Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  For a man stood in the entrance of the room.

  Not a sub human, apish creature, but a small, gray-haired man with intelligent blue eyes and lean, kind features. This man wore a faded, ragged shirt, grimy breeches and knee boots. Barry’s relief at seeing a human being was so intense, that he couldn’t speak.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” the man said, smiling.

  Barry drew a shaky breath. “It was the most pleasant shock I’ve received in a long time,” he said. It was then that the significance, the import of this man’s presence hit him.

  “You’re Professor Carstairs, aren’t you?” he demanded. “Linda Carstairs’ father.”

  “Why, yes,” the blue eyes twinkled, “I do happen to be Professor Carstairs. How did you happen to know me?”

  Barry sat down weakly on one of the stone couches.

  “It’s a long story,” he said.

  When he had finished talking tiny furrows of worry lined the professor’s face. For several moments he was silent, one hand drumming nervously on his knee. Then he said:

  “It was like Linda to set out after me, but I’d feel better if I knew she was safely at home. Frankly there’s nothing she or the other members of her party could do to rescue us, even if they did happen to discover that we are being held.”

  “Are you sure?” Barry asked quietly. “Is there no way to escape from this place?”

  Professor Carstairs smiled fleetingly and shrugged.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak with authority because as it happens, I haven’t tried to escape. Still, my opinion would be that such a venture would be impossible. Now, I will tell you my story. I came here to this remote age because my research indicated that it was at approximately this time that the Germanic legends were in embryo, so to speak. The legend I was particularly concerned with was that which dealt with the Thunder God, known as Thor. Every mythology has a counterpart of Thor. The Romans called him Vulcan; the Indians called him Twakstrie, and so forth. My belief is, or was, that these legends were based on fact, that a thunder god, and thunder hammer, had existed. Since my work is in the field of synthetic energy you can understand what it would mean to me if I could discover and analyze the original hammer of Thor. There, I might find the secret, the keystone, to the solution of the problem of synthetic energy.”

  “I gather,” Barry interrupted, “that you haven’t found any trace of the hammer.”

  The professor nodded slowly. “My companion and I arrived at this age without difficulty, but in our first foray into the foreboding jungle we stumbled upon a party of these Cro-Magnon creatures. In the struggle my companion was killed. I was brought here and have been here since.”

  “Why,” Barry asked, “have they kept you alive?”

  “As to that,” the professor answered, “I can only surmise that I, and you also, are being reserved for some very special manner of elimination. I have given some study to the monolithic inscriptions on the walls of these caves and the most prevailing one is that of sacrificial rites, coincident, as nearly as I can figure, with the full periods of the moon. It is therefore not a bad guess that you and I are scheduled to slake the blood thirst of one of their disagreeable gods.”

  The professor spoke blandly, almost cheerfully, but there was no mistaking the undertone of grimness in his words.

  “There must be something we can do,” Barry said quietly, “I’m not in the habit of quitting without a fight. How far do you suppose this place is from where you left your time ship?”

  “Not terribly far,” the professor answered thoughtfully. “As I recall we had only marched a few hours when I was able to sight the mountain top under which these caves have been tunneled. You might not have noticed it but the main chamber of this unique place is simply the inner core of a long extinct volcano. From that dead core our industrious hosts chiseled deep into the interior of the mountain until they have literally honeycombed it with their caves. It was a measure made expedient by the great number and variety of ferocious carnivora which roam the jungles. If you plan to escape, my friend, remember that fact well. You will be forced to cover miles of swampy jungle, infested with the most malignant types of reptiles and animals. That is doubtless why my hosts have given me a good deal of freedom about the place. They respect my intelligence sufficiently to realize that I would not be rash enough to dare the dangers of the jungle alone.”

  “You are not alone now,” Barry said with quiet emphasis.

  The professor’s mild blue eyes met Barry’s and his frail shoulders shrugged wearily.

  “My young friend,” he said softly, “I admire your will and I respect your courage. But I am afraid they will be of no use here.”

  “One more thing,” Barry said after a pause, “I’ve told you about the bird-girls, but you didn’t comment. What is your opinion of them?”

  “More guess work,” the professor replied. “They are represented in the monolithic inscriptions, so it is safe to assume they have existed for quite some time. Possibly they are the source of the Valkyries, the beautiful bird-girls, of the Germanic mythology. At any rate they are an extremely interesting mutation. Mother Nature in her wisdom might have equipped these daughters of hers with wings to enable them to survive the dangers they would meet in the plains. With wings, even the most ferocious dinosaur can be eluded. In their countenance, as you have described them, there is a definite resemblance to the North American Indian, who is still buried thousands of years in the future. That is another speculation. Why they helped you I can, again, only guess. They might reason that you were of their type, as opposed to the beast you were fighting. Therefore their sympathies were with you and they came to your aid. What to do with you then became their problem. Since they know that the cave men live in the volcano, and since you resembled the cave men, the logical thing was for them to bring you here, which they did. The reception they received will undoubtedly serve to stifle any such charitable inclinations which might arise in the future.”

  Barry twisted slightly and a twinge of pain shot up his side.

  The professor’s keen eyes caught his wince.

  “You’re hurt,” he said anxiously. “I’m an old fool for gabbing on like this. Lie down on these skins and I’ll bring some salve and bandages. I had them with me when I was captured. Then you’ll need some broth and a night’s sleep to put you on top of the world. Do as I say now.”

  Barry obeyed the suddenly decisive professor meekly.

  “One thing though,” he said, “the girl they captured looked as if she might be hurt. I’d feel better if you’d see if there’s anything you can do for her.”

  “All right, all right,” the professor said testily, “I’ll look after everybody in the ward but first of all I want to look after you.”

  When the professor had dressed the ugly scratches and bruises on his side and fed him a deep wooden bowl full of steaming broth, Barry relaxed against the comfortable warmth of the thick skins. He was not worried about the party he had brought back to this savage past. They were, he knew, in McGregor’s capable hands. The realization that he might never again see the big Scotchman gave him a deep wrench. Surprisingly, however, he had the same sensation when he thought of never seeing Linda Carstairs again.

  He dozed off, still unable to make sense out of his thoughts and emotions.

  The professor awakened him. After another meal he felt almost up to normal. The rest and food had performed a miracle on his tired, weakened system. Strength was flowing again through the muscles of his hard, well packed body.

  “You look like a different man,” the professor said, “Naturally that is gratifying for I take full credit for my patient’s recovery. I regret to say my other patient is not doing as well.”

  “The girl?” Barry asked quickly. “You’ve seen her?”

  The professor nodded.

  “They have locked her away in a small cave. They are all extremely elated over her capture. She will, I imagine, be put to use during one of their sac
rificial ceremonies, if she lives that long.”

  “Why do you say that?” Barry asked.

  “She will not eat,” the professor said. “She will languish away inside of a week, like any wild thing in captivity. Probably it is the kindest thing that could happen to her.”

  “Could I see her?” Barry asked.

  “Possibly,” the professor said thoughtfully. “Keep close to me. I have freedom here, because the cave men all feel immensely superior to me physically. Mentally, too, I suppose,” he added wryly.

  With the professor in the lead they left the small smoky chamber and followed a narrow corridor for several hundred feet. Rooms branched off this tunnel and Barry had quick glimpses of the living quarters of the cave men. Great slovenly females and savage wiry children peered curiously at him as he walked past.

  They met several males lumbering along in the opposite direction, but the only attention they received was a noncommittal grunt.

  “I think it’s going to be all right,” the professor said. With a smile, he added, “The males, fortunately, feel superior to you, too.”

  At the end of this corridor the professor stopped. He pointed to a heavy door, made of slabs of wood bound together with leather thongs and hinged by the same device.

  “She is in there,” he said.

  A torch cast an eerie smoky yellow light over the door and through its chinks. Through one of these Barry was able to see the interior of the small, rock-walled room. It took an instant to adjust his eyes to the poorly lighted enclosure but when he did he saw the girl, a dark motionless shape, crouched in the farthest corner of the room. He could not see her face, but in the semidarkness, her brilliant dark eyes gleamed like two tiny flames.

  Listening he could hear her breathing, harshly, fearfully, as if each shuddering breath were to be her last. It was that sound, piteously terrible, that spurred him to action.

  “There must be something we can do,” he said determinedly.

  “It’s no use,” the professor protested. “I placed a bowl of broth before her earlier today, but she won’t touch it. There’s nothing you can do.”

  Barry didn’t bother answering.

  Quickly he untied the leather thongs that secured the door, opened it and stepped inside the room. The light from the corridor fell across the floor, cutting a swath through the darkness, affording him a clear view of the girl.

  She crouched against the wall as he moved cautiously toward her, her gleaming eyes darting about as if seeking escape.

  The tendons in her throat were taut and strained, and her lips were drawn in pain from her strong teeth.

  Barry stopped in the middle of the room and for several minutes remained absolutely motionless. Then he slowly eased himself on one knee and picked up the crude wooden bowl of broth. He waited again and then slowly extended it toward the girl.

  She crouched away from the extended bowl.

  Barry held it out until his arm was tired, then he set it again on the floor. He tried this twice again with no success.

  Then he held the bowl to his own lips and drank. The girl watched him with narrowed eyes. After a pause he extended the bowl to her. She hesitated, tremblingly indecisive, then crouched away again.

  Barry drank again, but the girl would not take the bowl from him. In despair he set the broth down and left the room.

  “It’s useless,” Professor Carstairs said.

  “I guess you’re right,” Barry said glumly. He closed the door discouragedly. Then he heard a strange sound from inside the room. Putting his eyes to one of the larger chinks, he saw that the girl had picked up the bowl and was drinking the broth, her bright eyes still staring steadily over the rim of the bowl at the door.

  He grabbed the professor excitedly and pulled him to the door.

  The professor looked for an instant then cocked his head appreciatively.

  “Well, well,” he said, a deep satisfaction in his voice, “she gurgles her soup like a lady. My boy, you have unexpected resources.”

  The next day they returned to the room with another bowl of broth, several pieces of roasted meat and a strange assortment of bandages, leather strips and lengths of wood, hacked down to a thickness of a quarter of an inch.

  “Are you sure you can do it?” Barry asked anxiously, as he untied the leather thongs on the door.

  “My boy,” the professor said touchily, “to a man who has performed cellular transformation operations, a splint should not be too difficult. If she will keep still I can patch that wing as good as new.”

  When they entered the room the girl watched them warily, but she showed no signs of fear. There were deep lines of pain in her face and beads of sweat ringed her forehead. A sickly white pallor was showing through the deep tan of her skin.

  She drank the soup hungrily, without hesitation. But she would not touch the meat until Barry had eaten almost half of it. Then she devoured the rest.

  “We might have to put a splint on you,” the professor said, “to show her that it’s all right.”

  But two attempts to bind the injured wing convinced them that it was a hopeless task. The girl crouched in terror from them, shielding the broken wing with her body.

  “What now?” the professor asked helplessly.

  “I’ll show you,” Barry said grimly.

  With a quick motion he grabbed the girl’s arms, pinioning them behind her. She fought him in savage silence, but the surprise of his movement had given him the advantage. It took all of the steely strength in his arms to hold the girl while the professor straightened her broken wing.

  “Hurry,” Barry panted.

  “Doing my best,” the professor said through his teeth.

  Barry held the girl, face downward on the floor, his knee in her back, but she continued to fight and struggle with savage strength.

  The professor worked in swift silence. When he set the wing the girl strained convulsively for an instant, then her head fell forward to the floor.

  “I think she’s unconscious,” Barry said.

  “Good,” the professor snapped. “I can work that much faster.”

  In a matter of minutes he was binding the splints into place with leather thongs. Then he strapped the wing to the girl’s body and stood up.

  “All through,” he said. “In a week or two it should be fit as a fiddle.”

  Barry turned the girl on her side and balled his jacket into a pillow and slipped it under her head.

  Her eyes flickered open as they were leaving. The expression in them was inscrutable. There was pain and fear and watchfulness, but behind that there was a faint expression that was impossible to name.

  Barry closed the heavy door and shook his head.

  “It isn’t likely,” he said, “that we’ll ever receive a vote of thanks for that job.”

  Professor Carstairs putted his lips musingly.

  “You never can tell,” he said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  They started back down the rock hewn corridor toward the room which Barry had been using, but they had not traveled a dozen feet before they became aware of a sudden commotion, a clamorous excitement sweeping through the halls and corridors of the underground caves.

  Hoarse guttural shouts echoed about them, and they saw a dozen of the shaggy cave brutes lumbering past an intersection, their faces twisted in savage anticipation.

  The huge, dull-faced women crowded into the corridor from the living quarters, their monkey-like children clinging to their legs, squealing in excitement.

  “What’s up?” Barry demanded.

  The professor shook his head worriedly.

  “We’d better investigate,” he answered.

  They started off at a trot, but before they crossed the nearest intersection, four formidably armed cave men appeared and, with a wild yell, sprang at them.

  The attack was so unexpected and the savagery of the shaggy creatures so irresistible that Barry was hurled to the ground before he could raise his arms to defen
d himself. Resistance was useless, but still he struggled desperately, lashing out with both fists at his bestial attackers.

  A stunning blow from a heavy gnarled fist exploded a constellation of fireworks in his head. Dazed, he slumped to the floor, fighting doggedly at the mists of darkness that were rising to cloud his mind.

  Rough hands jerked him to his feet and he felt himself being half dragged, half carried along the rocky floor of the corridor.

  The very abruptness of the motion revived him to some extent. A dozen feet ahead he could see three burly figures dragging the limp form of Professor Carstairs between them. There was a babel of sound in his ears as the cave men grunted and chattered among themselves like a tribe of excited apes.

  There was a triumphant, gloating note in their voices, as if some long and eagerly awaited event were about to transpire.

  Groggily, Barry attempted to make some kind of sense out of the violent reversal of the cave men’s attitude toward the professor and himself. It was no use. His tired brain gave up the struggle to think.

  How long or how far he was dragged through narrow corridors, he had only the vaguest idea. It seemed hours and miles, but he was conscious enough to realize it had probably been only a fraction of that.

  The forward motion stopped abruptly. Dimly he heard the shuffling, rhythmic tramp of heavy, bare feet approaching, coming nearer . . . nearer . . .

  Exultant cries sounded about him and from a distance answering shouts filtered to his consciousness. Lifting his head Barry saw another and larger band of the savage cave creatures tramping, toward them. Leading this horde was a gigantic figure of a man, muscled and massive, with a fantastically bestial countenance. This lumbering savage carried a club on one wide shoulder. In the forked end of the club a flashing, glittering stone was lashed, and its luminous emanations threw a pale flickering glow against the walls of the caves and over the dull faces of the pack.

  Barry’s eyes flicked from the giant leader of the approaching group, and a sudden shock of amazement jarred him to full consciousness. For in the center of the shaggy, savage pack of cave men, were three weary, dirt stained figures, stumbling along under the fierce prods of their captors.