Borrowed Time Read Free

inside. I shut the door and held it closed. “We need to talk.”
    The jumper staggered back and held up his hands as if to ward me off. Seeing the extremities for the first time close-up, I could easily spot the swollen joints and twisted digits that marked severe arthritis. Was there anything this guy didn’t suffer from?
    I stood still, spreading my own hands out at waist level, palms out. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
    “Then why are you here?” His voice was raspy and weak. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Asthma, too?
    “I’m collecting seeds,” I informed him.
    “What?”
    “Really. But I’m not from here. Just like I know you’re not. And I’m not from now. Just like I know you’re not.”
    It took a few moments for my statements to sink in. The man’s eyes grew bigger, then started watering heavily. He sneezed, staring at me. “You’ve been to the grain elevator?”
    “Seed suppliers.”
    “Uhhhh.” He staggered back again like I’d threatened him. “Wheat dust.”
    Of course. “You’re allergic to wheat.” That could explain the malnutrition and anemia. The jumper stopped backing up when he reached the window, where the ever-present breeze blowing in would keep any grain dust I’d picked up from reaching him. “Do you mind telling me your name?”
    “Call me John Smith.”
“Very funny.”
    “That’s the only name you’re going to get.”
    “Fine. Mr. Smith, I don’t know exactly when you’re from, but I have reason to believe you’ve brought a disease back to here and now.” Smith’s expression had closed down, revealing nothing. “On the Fort, Mr. Smith. I know you’re aware of it.” Smith nodded. “Why’d you make a jump from March to July? Did you think the epidemic would be over by then?” Smith didn’t answer, didn’t move. “Do they remember germ theory when you’re from?”
    His face finally shifted expression, twisting into some sort of disbelief at my question. “We’re not primitive.”
    “You’ve obviously suffered some . . . uh . . . problems.”
    Smith grinned widely, as if I’d said something funny. “You’ve noticed that?” he rasped in that feeble voice.
    “You need to go away. If you’re the vector causing this epidemic you need to isolate yourself. That’s not that hard around here. Stay there, until you’re sure you’re not a carrier.”
    He nodded again. “Certainly.”
    Liar. I didn’t need Jeannie’s analysis of his breathing and other external signs to know that. The answer, the agreement, had come too easily. “Why are you here? I want the truth.”
    “I’m . . . seeking refuge.”
    Another lie, I was certain. “A man allergic to wheat seeking refuge in twentieth century Kansas? A man with a lot of medical problems seeking refuge in a time when medicine was still very primitive?”
    “I have my reasons.”
    “Share them with me. Please. Or else.” I’d long ago learned that keeping threats vague allowed the recipients to imagine the worse thing they could envisage, which could easily be worse than anything I’d really do. But, if this deceitful idiot really was spreading what would become known as the Spanish Influenza, I had to bring him to his senses.
    Smith took a step to one side, reaching out to grasp the handle of his valise. “Sorry,” he whispered, just about the time I remembered that the valise probably contained his jump mechanism. I hadn’t taken half a step toward him before Smith popped out of existence.
    “He has jumped out of the temporal period,” Jeannie announced.
    “Really?” I tamped down my irritation. “Which way did he go?”
    “Uptime.”
    “Can you estimate the length of the jump?”
    “My calculations are very tentative, but based on the strength of the temporal pulse I would estimate the jump involved a chronological period of less than one month.”
    One month. This was July. Next month was August. When three different locations would simultaneously or