The Corridors Of Time by Poul Anderson

Description: Very good condition. All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Copyright 1965, by Poul Anderson Copyright 1965, by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. A shorter version of this novel appeared in Amazing Stories for May and June, 1965. All rights reserved Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc. All rights reserved which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Doubleday & Company, Inc. 245 Park Avenue New York, New York 10017 SBN 425-03659-6 BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation 200 Madison Avenue New York, N. Y. 10016 BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK TM 757,375 Printed in the United States of America Berkley Medallion Edition, FEBRUARY, 1978. ----------- 3 ----------- THE TIME WARS Lockridge knew her as Storm. Pastward she was known as Mystery or Goddess or Kori- ach, depending on which gate she opened in the tunnels that pierced humankind's long childhood like spears. He served her for love, as did the others-roundhead and Celt, Druid and Junker-who fought for her in the fierce time wars that ranged from Stonehenge to Hiroshima. But his love turned to fear when he saw what the future held... ----------- 3 ----------- 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 bota 1

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