The Alice didn’t have so much as a coffee grinder aboard. How, Joe wondered, would they make flour? As a small mountain of rye piled up on the yawl’s deck he calculated that they couldn’t possibly use more than fifteen pounds a day. That meant a hundred and thirty-three days to the ton. There must already be four tons aboard the yawl. “Enough,” he shouted. He pointed a finger at the first mate. “Stay there or I’ll turn you into a pumpkin,” he threatened, and began exploring the knarr.
There were twenty scrawny, athletic sheep in a pen up forward. Joe took eight. Below, he found bolts of heavy woolen cloth. It would bag and shrink horribly but the knarr’s sails seemed to be made of it. Joe shuddered to think what some really heavy weather would do to the Alice’s ancient canvas. He took half the cloth. He checked the knarr’s water butts and decided no. Green streamers were visible through the bungholes and they were only two days out!
He found his real treasure in the knarr’s dinghy: a small pair of millstones tied together made up the small boat’s anchor. He was ready to leave when another necessity caught his eye. He took half the firewood too.
“You know,” he said apologetically as they left the knarr, “we probably won’t be heading for Spain.” He’d been about to ask the girl if she wouldn’t rather stay with the Norse when he realized what would happen to her the moment he left. “But you’re welcome aboard,” he added.
“You’re Christian?”
“Most of us, I guess.”
“I have a few things.” The girl gave instructions in Norse. The first mate shouted all hands in line and the girl went down the line, pausing before each woman like a boot ensign on his first inspection. While the Alice’s men watched awedly, women began undressing. A man gathered their clothes and passed the bundle on board the Alice. The girl paused again before the naked, shivering women. Pausing before one, she drew the knife. Slowly, and with great deliberation, she incised a bloody cross into the older woman’s forehead. The woman glared unblinking while another cross was etched in each cheek.
Joe stared fascinated, wanting to stop this, ritual but unable to make himself move. After all, the girl had saved his life. It’s a barbarous era, he reflected—and what must that old woman have been doing to the girl for the last two years?
Tenderly, and with loving care, the dark haired girl inscribed another X on her former owner’s belly. The older woman stood erect, her hawk face expressionless. The girl stood back to admire her work and with a lightning movement, planted a kick in the middle of the X. The Norse woman doubled up in silence.
II
THEY LEFT the naked Norse women feeling some joy at finding themselves still unraped. Joe tacked for an hour so the knarr, which couldn’t sail upwind for sour apples, would not be tempted to try any deviltry under cover of darkness. There was still light to read by. They slacked sheets and the yawl settled down on a SW course.
And now, what was he going to do with the girl? In storybook situations the fair damsel was always installed in the captain’s quarters and the skipper played musical chairs with his officers. But the Alice was already crowded; she had bunks for the captain and eight men. The two civilians slept in the galley table settees. Plotting board, charts, and other indispensables, all were located in Joe’s small cubicle. After some thought he curtained off a corner of the forecastle and hoped ten men watching each other would prevent nature from taking its course.
As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, now Cookie was-plucking his sleeve. “Cain’t bum wood,” he was saying, “That stove’s made for diesel oil.”
The engineman stuck his head up through the cabin sole and wriggled out of the engine compartment.
“Can you make this stove bum wood?” Joe asked.
Rose mouthed his cigar stub thoughtfully. “I’ll try.”
“If you can’t, put a tub on deck with a few fathoms of chain in it. Whatever you do, keep it alee and don’t set the sails afire.”
The engineman removed a stovelid and surveyed the oil burner’s sooty innards.
The girl was dogging Joe, bumping into him each time he turned around. Her name was Raquel. He wondered if she was typical Tenth Century or if her gamy odor came from cramped shipboard conditions. “Villegas!” he called.
Seaman Villegas rolled out of his bunk and staggered blearily aft.
“Can you understand this savage?”
Villegas eyed her. “If the dame’s from Spain we’ll make out,” he said.
“Rig a shelter on deck. Get her a bucket and some soap. She’s probably never seen it before, so—”
“Always happy to oblige,” Villegas said.
“You don’t have to scrub her back,” Joe said firmly. “Just explain what soap is.” He retreated into his cabin before anybody else could buttonhole him.
The only chart which promised to be of any use was #1400W. The Hydrographic Office’s pilot chart of the North Atlantic was printed on oiled silk and someone had been using it for a tablecloth. He scrubbed at the coffee stain which circumnavigated Ireland and tried to guess where they were.
If the knarr was two days northwest of the Orkneys there should be little danger. He fired up the fathometer for a moment to be sure they were beyond the hundred-fathom curve and decided to stay on a southwest course. He went on deck to see if it was dark enough for a star sight. Someone was giggling in the darkness up near the bow.
“Just remember penicillin’s a thousand years away,” Joe said grimly. A sheep baa’d in the sudden silence.
He got his sight and made the correction, trying to remember if Polaris had been nearer or farther from true north a thousand years ago. A degree or so farther, he guessed. In any event, the Alice was on a latitude somewhere between the Orkneys and Northern Scotland. Until he made a landfall and an arbitrary chronometer setting there would be no way to calculate longitude. He’d have to steer well west where there was less chance of piling into something after dark. Also, he decided, the farther west they ran, the less chance of running into more Vikings.
He left McGrath and Schwartz on deck. Howard McGrath, in addition to being a good steersman, was a Bible student. For reasons known only to God he was also a firm friend of Red Schwartz, whose main interests were fighting and boozing. Though they never made a liberty together, McGrath was always ready to put down his Bible and listen disapprovingly to Schwartz’s tales of high adventure.
Gorson and Dr. Krom were drinking coffee when Joe went below. “Well?” Dr. Krom asked.
“Well what?” Joe wished the old man would go soak his head.
“What’re we going to do?”
“I don’t know about you,” Joe grunted, “But I’m going to bed. May the Bureau of Ships have mercy on the man who wakes me before we sight something!”
He woke with a start as the Alice’s motion changed. The short northern night was over and a bright sun hung high. He scrambled into his pants and rushed on deck. Spray wet him as they ploughed into a swell. An unhappy sheep was complaining in the bow. The wind had changed and the deck watch was sheeting in to make good. “Let her out a little,” Rate said, “Hold her south-southwest.”
Seaman Guilbeau looked worriedly at him. “Ain’t we heart in for the States, sir?” he asked
“No,” Joe growled, resisting a temptation to mimic the Cajun’s accent. “We’ll let the Indians fight it out among themselves.” He glanced at the sun. It would be at least six hours before he could get a noon shot. Even then it would be worthless, since he still didn’t know the date. There was probably some way to calculate a relation between noon shots and the star sight he’d taken last night but after a moment’s reflection Joe decided the mathematics was beyond him.
Gorson and Dr. Krom sat staring morosely into coffee mugs when he descended into the galley. They didn’t look like they’d changed position since last night.
“All right,” he said to the CPO, “you may as well get everybody in here who’s not on watch.”
Gorson nodded and yelled his way
through the forecastle. A minute later Ensign Rate faced the assembled ship’s company. “We have two problems,” he began. “To stay alive, and to get back to our own time. There’s no point in trying to go home. In the first place, there’s no Panama Canal so we’d have to make a passage around the Horn. Once back in San Diego we could spend our lives eating acorns and fraternizing with Digger Indians. Anyone want to?”
There were no volunteers.
“Now, we have a couple of scientists among us,” Joe continued.
“I’m an oceanographer,” Dr. Krom protested. “I know nothing of time travel.”
“Who does? We’re going to need peace and quiet—a place to experiment without having to fight off irate natives. The Tenth Century wasn’t noted for its hospitality, though. No matter where we go, we’ll wind up in some local feud or get ourselves burnt for witchcraft.”
The ship’s company looked unhappily at him.
“What do you suggest?” Dr. Krom asked.
“We need a harbor—preferably some island without local politics to worry us. Once we settle down, maybe we can figure things out.” Raquel sat at one end of the table, eying the proceedings with interest. She had changed to a cleaner and better fitting dress which, to masculine eyes, was not nearly so interesting.
“Were you considering Madeira?” Dr. Krom asked.
“I can’t remember whether or not it’s inhabited. The Canaries are out. The had an aboriginal population—I think they were called Gaunches. But Portuguese explorers found the Azores uninhabited 400 years from now. There’s anchorage, water, vegetation, and if worse comes to worse, we can raise mutton.” He looked about the table for signs of disagreement.
Lapham was somewhat greener than usual. “Isn’t there any land closer?” he asked plaintively.
“You need to get your mind off your stomach,” Joe suggested. “How about pooling your electronic talents with Rose? Maybe the two of you can come up with a wind charger.”
The conference broke up and sailors off watch went back to the sack. In spite of bright sunshine the weather was raw, with a dampness that penetrated even the newest pea jacket. At least they were driving south, Rate consoled himself. He wondered how soon they’d hit warmer weather. He wished desperately for a gyro compass, but the yawl had none. With radio direction finders navigation had been reduced to the simplest kind of plotting. Only now there were no beacons to plot from. He would have to check the compass deviation against the Star for even the BuShips knew not how the magnetic pole had wandered since 1000.
The day wore on and the Alice drove steadily south. Raquel came on deck in still another dress, this time with a tight bodice and a skirt which flared to conceal her bare feet. Her hair was tortured into a saladlike crown of pins and brooches. “What’s that?” she inquired, pointing at Joe’s binoculars.
“They help me see farther.”
She grabbed them and put them to her eyes. The strap was still around Joe’s neck so she had to come very close. Her hair had a warm, clean smell which excited him as no perfumery ever could. Murderous savage, he told himself, but he let her lead him about by the strap as Raquel played with her new toy. If she remembered he was on the other end of the strap she gave no sign.
He was smelling her hair again when she shrieked and dropped the glasses. The strap gave Joe’s neck a gallows-thump and he guessed he should have warned her not to look at the sun. He helped her toward the scuttle, wondering how it would feel to carry her down a ladder but halfway there her eyes stopped smarting and she made the ladder under her own power. When he reached the galley she was gone.
Dr. Krom came down and drew a mug of coffee. He passed a hand through bushy white hair and stared morosely at Joe. After a moment he looked around and saw they were alone. “Was there something you wished to discuss in confidence?” he asked.
Joe shrugged. “I have no secrets.”
“But you take it so calmly,” the old man said. “Is this something which happens every day? You know, with these idiotic security regulations one can’t know what’s going on in other fields.”
Calm! Joe thought. As if every historian had a shot at getting this close to the Tenth Century! He couldn’t think of what to say to as . . . perceptive . . . a question as Krom’s, so he didn’t bother to reply. A short silence fell between them.
Finally, Krom asked, “How soon should we reach the Azores?”
“If the wind holds we might be there in three weeks.”
The old man was silent for a moment. “I can’t get over it,” he said, “that such a thing should happen to usl”
“What makes you think we’re the only ones?”
Dr. Krom looked up sharply.
“You’re an oceanographer, Doctor—surely you know how many ships disappear each year.”
“Never to see America again,” the old man muttered. He caught up Joe’s argument. “I disagree most emphatically,” he said in his lecture room voice, “They’ve never showed up again in the wrong time.”
“Are you sure?” What alterations have we made on history? One load of Vikings gone without trace, one merchant ship set upon by pirates. What are we? A lot of outlandish foreigners who practice witchcraft. History’s filled with birds of that feather. Besides,” Joe continued, “have we any reason to believe everyone is displaced into the past?”
Jack Lapham came down the ladder, a shade less green than usual. “How’s the wind charger going?” Joe asked.
“I started a sketch and before I was half done your engineman had figured out three improvements.”
“There is nothing like working with one’s hands to instill a sense of practicality,” Dr. Krom observed. He was back worrying at Joe’s theorizing. “If they came from the past into the future wouldn’t we have anachronisms in our time?”
“Possibly,” Joe conceded.
“Then why haven’t they been found?” the old man triumphed.
“Perhaps they’re doing the same thing we are.”
The old man grew thoughtful. Any sailor who found himself in a strange place, surrounded by ships and people he didn’t understand, would have done the same; lay low and hope for the best.
“But you’re implying that the process is reversible,” Lapham said.
“Conservation of energy and all that jazz,” Joe said. “Doesn’t your modem physics make all processes reversible?”
“Then we can get back!”
“I think so.”
“Ah, the confidence of youth,” Dr. Krom said heavily.
“Weren’t you ever young?” Joe asked.
“A very long time ago,” the oceanographer said, and Joe noticed his accent had grown perceptibly thicker. He regarded the old man speculatively for a moment.
“I read somewhere that you grew up in a very small village,” Joe said.
Krom nodded.
“Well, my engineman’s busy rigging a charger so we can use the lights and refrigerator. I was wondering if you and Jack could figure a way to get those millstones turning. Sooner or later we’ll need flour.”
“Rye bread!” Krom exclaimed, and in a welling up of half-remembered smells he was suddenly young.
Joe went on deck, leaving the two civilians sketching excitedly on bits of paper towel. The sun still shone and the wind seemed to be holding steady. In spite of the chill Guilbeau was stripped to the waist as he struggled with the yawl’s wheel. “All hands set the spinnaker,” Joe shouted.
As soon as it was dark he took a sight and worked out their latitude. Then he went back on deck and shot the North Star again. Then he went below and told Freedy to fire up the fathometer.
“Sixty fathoms,” Freedy reported a moment later.
“God!” Rate muttered.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Not exactly,” Joe explained. “Just better time than I’d expected. Were nearly down to Ireland already, so we’d better head west until we drop off the hundred fathom curve. That’s the penalty for not knowing the date: no
way to figure longitude except by feeling your way along the bottom.”
He went back on deck and settled the Alice on her new course. “Take a sounding every ten minutes and wake me,” he said, “if she shoals out to twenty fathoms or less.”
“Right, sir,” the bo’sn grunted.
Joe went into his cabin and collapsed. Twenty minutes later he swung his feet out onto the cold linoleum and sat, chin in hands, on the edge of his bunk. What had he forgotten? They had food; they had water. Everything was going according to plan.
Slowly, he worked back over the last two days. Today was, or would have been, Saturday. He wondered what the Old Man and his visiting brass from the Bureau of Ships would have to say when the Alice was not in her proper slip with polished brightwork. The one good thing about time travel, Joe decided, was that he didn’t have to worry about some admiral stumbling across Cookie’s still. And there was that other business too:
When Ensign Joe Rate had shown up unexpectedly with a brand new commission in his hand, there had not been a single activity in the whole navy which actually needed a brand new ROTC ensign. Just when he had seemed doomed to a lifetime of awaiting orders, someone had remembered the Alice.
Commander Cutlott had been explicit. “Those two pirates”—he referred to Gorson and Cook—“are prime contenders for the all-navy cumshaw and looting title.”
“Haven’t they ever been caught?” Joe had asked in his innocence.
Commander Cutlott passed a weary hand over his bald spot. “We’re not dealing with amateurs,” he grunted. He leaned forward confidentially. “Things were bad enough when they confined themselves to supplies. How often do you find a team capable of stealing a whole ship?”
Joe’s eyes widened.
The Ship That Sailed the Time Stream Page 3