“I’ve heard of such things,” Dowland said drily.
It wouldn’t, however, be done that way. It was the kind of thing told a man already as good as dead, to keep him from making a desperate attempt to save himself. The Freeholders really wouldn’t have much choice. Something had loused up their plans here, and if Dowland either disappeared or was found suffering from a sudden bout of amnesia, the IPA would turn its full attention on Terra at once. If he died, his death could be plausibly arranged to look like an accident or a killing for personal motives. These people were quite capable of sacrificing one of their group to back such a story up. And it would pass. Terra was under no more immediate suspicion than any other world. Dowland had been on a routine assignment.
THERE were a few brief preparations. Paul Trelawney checked the batteries in the radiation suits he and Jill were wearing, then exchanged his set for that of the spare suit. Dowland left his own AR field off for the moment. It was at least as adequate as the one developed by the Trelawneys’ suits, and in some respects a much more practical device. But the suit batteries had an effective life of twenty-four hours, expending them automatically while the suits were worn. His field would maintain itself for a minimum of an hour and a half, a maximum of two hours. In this situation, Dowland wasn’t sure how long he would have to depend on the field. A few more minutes of assured protection might make a difference.
He saw Trelawney studying the mountaineering rig on the floor; then he picked up the harness and brought it over to him.
“Here, put it on,” he said. “What for?” Dowland asked, surprised.
Trelawney grinned. “We may have a use for it. You’ll find out in a minute or two.”
They left the house by a back entrance. Clouds were banked low on the eastern horizon now; the first sunlight gleamed pale gold beneath them. In the west the sky was brown with swirling dust. Jill stopped twenty yards from the laboratory building and stood on the slope, rifle in hand, watching the men go on. At the door, Dowland switched on his AR field. Trelawney tossed the disk-shaped key over to him. “Know how to use it?” Dowland nodded.
“All right. After you’ve snapped it in and it releases again, throw it back to me. It may be the last one around, and we’re not taking it into the laboratory this time. When the door starts moving down, step back to the right of it. We’ll see what the lab is like before we go in.” Trelawney indicated a thimblesized instrument on his suit. “This’ll tell whether the place is hot at the moment, and approximately how hot.” He waved the IPA gun in Dowland’s direction. “All right, go ahead.”
Dowland fitted the key into the central depression in the door, pressed down, felt the key snap into position with a sharp twisting motion of its own, released his pressure on it. An instant later, the key popped back out into his hand. He tossed it back to Trelawney, who caught it left-handed and threw it over his head in Jill’s direction. The disk thudded heavily into the grass ten feet from her. The girl walked over, picked it up, and slid it into one of her suit pockets.
The slab of metasteel which made up the laboratory door began moving vertically downward. The motion stopped when the door’s top rim was still several inches above the level of the sill.
A low droning came from the little instrument on Trelawney’s suit. It rose and fell irregularly like the buzz of a circling wasp. Mingled with it was something that might have been the hiss of escaping steam. That was Dowland’s detector confirming. The lab reeked with radiation.
He glanced over at Trelawney.
“Hot enough,” the Freeholder said. “We’ll go inside. But stay near the door for a moment. There’s something else I want to find out about . . .”
INSIDE, the laboratory was unpartitioned and largely empty, a great shell of a building. Only the section to the left of the entrance appeared to have been used. That section was lighted. The light arose evenly from the surfaces of the raised machine platform halfway over to the opposite wall. The platform was square, perhaps twenty feet along its sides. Dowland recognized the apparatus on it from Trelawney’s diagrams. The central piece was an egg-shaped casing which appeared to be metasteel. Near its blunt end, partly concealed, stood the long, narrow instrument console. Behind the other end of the casing, an extension ramp jutted out above the platform. At the end of the ramp was a six-foot disk that might have been quartz, rimless, brightly iridescent. It was titled to the left, facing the bank of instruments.
“A rather expensive bit of equipment over there, Dowland,” Trelawney said. “My brother developed the concept, very nearly in complete detail, almost twenty-five years ago. But a great deal of time and thought and work came then before the concept turned into the operating reality on that platform.”
He nodded to the left. “That’s Miguel’s coat on the floor. I wasn’t sure it would still be here. The atomic key you were searching for so industriously last night is in one of its pockets. Miguel was standing just there, with the coat folded over his arm, when I saw him last—perhaps two or three seconds before I was surprised to discover I was no longer looking at the instrument controls in our laboratory.”
“Where were you?” Dowland asked. “Six hundred thousand years in the past?”
“The instruments showed a fix on that point in time,” Trelawney said. “But this was, you understand, a preliminary operation. We intended to make a number of observations. We had not planned a personal transfer for several more weeks. But in case the test turned out to be successful beyond our expectations, I was equipped to make the transfer. That bit of optimistic foresight is why I’m still alive.”
What was the man waiting for? Dowland asked, “What actually happened?”
“A good question, I’d like to know the whole answer myself. What happened in part was that I suddenly found myself in the air, falling toward a river. It was night and cloudy, but there was light enough to show it was a thoroughly inhospitable river . . . And now I believe”—his voice slowed thoughtfully—“I believe I understand why my brother was found outside the closed door of this building. Over there, Dowland. What does that look like to you?”
Near the far left of the building, beyond the immediate range of the light that streamed from the machine stand, a big packing crate appeared to have been violently—and rather oddly—torn apart. The larger section of the crate lay near the wall, the smaller one approximately twenty feet closer to the machine platform. Assorted items with which it had been packed had spilled out from either section. But the floor between the two points of wreckage was bare and unlittered. Except for that, one might have thought the crate had exploded.
IT wasn’t an explosion,” Trelawney agreed when Dowland said as much. He was silent a moment, went on, “In this immediate area, two space-time frames have become very nearly superimposed. There is a constant play of stresses now as the two frames attempt to adjust their dissimilarities. Surrounding our machine we have a spherical concentration of those stresses, and there are moments when space here is literally wrenched apart. If one were caught at such an instant—ah!”
To Dowland it seemed that a crack of bright color had showed briefly in the floor of the building, between the door and the machine platform. It flickered, vanished, reappeared at another angle before his ears had fully registered the fact that it was accompanied by a curiously chopped-off roar of sound. Like a play of lightning. But this was . . .
The air opened out before him, raggedly framing a bright-lit three-dimensional picture. He was staring down across a foaming river to the rim of a towering green and yellow forest. The crash of the river filled the building. Something bulky and black at the far left . . . but the scene was gone—
The interior of the laboratory building lay quiet and unchanged before them again. Dowland said hoarsely, “How did you know what was going to happen?”
“I was in a position to spend several hours observing it,” Trelawney said, “from the other side. You see now, I think, that we can put your mountaineer’s kit to some very prac
tical use here.”
Dowland glanced across the building. “The walls . . .”
“Metasteel,” Trelawney said, “and thank God for that. The building’s sound; the stresses haven’t affected it. We’ll have some anchor points. A clamp piton against that wall, six feet above the console walk and in line with it, another one against the doorframe here, and we can rope across.”
Dowland saw it, unsnapped his harness, fed the end of the magnerope through the eye of a piton, and twisted it tight. “Are we going together?” he asked.
Trelawney shook his head. “You’re going, Dowland. Sorry about that, but this is no time for sporting gestures. The rope doesn’t eliminate the danger. But if you find your feet suddenly dangling over the air of a very old time, you’ll still stay here—I hope. If you don’t make it across, I’ll follow. We get two chances to shut Ymir down instead of one. All right?”
“Since you have the gun, yes,” Dowland said. “If I had it, it would be the other way around.”
“Of course,” Trelawney agreed. He watched in silence then as Dowland rammed the threaded piton down the muzzle of the gun, locked it in position, took aim across the machine platform, and fired. The piton clamp made a slapping sound against the far wall, froze against it. Dowland gave the loose end of the rope a few tugs, said, “Solid,” cut the rope, and handed the end to Trelawney.
The Freeholder reached up to set a second piton against the doorframe, fed a loop of the rope through it, and twisted it tight. Dowland slipped a set of grappling gloves out of the harness, pulled one over his right hand, tossed the other to Trelawney. “In case,” he said, “you have to follow. Magnerope gets to be wearing on bare hands.”
Trelawney looked briefly surprised, then grinned. “Thanks,” he said. “Can you do it with one glove?”
“No strain at that distance.”
“Too bad you’re not a Terran, Dowland. We could have used you.”
“I’m satisfied,” Dowland said. “Any point in waiting now for another run of those cracks in space before making the trip?” Trelawney shook his head. “None at all, I’m afraid. From what I saw, there’s no more regularity in those stress patterns than there is in a riptide. You see how the rope is jerking right now—you’ll get pulled around pretty savagely, I’d say, even if you don’t run into open splits on the way across.”
* * *
NOWLAND was fifteen feet from the door, half running with both hands on the rope, when something plucked at him. He strained awkwardly sideways, feet almost lifting from the floor. Abruptly he was released, went stumbling forward a few steps before the next invisible current tugged at him, pulling him downward now. It was a very much stronger pull, and for endless seconds it continued to build up. His shoulders seemed ready to snap before he suddenly came free again.
The rest of the way to the platform remained almost undisturbed, but Dowland was trembling with tensions before he reached it; he could feel the drag of the AR field on his breathing. The steps to the platform were a dozen feet to his right—too far from the rope. Dowland put his weight on the rope, swung forward and up, let the rope go and came down on the narrow walk between instrument board and machine section. The panels shone with their own light; at the far end he saw the flow-control wheel Trelawney had indicated, a red pointer opposite the numeral “5.” Dowland took two steps toward it, grasped the wheel, and spun it down.
The pointer stopped at “1.” He heard it click into position there.
Instantly, something slammed him sideways against the console, sent him staggering along it, and over the low railing at the end of the platform. The floor seemed to be shuddering as he struck it, and then to tilt slowly. Dowland rolled over, came up on hands and knees, facing back toward the platform. Daylight blazed again in the building behind him, and the roar of a river that rolled through another time filled his ears. He got to his feet, plunged back toward the whipping rope above the platform. The light and the roaring cut off as he grasped the rope, flashed back into the building, cut off again. Somewhere somebody had screamed . . .
Dowland swung about on the rope, went handing himself along it, back toward the door. His feet flopped about over the floor, unable to get a stand there for more than an instant. It was a struggle now to get enough air through the antiradiation field into his lungs. He saw dust whip past the open door, momentarily obscuring it. The building bucked with earthquake fury. And where was Trelawney?
He saw the red, wet thing then, lying by the wall just inside the door; and sickness seized him because Trelawney’s body was stretched out too far to make it seem possible it had ever been that of a man. Dust blasted in through the door as he reached it, and subsided, leaving a choking residue trapped within the radiation screen. If he could only cut off the field . . .
HIS gun lay too close to the sodden mess along the wall. Dowland picked it up, was bending to snatch the climbing harness from the floor when light flared behind him again. Automatically, he looked back.
Once more the interior of the building seemed to have split apart. Wider now. He saw the rushing white current below. To the right, above the forest on the bank, the sun was a swollen red ball glaring through layers of mist. And to the left, moving slowly over the river in the blaze of long-dead daylight, was something both unmistakable and not to be believed. But, staring at it in the instant before the scene shivered and vanished again, Dowland suddenly thought he knew what had happened here.
What he had seen was a spaceship.
He turned, went stumbling hurriedly out the door into the whistling wind, saw Jill Trelawney standing there, whitefaced, eyes huge, hands to her mouth.
He caught her shoulder. “Come on! We’ve got to get away from here.”
She gasped, “It—tore him apart!”
“We can’t help him . . . Dust clouds were spinning over the back of the mesa, concealing the upper slopes. Dowland glanced to the west, winced at the towering mountain of darkness sweeping toward them through the sky. He plunged up the slope, hauling her along behind him. Jill cried out incoherently once, in a choking voice, but he didn’t stop to hear what she was trying to say. He shoved her into the house, slammed the door shut behind them, hurried her on down the hall and into the living room. As they came in, he switched off his AR field and felt air fill his lungs easily again. It was like surfacing out of deep water. The detector still hissed its thin warning, but it was almost inaudible. They would have to risk radiation now.
“Out of your suit, quick! Whatever’s happening in the lab has whistled up a dust storm here. When it hits, that radiation field will strangle you in a minute outdoors.”
She stared at him dumbly.
“Get out of your suit!” Dowland shouted, his nerves snapping. “We’re going down the eastern wall. It’s our only chance. But we can’t get down alive if we can’t breathe . . .” Then, as she began unbuckling the suit hurriedly with shaking fingers, he turned to the pile of camping equipment beside the fireplace and pawed through it.
He found the communicator and was snapping it to the mountaineering harness when the front door slammed. He wheeled about, startled. Jill’s radiation suit lay on the floor near the entry hall. She was gone.
He was tearing the door open three seconds later, shouted, and saw her through the dust forty feet away, running up toward the forest.
He mightn’t have caught her if she hadn’t stumbled and gone headlong. Dowland was on top of her before she could get up. She fought him in savage silence like an animal, tearing and biting, her eyes bloodshot slits. There was a mechanical fury about it that appalled him. But at last he got his right arm free, and brought his fist up solidly to the side of her jaw. Jill’s head flew back, and her eyes closed.
HE came padding up to the eastern side of the mesa with her minutes later. Here, beyond the ranch area, the ground was bare rock, with occasional clusters of stunted bushes. The dust had become blinding, though the main storm was still miles away. There was no time to stop off at the hous
e to look for the quiz-gun, though it would have been better to try the descent with a dazed and half-paralyzed young woman than with the twisting lunatic Jill might turn into again when she recovered from his punch. At least, he’d have her tied up. Underfoot were grinding and grumbling noises now, the ground shaking constantly. At moments he had the feeling of plodding through something yielding, like quicksand. Only the feeling, he told himself; the rock was solid enough. But . . .
Abruptly, he was at the mesa’s edge. Dowland slid the girl to the ground, straightened up, panting, to dab at his smarting eyes. The mesa behind them had almost vanished in swirling dust.
And through the dust Dowland saw something coming over the open ground he had just traversed.
He stared at it, mouth open, stunned with a sense of unfairness. The gigantic shape was still only partly visible, but it was obvious that it was following them. It approached swiftly over the shaking ground. Dowland took out his gun, with the oddly calm conviction that it would be entirely useless against their pursuer. But he brought it up slowly and leveled it, squinting with streaming eyes through the dust.
And then it happened. The pursuer appeared to falter. It moved again in some manner; something thundered into the ground beside Dowland. Then, writhing and twisting—slowly at first, then faster—the dust-veiled shape seemed to be sinking downward through the rock surface of the mesa.
In another instant, it was gone.
Seconds passed before Dowland gradually lowered the gun again. Dazedly, he grew aware of something else that was different now. A miniature human voice appeared to be jabbering irritably at him from some point not far away. His eyes dropped to the little communicator attached to his harness.
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