filaments are interwoven with other threads of special alloys. And the weave itself is of a very particular, very intricate pattern, a pattern that requires months to memorize, and which al-Hakim claimed to have invented. My father says that actually, a djinn gave it to al-Hakim in return for his soul. Be that as it may, I received all necessary instructions from him. Last year, with the help of al-Hakim I finally completed the rug. And last week, Father and I worked together, sewing the necessary jewels into the fabric. Yes, Sidi, these are real jewels. These two great star rubies, known as the Eyes of Ayesha, are valued at millions of golden dinars. And then there are the lesser emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and so on. These have their own place in the rug pattern. In addition to these, I have a bag of other gems, which my father hung about my neck before I left.

“When all is ready, the rug is activated. One covers one’s body with the rug and whirls seven times. When the rubies begin to flash, one places the rug on the floor with the minrah pointing toward Mecca and stands on the rug. And now what happens depends upon certain loose threads in the rug. If one wishes to move backward in time, one merely waits. In a moment, the person simply… vanishes. On the other hand, if the person wishes to move forward in time, as I did, one makes certain changes in the threads. And if one wishes to take the rug along on the journey, one simply holds on to the rug edges with both hands, as I did. In that way, the person will bring the rug along to whenever… and wherever… the person goes.”

So she left Cordoba, thought Beckwith. Somehow. Somewhen. Maybe. But why? He sensed that she was about to tell him why. But just now was a bad time. “Ahora, hay que interrumpir,” he said. “Vamonos detras de los tubos, en las calles. Detras, hay muchos coches, hay que tengo cuidado. Comprende?” Have to interrupt, leaving the tubes and going out into traffic. I have to be careful.

“Si, Sidi.”

And next, the confrontation with Millie Rutherford, and no possible explanation. But at least Millie could stay for supper, and perhaps more importantly, explain to this young woman by a combination of demonstration and sign language, how to work the things in the bathroom.

Thank God the housekeeper would be in in the morning. There would be no credible explanation to offer Mrs. Kuiper, either, but at least she could be there for the day while he went off to the office. Maybe Kuiper could come in as a sort of live-in chaperone. Just temporary, of course. Until they could all decide what to do with this strange child of time.

On the second day of her arrival Beckwith drove her around downtown Alexandria, and she was enchanted.

“Christ Church,” he pointed out. “Jorge Washington worshipped there.”

“Jorge… Washington?”

There we go again, he thought. Even toddlers in distant Tibet know about George Washington, the Father of his Country.

There was one area, though, where history was irrelevant. “¿Tiene hambre?” Are you hungry?

“¡Sí!”

He pulled in to the parking lot at a nearby McDonald’s and they went inside together. He had already decided he was not going to try to explain all the myriad possibilities on the menu. Next month, maybe. He ordered cheeseburgers, vanilla milkshakes, and french fries. No knives, forks, or spoons would be needed. He took the trays and led her to a corner booth. After absorbing her surroundings with wide eyes, she turned her attention back to him. She watched him carefully and tried to imitate his actions. Open the little capsules of ketchup. Okay to lick the fingers. Some on the hamburger. Some for the fries. Now for the milkshake. Take the paper off the soda straws. Two straws are best. No, don’t blow. Chupe. Suck. Now, hold the hamburger carefully with both hands, like so. Ambos manos.

She watched him, and then she took a tentative bite. “Bueno,” she murmured politely. “Muy bueno.”

Afterward, as they were walking to the car, she declared, “¡Que almuerzo rico! ¡Muchas gracias!”

He smiled. So what if she was just being super-courteous? That was fine with him. “De nada,” he said.

“I have to fly out to Los Angeles, in California, from time to time,” Beckwith explained to az-Zahra one evening at supper. “I have a very important client there, the United States Space Agency.”

“I know name, S.A.,” she acknowledged. “From holo screen. Big race to moon of Jupiter, Ganymede. Our ship, Kennedy, left Moon this morning, many days late. Say S.A. much worried, may lose race.”

Worried indeed, he thought. And so am I!

“But why Ganymede so importante?” she asked.

“It’s the best candidate of any of the Jovian moons for colonizing,” explained Beckwith. “It’s big, bigger than the planet Mercury. It’s about fifty-fifty rock and water. The water is mostly ice, but underground some is probably in liquid form, due to heat from radioactivity in the rocky core. Whoever wins can recover oxygen from the water by electrolysis.”

He wasn’t surprised when she held up a hand. “ ‘El… ecktro… ?’ ”

He smiled. “Az-Zahra, Ganymede es una luna de gran valor. Por eso, los barcos de muchos naciones van alli ahora con gran velocidad. El primo a poner su bandera allí, gana la carrera y todo Ganymede.” Ganymede is a very valuable moon. The first country that puts its flag on Gorbachev Crater on Ganymede wins the race and the whole moon.

Beckwith and az-Zahra were sitting in Beckwith’s office looking at the two biggest jewels. The lawyer shook his head slowly. “Surely they’re not genuine?”

“I believe true rubies,” she said.

“I think we ought to find out for sure. There was a chap in appraising the jewelry in the Londale estate. Eccentric… tends to ramble… expensive. But he specializes in rubies.” He flipped a switch to open an outside line. “Dr. Aaron Rothstein.” They listened as the phonocomputer found the number and made the connection.

“Rothstein,” said the answer machine blandly. “State your business and leave your number.”

“My name is Daniel Beckwith. I’m a lawyer, my client has some gems, including two rather large red stones that may be rubies. From present information, they originated in Cordoba, Spain. We—”

“Mr. Beckwith?” said a raspy voice from the phone set.

The lawyer was startled. “Yes? Dr. Rothstein?”

“Yeah. Cordoba, you said?”

“That’s correct.”

There was a pause, as though the speaker was trying to be totally noncommittal. “You’ve seen the stones, Mr. Beckwith?”

“Yes. They’re here on the desk, right in front of me.”

“Do you see anything unusual about them?”

“Well, I don’t know as you could call it unusual. However, if they were sapphires, I’d call them star sapphires.”

“It’s called asterism, Mr. Beckwith. Is that what you see?”

“Yes.”

“Is your client sitting there with you?”

“She is. Shall we turn on the visi?”

“No. You say she’s from Cordoba?”

“Yes.”

“Ask her if she has ever heard of an Arabian gentleman named Masud ibn Malik.”

“Whatever for?”

“Just do it, Mr. Beckwith.”

The lawyer swiveled around to the girl. “Az-Zahra, you heard his question…?”

“Masud… ibn… Malik?” she repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“Fué mi abuelo—my grandfather.”

“She claims he was her grandfather,” said Beckwith.

“Well, well…”

“So?” demanded the lawyer.

“The gentleman in question died sometime about A.D. 1200,” said Rothstein dryly.

“Look, Rothstein, if you don’t want to take the case, just say so.”

“Not so fast. I will take the case.”

That stopped the lawyer. “You will?”

“Yes. Come on over.”

Next evening, in the apartment, she said, “Sidi, I show you a… algo… thing.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“With rug. First, have you things you no want?”

“Well, I guess so. Sure. There’s the wastebasket. Some old newspapers, bottle, soda can, empty envelopes… a broken belt. Why?”

“For show you.” She picked up the wastebasket and brought it back to the rug, then picked up the rug. “On true hajj, pilgrim walk around Kaaba seven times. So I hold rug, vuelvo… turn, seven times.” And, holding the fabric to her chest, she began to revolve.

Beckwith watched, fascinated. He was beginning to grasp what was going on. The metal filaments in the rug were cutting the lines of force of the earth’s magnetic field and generating emf in the filaments. The turning rug was functioning like a dynamo.

The two rubies fastened in the rug began to flash intermittently. How could this be, he wondered. Yet, he had to concede that the phenomenon was not a physical or electrical impossibility. He had read somewhere of such things. Would she know? “Why do they light up?” he asked.

She explained as she rotated. “Djinns awaken.”

“Oh.” Of course.

She stopped and laid the rug on the floor.

And now the current must stop, he thought. The djinns will go back to sleep. But no. The eyes are still flashing. So what is going on? Are some of those filaments superconductors? Even at room temperature?

“Now,” she said, “put… puesto… los algos desagradables on rug. Sidi, watch! ¡Mire!” She upended the wastebasket and everything hit the surface of the rug—and vanished.

Beckwith jumped. “Wha—? Where did it go?”

She regarded him calmly. “El oceano atlántico, I think. With un astrolabio, say exactly.”

“You can do this every time?”

“Of course.”

“This is how you came here?”

“Yes, Sidi. I fell thus into el campo… the field of football.”

He thought about that. “In your little demonstration just now the rug stayed behind, but when you entered the football field the rug came along with you.”

“I held it tightly, and it came with me. As I explained, when the car was in the tubes. Perhaps Sidi did not then understand.”

“Perhaps I didn’t.” Yes, she had said something like that. So it was all true. She was indeed born in Cordoba in 1220. And in 1236 she had gathered up her jewels, said goodbye to her family and friends, and she had mounted this magic carpet, and she had—flown?—from thirteenth-century Spain to that football field in Virginia. Why?

He said bluntly, “We have to talk. We’ll start with you. What does ‘Zahra’ mean in Arabic?”

“It’s az-Zahra, Sidi, and it means ‘The Shining One.’ My father named me.” Her voice slowed.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

The response was very soft. The lawyer had to lean forward to hear her.

“He was on the south wall. The Spaniards had brought up a siege tower, and at the top their captain was screaming, and waving Ferdinand’s red-and-yellow banner.” She paused, as though thinking back. “I hate men with flags.”

“I can imagine. Go on.”

“Father waited, with al-Saffah and a squad of eight men, just shopkeepers and clerks. I knew all of them. Dozens of barbarians were climbing the tower.”

“Al-Saffah? A comrade?”

“ ‘Al-Saffah’ means ‘blood spiller’… his sword. Very famous, very old.”

“You did not stay?”

“No. I wanted to stay and die with him, but he forbade it. He required that I take the rug and leave. Days before, he had made me swear on the sacred Koran that I would do this.”

“This was… 1236?”

“Yes, Sidi.”

“And at that time, nowhere in Europe or Asia or Africa was the existence of the Americas suspected?”

“As to that, I cannot be sure, your grace. At the university—”

“The University of Cordoba?”

She brightened. “Yes. You know about it?”

“Of course. At the time, the greatest seat of learning in Spain, perhaps in Europe. So, what did they say at the university?”

“Well, at the university we had a very learned philosopher and maker of maps, Busir ibn Murad. Busir claimed the world was round—a sphere—and that there must be a tremendous land mass far to the west, across the Atlantic Ocean. He said this land was necessary to balance the three continents of the known world. The northmen had already touched the shores of this new land, he said. He was referring to the voyages of Eric the Red and his son Leif. We had the Norse Sagas in our library. You have read them, of course?”

“Ah? Well, yes, I think so. So then, when you left Cordoba that terrible day, you were aiming your magic carpet at the Americas?”

“Yes, although I did not know the name America then.”

“Did you know it would be eight hundred years?”

“Yes. I knew how to control the time djinns.”

“Time… djinns?”

“The spirits of the rug.”

“Oh, of course. Why did you pick the great land on the other side of your world?”

“I chose this land to be far away from the Spaniards. I understand I did not completely succeed.” She smiled wryly.

“True, you didn’t. Spain has a long and brilliant history in the Americas. But how about that eight hundred years? Why go into the future at all?”

“I had hoped, your grace, that the passage of so many years would bring me into a world of peace and harmony, where men do not kill each other anymore.”

He regarded her glumly. Sorry to disappoint you, he thought. So that’s her story. I believe it. And now back to the real world. She’s here, with an idea that can solve a lot of the world’s problems: nuclear waste, carcinogens, smokestack effluent, auto exhaust. Is this the ultimate answer to pollution? This thing had possibilities. How to make money with it? Think of patents, commercial uses, licenses. “You can drop anything through the rug?”

“Anything.”

“You made the rug yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You could make another?”

“Any number. But I need special loom, and filaments of certain metal alloys. Metals very special. And not sure about rubies. May need star stones, perhaps as big as Eyes of Ayesha.”

That could indeed be a problem, he thought. But at least we should be able to find the right metals. But could she really recall the exact alloy compositions for all the different filaments?

And then there would be the question of how they were all woven into the warp and woof of the rug. He tapped his forehead. “Do you remember everything, up here?”

“Yes, Sidi.”

It was all coming together. Maybe this explains the flying carpet stories in the Arabian Nights. We’ll feed this design into a robocomputer. We’ll weave hundreds of these things—thousands—all automatically, by machine. How do we keep our monopoly? We’ll need a good strong patent structure.

“Sidi?”

He blinked. “Ah—?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Well, to start, we are going to file a patent application on your rug.”

“Patent…?”

“Yes. Let me explain. Say you have an invention, in this case your rug design. You write down a careful description of the invention. You present this description to the Patent Office. If the Patent Office thinks you have something new, useful, and unobvious, they will give you a document called a patent. And for a certain term of years other people cannot use your invention legally without your consent.”

“Ah, I like that.”

“We’ll fix up a place for you to work, here in the apartment,” he said. “I’ll get you a drafting table, instruments, paper, raw materials, everything you need. You can draw a diagram of the filaments, how they attach to the rubies, and so on. For the patent we’ll need everything in detail.”

She grinned. “Si, Sidi. As you wish!”

For az-Zahra’s workshop Beckwith cleaned out the storage room near her bedroom and installed various facilities, including an electric induction furnace for melting alloys, wire drawing equipment, computers programmable for auto-weaving, lapidary tools, a Verneuil furnace for making synthetic gems, plumbing, an exhaust hood for fumes.

When all was ready he watched with great interest as she connected the twenty-one shuttles with the different metal filaments into the coarse woolen weft of the little protoloom, plugged the circuitry program into the robocomputer, and flipped the switch.

The assembly came alive. Threads ghnted and vibrated and sang, and a handkerchief-size mat began to grow, centimeter by centimeter.

They watched in silence.

Soon, the loom shut off. Save for jewels, the thing was finished.

Beckwith studied the newly created artifact. “There seem to be several loose filament ends.”

“I know. They are to be interconnected in specific ways, depending on the location intended for the transported objects, and whether you are going backward or forward in time, or simply moving in the present. As you can see, it all depends on the wiring.”

He took a deep breath. “Of course.”

“I have studied once more the matter of the race to Jupiter,” az-Zahra announced to Beckwith a few days later.

He looked up from the library table. “Indeed?”

“Yes. I have been reading much, and I have found that the racing ships are driven by different djinns.”

“Well—”

“I will explain to you. The djinn of the German ship is the fleetest. He is called a hydrogen ram jet. Hydrogen, Sidi, is a very tiny speck of matter, and there’s not much out there in space.”

“I know. Very scarce.”

“At first the German djinn moves only slowly, so he is no able to eat much hydrogen. But as he gathers speed, he begins to gulp hydrogen like a wolf, and that makes him go faster and faster, until he is finally devouring hydrogen like a ravenous lion. Soon he is traveling at half the speed of light.”

“That’s pretty fast.”

“There is nothing faster than light, Sidi. But the German djinn, for all his speed, will not win the race.”

“No? Why not?”

“Two reasons. Long before he gets up to his greatest speed, he must start slowing down, or else he will go far far beyond Ganymede. Before he is really ready, he must start to de… de… Como?”

“Decelerate.”

“Decelerate. His great speed is good for journeys between the stars, but it does not help much between planets.”

“Good point. What’s the other reason he won’t win?”

“I cast his horoscope last night. It says he loses.”

“Interesting. Well, I guess that settles him. How about the French? Their ship uses a solar sail.”

“I know. A sail is of course the most reliable of all. On the other hand, a sail-djinn is also the slowest. No, he cannot win.”

“And then we have the Russians,” said Beckwith. “Their ship is very fast and is specially designed for travel between the planets.”

“Yes, and they’re ahead now. Their djinn eats a thing called antimatter. It gives him fantastic strength, so that he can move the Gagarin at one-fifth the speed of light.”

“Will they win?”

“I do not know. The horoscope is not clear.”

“Well, that leaves America’s ship, the John F. Kennedy. How do we look?”

“Again, Sidi, not clear. Our djinn makes a magic thing called lithium-five, and then he eats it, and it gives him great strength, so that he can move our ship at three-tenths the speed of light. But our ship left the base late, and I fear we cannot make up the lost time.” She studied his face. “This race is very important to you?”

He shrugged. There was no need to explain how important.

“Why were we so late, Sidi?”

He had got it in strict confidence from friends at the Agency. President Mugram was determined that his nephew Robin would plant the American flag. Unfortunately Robin had come down with mumps the day before the scheduled take-off. The flight was put on hold for two weeks.

Beckwith hated poor Robin with all his heart.

“There was… illness.”

She did not press him further.

Persons visiting the Ethics Section of the Metropolitan Bar Committee would find nothing unusual in the outer offices. One encountered first an amiable gray-haired receptionist, who might direct the visitor to one of the side offices, where the resident investigators worked. The central areas were occupied by secretaries, files, and miscellaneous office equipment.

Off to one side, facing the Federal Courthouse, was Room 1313, the Hearing Room. Despite air-conditioning, the room smelled of death.

This thirteenth floor of the Bar Building was the micro-empire of Irwin Smerll, which he ruled from a corner office in the rear.

Most of the wall space in Smerll’s office was covered with framed epigrams printed in heavy black letters. If the light was just right, a visitor with 20/20 vision could read some of them from Smerll’s doorway.

The first said:

Next:

Moving on around:

Then a solid exhibit, mounted and framed: a thirty-two automatic, now empty, of course, and the barrel sealed. Under it the legend, “The suicide weapon used by W. Matthew Rood (formerly Esquire), the day following his disbarment.”

Then more epigrammata:

And finally, not an epigram, but a list. Inspection revealed eighteen names of persons once members of the Metropolitan Bar, and the dates of their disbarment or other destruction. There was room at the bottom for several more names, and a very close inspection would reveal (written very lightly in pencil) the initials “D.B.” The date was blank.

Smerll operated his section on the theory that a crooked lawyer subconsciously wanted to be caught. It was ironic, he thought, and it was tragic, but it was all very true. And good to know. Because sooner or later the errant attorney would send Ethics a gilt-edged invitation to discover him in the very act of his malfeasance. In most cases all Smerll had to do was watch, wait, and pounce. And that, he told himself, is how I will eventually get you, Mr. Lily-white Beckwith.

And sure enough—out of the blue—enter the Arabian courtesan. He remembered her from the Glenwood football game. Was she really just sixteen? Is this a genuine case of contributing to the delinquency of a minor? Or even (dared he hope?) of statutory rape?

Smerll was sitting at his desk and wondering if he had enough to disbar Beckwith, when his secret watch service on Beckett’s docket in the Patent Office faxed him a copy of az-Zahra’s patent application.

“It’s her!” he muttered ungrammatically to himself. He sat down to read. He read every word, some of them twice. “Flying carpet?” he whispered. “Colossal deliberate fraud!” He lifted his eyes to heaven, and he said, “O Lord, I thank thee.”

It was hand-delivered.

Beckwith’s initial reaction was amazement. For the first time in his life he began to grasp the dimensions of Smerll’s hatred.

His second reaction was dissociation. This couldn’t be happening to him. Smerll must mean someone else.

It took him a full half-hour to reorganize his thoughts and to focus on reality. At least it temporarily took his mind off problems looming with the Space Agency.

He considered the mechanics of his defense. Be there, of course. Argue. Contest each and every charge. And meanwhile the Russian ship was still way ahead of the John F. Kennedy.

Everything was piling up.

At ten o’clock on the night before the hearing Beckwith retired to his bedroom with the Notice, a shot glass, a bottle of brandy, and a copy of Les Miserables. Both the brandy and the great work by Hugo were mementos of events some six years earlier. He had been reading the book, but had laid it aside to cram for the bar exam. In a simultaneous burst of optimism he had bought the brandy with the idea that he would consume a reasonable amount if he passed the bar. He had indeed passed the bar, but in moving from his single room to this apartment the bottle had been stored away, and he had never done his duty by it.

He actually disliked alcohol. It befuddled him. In lunches and dinners with clients he always had ginger ale in lieu of a cocktail. So, he thought as he broke the seal on the bottle, I wonder what this is going to do to me?

Mrs. Kuiper was waiting by the breakfast table with great anticipation.

Beckwith entered first. “Morning,” he mumbled. He settled slowly and carefully into his chair.

“Good morning, sir,” she said cheerfully. She checked him out quickly. As promised, he was delivered to the table shaved, showered, and impeccably dressed. The only indications of an eventful night were slight bags under his eyes.

Counselor Beckwith downed the two aspirin with the orange juice, and poured a cup of coffee from the carafe.

The housekeeper said cautiously, “Will the young lady be joining us?”

“Right here, Mrs. Kuiper,” declared az-Zahra. She gave the older woman a sparkling smile. “And a beautiful good morning to you!”

Mrs. Kuiper stared. Her first thought was—this is not az-Zahra, this is somebody else. This radiant woman cannot be yesterday’s child! But of course it was so. Az-Zahra, the Shining One.

The girl had combed her light red-gold hair into long locks that fell about her shoulders. She wore a skirt and jacket in matching pastel greens. Her hps and cheeks were their own natural pink.

Mrs. Kuiper gulped and looked over at Beckwith. Did he see what she saw? Obviously not. The man must be blind.

The newcomer leaned over the table and picked up a muffin. “I don’t want much, and I’ve got some things to do before we go. Mrs. K, were you able to reserve a taxi for eight-thirty?”

“Yes, miss. They swore they’d have one at the entrance.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, can you help me down the hall a moment? We’ll let Sidi finish his breakfast in peace.”

“Of course.”

Out of earshot, az-Zahra spoke softly to the older woman. “He had a bad night, but he’s fine now. After we’re gone, would you mind calling the custodian about the broken glass. And also call the furniture store. Perhaps you can find a nice replacement for the chair?”

“I’ll take care of everything.”

The girl finished the muffin and wiped her fingers on the napkin Mrs. Kuiper handed her. “I have to pick up Sidi’s brief case and a canvas bag in the library. Then we’re ready to go.”

They retraced their steps toward the reception room and the elevators without incident. The cluster around the holo set had tripled during the hour. Beckwith started to pull her around toward the exit.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Listen!”

The voice came over the heads of the little audience: “Cass Jones, International News. What we see here is a file shot of the northern lip of Gorbachev Crater. That little area here—indicated by an ‘X’ on your holo screen, an area we call ‘Flag Corners’—is where the Gagarin shuttle will land. One moment, please, Captain Petrov is coming on. We hear the captain’s voice from the Gagarin landing shuttle. He’s obviously delighted. He has just given the order for retrofire. Going down, now. We sense the physical descent of the little craft. Ah! He’s down. The captain is speaking again. We translate. ‘Russia has landed. A historic moment for Russia and for the world. Our flag is ready and waiting. While I suit up, we will run the nose visi up a few meters and make a panoramic sweep of the flag area.’

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, while the good captain suits up, we’ll take a moment to check on the other ships in the race. We note that the John F. Kennedy is coming up fast, but it is at least ten hours out from Ganymede.” (And there, thought the lawyer, goes the Space Agency account and D. Beckwith, P.C.) “Farther back,” continued the voice, “number three in this great contest is the German ship, Deutschland, followed by the Spanish Toreador, and the French Napoleon.”

“Let’s go,” Beckwith said softly.

“Not yet.”

The newscast continued. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, back to Captain Petrov. He’s still slowly panning the area, ‘Flag Corners,’ of what will soon be a new Russian province. The site is well chosen. We see no rocks or rubble larger than a soccer ball. What? One moment, ladies and gentlemen. Petrov says… what? My, my, our translator says Captain Petrov is shouting a string of Russian curses. Did we miss something? Run it back… Yes, there at the edge. Well, look at that, ladies and gentlemen, what we are looking at is a man holding an American flag! How can this be? Are we there first, after all?”

“Huh?” grunted the lawyer. He shouldered his way through the watchers for a good look at the holo screen. And then he stopped breathing for several seconds.

The announcer hesitated. “We seem to have lost our picture. We suspect that Captain Petrov has turned off his camera. Has this moment of victory suddenly turned to ashes? We simply don’t know. What? Oh. We’ve just been told a U.N. patrol corvette is moving in to investigate. Yes, the Ralph Bunche. So what’s going on? Well, to sum up, for those of you who joined us late, Captain Petrov of the R.S. Gagarin has just landed his shuttle on Ganymede, and he was personally welcomed by a flag-holding American.

“Meanwhile, we’ll run the tail-end of that tape once more. There he is, the man with Old Glory. Not waving, of course. The fabric is obviously frozen stiff. And since our American is not wearing a space suit or protection of any kind, we have to assume that he is likewise frozen. We see dark splotches around his ears and nose and mouth. We take that to be blood, which froze instantly, a result of the near-zero atmospheric temperature and pressure on the Jovian satellite. At present we have absolutely no explanation of how he got there.”

Pale and shaken, Beckwith worked his way back to az-Zahra, and this time steered her unresisting to the door. For you, he thought, was Smerll that banner-waving barbarian on the siegetower? And now, is it all finally finished? Sleep, blessed Cordoba!

She looked up at him with clear serene eyes. “Okay?”

And he replied, “Allah akbar!”