The Old Man Who Tried to Kill Macmillan

First there was the faint, tho iridescent, ice-green oval, floating, or so it seemed, a few centimeters above the ground. Through it and with a splash as though the grass covered valley floor was a pond, a chunk of rock. Then, for several moments, nothing.

And an ancient man, dressed in tight-fitting synthetic clothes emerged from an impossibly thin disc of swirling ice-green light. He nearly fell but caught himself, as one of long practice, with his metal walking cane. "Ah. Yes. This must be the place. This must be the one," he muttered, almost to himself. "And now to find the Magician."

He had a sleek, flat polymer-and-glass oblong in his free hand which he placed carefully within an invisible seam in his tunic. And doing so reminded him that his clothes, assuming the trip was successful, would make him conspicuous to this era's regular inhabitants.

As the thought muscled itself across his mind, the Cihocki field began its long, slow fadeout; and, at the end of which, he'd be marooned here and now — if! — if he survived.

The man removed a dun-coloured vest, quickly searched the pockets — they were empty — and dropped it, soundlessly, upon the ground.

He repeated the maneuver with the remainder of his clothes which, now a pile on the untilled ground of nineteenth century Southern California, he then nudged with a booted foot into a copse of tall, dry grass. That'll do. That'll do. That'll do.

He removed another machine and, with agility, fondled it, touching and sliding his dexterous fingers, tapping expertly, and finally, apparently reluctantly, put it to his lips and blew on it.

"Yes," he muttered. "Eighteen seventy-five." There was a grave finality to the words. He returned the machine to its pocket. And, from another pocket, he removed an antique — ha! Antique! — 6 shot revolver. He fumbled in his leggings and produced a bullet then five more and placed them into the weapon.

"Only one shot and all is lost if…" He didn't finish the thought. He needed to locate his target.

~~~

Later

~~~

With that, Macmillan—in an abrupt gesture that may be mistaken for sudden frustration—struck out at the other man. The old man stepped back toward the  nearly gone, slightly simmering,  green light. He moved a hand to defend himself whence a portion of his bare wrist came, ever so slightly, ever so briefly, into contact with the side of Macmillan's bare hand.

A warm feeling overcame the old man who tried to kill Macmillan as he vanished into the collapsing portal. His mission … failed.