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America that hogpen they called Los Angeles! but now it came to him clean and
strong, for it was his hope.
The driver saw him, halted, and unshipped a rifle. Iason approached with palms
held forward in token of peace. The driver relaxed. He was a typical Magyar:
burly, high in the cheekbones, his beard braided, his tunic colorfully
embroidered.
So I did cross the border!
Iason exulted.
I m out of
Norland and into the Voivodate of Dakoty.
Before they sent him here, the anthropologists of the Parachronic Research
Institute had of course given him an electrochemical inculcation in the
principal languages of Westfall. (Pity they hadn t been more thorough about
teaching him the mores. But then, he had been hastily recruited for the
Norland post after Megasthenes accidental death; and it was assumed that his
experience in
America gave him special qualifications for this history, which was also
non-Alexandrine; and, to be sure, the whole object of missions like his was to
learn just how societies on the different Earths did vary.) He formed the
Ural-Altaic words with ease:
Greeting to you. I come as a supplicant.
The farmer sat quiet, tense, looking down on him and listening to the dogs far
off in the forest. His rifle stayed ready. Are you an outlaw? he asked.
Not in this realm, freeman. (Still another name and concept for citizen !)
I was a peaceful trader from Homeland, visiting Lawman Ottar Thorkelsson in
Ernvik. His anger fell upon me, so great that he broke sacred hospitality and
sought the life of me, his guest. Now his hunters are on my trail. You hear
them yonder.
Norlanders? But this is Dakoty.
Iason nodded. He let his teeth show, in the grime and stubble of his face.
Right. They ve entered your country without so much as a by-your-leave. If
you stand idle, they ll ride onto your freehold and slay me, who asks your
help.
The farmer hefted his gun. How do I know you speak truth?
Take me to the Voivode, Iason said. Thus you keep both the law and your
honor. Very carefully, he unholstered his pistol and offered it butt
foremost. I am forever your debtor.
Doubt, fear and anger pursued each other across the face of the man of the
tractor. He did not take the weapon. Iason waited.
If I ve read him correctly, I ve gained some hours of life. Perhaps more.
That will depend on the Voivode. My whole chance lies in using their own
barbarism their division into petty states, their crazy idea of honor, their
fetish of property and privacy to harness them.
If I fail, then I shall die like a civilized man. That they cannot take away
from me.
The hounds have winded you. They ll be here before we can escape, said the
Magyar uneasily.
Relief made Iason dizzy. He fought down the reaction and said: We can take
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care of them for a time. Let me have some gasoline.
Ah . . . thus! The other man chuckled and jumped to earth. Good thinking,
stranger. And thanks, by the way. Life has been dull hereabouts for too many
years.
He had a spare can of fuel on his machine. They lugged it back along Iason s
trail for a considerable distance, dousing soil and trees. If that didn t
throw the pack off, nothing would.
Now, hurry! The Magyar led the way at a trot.
His farmstead was built around an open courtyard. Sweet scents of hay and
livestock came from the barns. Several children ran forth to gape. The wife
shooed them back inside, took her husband s rifle, and mounted guard at the
door with small change of expression.
Their house was solid, roomy, aesthetically pleasing if you could accept the
unrestrained tapestries and painted pillars. Above the fireplace was a niche
for a family altar. Though most people in
Westfall had left myth long behind them, these peasants still seemed to adore
the Triple God Odin-
Attila-Manitou. But the man went to a sophisticated radiophone. I don t have
an aircraft myself,
he said, but I can get one.
Iason sat down to wait. A girl neared him shyly with a beaker of beer and a
slab of cheese on coarse dark bread. Be you guest-holy, she said.
May my blood be yours, Iason answered by rote. He managed to take the
refreshment not quite like a wolf.
The farmer came back. A few more minutes, he said. I am Arpad, son of
Kalman.
Iason Philippou. It seemed wrong to give a false name. The hand he clasped
was hard and warm.
What made you fall afoul of old Ottar? Arpad inquired.
I was lured, Iason said bitterly. Seeing how free the unwed women were
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