The Coils of Time

by A Bertram Chandler

  “We know,” said Moira Simmons tolerantly. “We know. I don’t doubt your word for a moment, my dear, but it is a pity that all these — visions? It is a pity that all these visions have been seen by yourself only, with no witnesses. In fact, I have been reminded often of those unlettered, semi-moronic peasant girls back on Earth who used to make a habit of seeing Virgins, Saints and whatever. I have always been intending, some time when I have less pressing affairs to occupy me, to subject you to a thorough psychological examination.”

  “But Chris saw the first apparition, the armored giant.”

  “Tell us what you remember of it, Wilkinson,” ordered Moira Simmons amusedly.

  “Plenty,” he said. “I was the armored giant.”

  “You’ll wish you had your armor when the real questioning starts.”

  “I could help you,” said Wilkinson desperately, “if you would only let me.”

  “How?” asked Hardcastle.

  “By setting up a supply route between this world and the Venus that I came from. Weapons …”

  “What sort of weapons?” demanded the little man sharply.

  “How would you like portable laser projectors — really portable ones that can be carried like a pistol? I saw the ones that you had guarding the entrance, and it was obvious to me that you people haven’t taken the first step towards miniaturization. Or if you don’t like it here we can have you all transferred to my own Universe.”

  “All transferred to a Committee concentration camp,” sneered Moira Simmons.

  Meanwhile, one of the men had opened Wilkinson’s knapsack and was taking out the various items. He emptied the water from the bucket onto the absorbent moss of the floor, replacing it with the contents of the bag. This, together with Wilkinson’s knife, pistol and clothing, he carried to the Council table.

  Moira Simmons pawed through the articles like a scavenging bird, snorting.

  “Thorough,” she muttered. “Thorough. You have to give them credit for that. Mythical maker’s names and trademarks. A recoil-operated pistol — which, I suppose, is just as efficient as a gas-operated one. A set of natty gent’s clothing to be worn on a hothouse planet where nobody ever wears anything …” She shoved the pile of possessions away from her, along the table. “I propose that we don’t waste any more time, and start the interrogation at once.”

  “You haven’t looked properly,” Claire was saying. “Those cigarettes, for example …”

  “Is that what those things are? I thought they were some kind of candy.”

  “But we saw him smoking …”

  “You’ll see him smoking again once we get the hot irons to work.”

  “Not so fast, Moira.” Hardcastle’s voice held the authentic snap of authority. “Not so fast. I propose that we examine all these things at leisure. Wilkinson will keep in the lock-up until we’re ready for him.”

  “As you please.” The fat woman’s voice was sullen. “As you please. But I say that we are wasting valuable time.”

  “I think that we just might not be. That automatic pistol and those cigarettes argue a quite fantastic degree of thoroughness — too fantastically thorough even for our enemies, with all their resources. But, if you insist, we can put the matter to the vote.”

  “I propose,” said Duval, “that the prisoner be retained in custody until such time as a thorough examination of his effects has been made.” His eyes narrowed and he stared at Wilkinson. “Talking of effects, what about that bracelet affair that he’s still wearing?”

  “Just one of the bangles that seem to be in the fashion in the city these days. Just part of his pay from the Committee. Let him keep it. We can take it off him when he has no further use for it,” said Moira Simmons contemptuously.

  “I second Duval’s proposal,” said one of the woman Councillors. “Let’s get the voting over.”

  So Wilkinson was not kept in suspense for long. All the Council members, with the exception of Moira Simmons, were in favor of Duval’s motion. Then, before he had time to do more than flash a reassuring smile at Vanessa, he was hustled out into the warm darkness, dragged rather than led across the mossy ground, and flung into what appeared to be a cave in the cliff face, a cave to which a stout door had been added.

  The door was slammed and locked, and then a single incandescent bulb, set high in the roof, came on. Wilkinson saw a pair of eyes regarding him through a grill set high in the door and heard a voice — it was Claire’s — say, “Welcome to the Hotel Venusburg. If you want anything, just shout for room service. If you make enough noise there’ll be a couple of guards to shut you up in a hurry.” Then, in a softer tone. “Your story’s as fantastic as all hell, Wilkinson, but I more than half believe it. I’ll do what I can for you, and for Vanessa.”

  Then she was gone, but Wilkinson could hear the occasional shuffle and cough of the guards outside the door.

  XIII

  THE INSPECTION of the cave did not take long. It was no more than a bubble in the rock, the result, probably, of vulcanism. At the rear end of it there was a trickle of water down the stone wall, and not far from it was evidence that past prisoners had been obliged to relieve themselves there. Luckily the spongy moss that covered the cave floor was highly absorbent.

  Wilkinson drank from his cupped hands; the water was clear and cool, and its slightly peaty flavor was more palatable then otherwise. He thought of the water purifying tablets that had been among the things in his haversack, but it was too late now to worry about possible micro-organisms. Quite possibly, or probably, it didn’t much matter.

  Wilkinson stretched himself out on the soft moss and tried to sleep, but his mind was active although his body was tired. He reviewed the sequence of events since he had come to this strange world. First, he had found Vanessa. But that, he knew, would be of little avail if he were to die under Moira Simmons’ questioning. It was then that he started to sweat. He did not know what the woman’s technique would be — but he knew that it would be more effective than pretty. He had read of torture in historical romances but, like all his generation, had been sure that such things no longer happened, ever, and that Mankind was now far too civilized. That may have been true of his own Universe, but all too obviously it was not true of this one. He wondered how he would comport himself when it came to the pinch. He was not a coward — if he had been he would have been weeded out long before he was allowed to set foot aboard a spaceship — but he knew little of physical pain, had come to rely upon anodynes to relieve the most trifling discomfort. With the treatment that had been available aboard his ship, the low temperature burn on his buttock had never been more than a slight inconvenience.

  So — he was in prison.

  So — he was in prison, awaiting torture and, probably, death by torture.

  He tried not to think of all the things that could be, that would be done to him, and tried, instead, to consider ways and means of escape.

  But how?

  Claire might help.

  Claire had been more than half-convinced by his story, and she, although not a Council member, enjoyed some standing in this community of … outlaws? Yes. Outlaws. But Claire, like the others, recognized the need for eternal vigilance. Better that an innocent man should die than the safety of the group be jeopardized. Claire, he thought bitterly, might help to the extent of making his last moments easier, less messy. That way it would not be so hard on Vanessa.

  He tried to think of Vanessa as he had first seen her, naked and golden-glowing, walking down the rough path to the dry riverbed. But the image was replaced by one of himself, bound and naked, while the obscene psychiatrist turned torturer probed every nerve end with redhot metal.

  He felt the bracelet on his wrist. (It was odd that it had not been taken from him when he was stripped; in his own world such a bangle could easily have been a lethal device of deadly potentialities. But, as he had observed, these people knew little of miniaturization.) He felt the bracelet, and wondered how Time was passing in his
own Universe. It was possible, just barely possible, that Henshaw might snatch him back before the unpleasantries began. He hoped that Vanessa was still wearing hers. He thought, After all, no matter what happens to me I shall have accomplished something. She will be translated to a Universe where she can live with dignity and not as a hunted animal.

  Even so, there must be a way out.

  There must be a way out.

  Unable to lie still for a second longer he got to his feet, began to pace up and down the limited space. He heard a man’s voice from the grating, “What’s the matter, Chris? Can’t you sleep?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Can’t say that I blame you. If I had a session with that fat, vicious bitch coming to me, I’d have the jitters. But I’ve something that might help.”

  A key grated in the lock, and Wilkinson tensed himself for a spring to freedom. The voice warned, “Don’t try it, Chris. There’s two of us out here, and we’re both armed. And we shan’t shoot to kill either — just to cripple.”

  Wilkinson relaxed. He saw the door open inwards a scant two inches, and saw something small and flat thrown onto the moss floor. Curious, he picked it up. It was a flask made of white plastic with a screw top. “Happy juice helps,” remarked the voice.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Still sticking to the story about being from another Universe, Chris? Mind you, there is something odd about that equipment of yours, and we were all sure that the Committee had executed you. Oh, well, I’ll play it your way. Happy juice is what its name implies, and we make it from some of the mosses by brewing and distillation. Try it.”

  Wilkinson tried it. It was raw, and peat flavored, and could have been a very inferior Irish whisky. Wilkinson had been fond of Irish whisky, but he did not think that he could ever become fond of the so-called happy juice. Still — it helped. He took another sip, then another. When the flask was half empty he felt drowsy. He lay down again, and this time went almost at once asleep.

  • • •

  He awoke with a start.

  He shook his head dazedly, trying to collect his senses. His eyelids seemed to be gummed together, and when at last he got his eyes open they were dazzled by the glare that struck through the grilled window in the door. But it was not the golden daylight; it was harsh, blue-white radiance that seemed to be striking down from above. And there was the noise of engines, and the rattle of automatic weapons, and a heavy explosion followed by shouts and screams.

  Wilkinson staggered to his feet, and lurched to the door. The grill was at eye level and he could see through it. There was smoke, and there were flames, and there were naked figures in black silhouette against the conflagration looking like demons in an inferno of the ancient theologians. From above a vaned aircraft descended, fire spitting from the ports along its fuselage, fire that was answered by the machine pistols of the defenders. Abruptly the thing staggered in flight and then fell with a loud crash, and dissolved in an eye-searing burst of blue flame. But another helicopter drifted, with a throbbing roar, into view, and another, and another, and the probing bullets from the heavy machine guns and the flickering laser beams drove the groundlings to cover.

  Somebody moved into his field of vision, obscuring it. Somebody was speaking through the grill, voice raised in competition with the general uproar. “Chris!”

  “Yes. I’m here. What is it?”

  “It’s you they’re after. We have to get you out of here.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler just to shoot me, Claire?”

  “Don’t be so bloody silly. If they want you alive, then obviously you’ll be of some use to us the same way. But the camp has had it. They must have known of its existence and location all along. We’re abandoning, and making our way in small groups to our alternate hideaway. And you’re coming with us.”

  He said bitterly, “After the way I’ve been treated here, I might be better off with them.”

  “Don’t be a stupid fool. We can’t hold them off much longer. The powerhouse has had it and we can’t use our laser.” The key grated in the lock. “Come on out.”

  Wilkinson stepped through the open door. Vanessa met him. She thrust into his hands a small bundle — his boots, his belt with the holstered pistol, the sheathed knife — and cried, “Hurry, Chris! Hurry!” And Claire caught his arm in a hard, painful grip and shouted, “Come on, you fool!”

  Then, from one of the hovering aircraft, a beam of intense light stabbed out, bathing the little group — Vanessa, Claire, Malcolm and Wilkinson — in its hard radiance. From a sound projector boomed a giant’s voice, “Stay where you are, Wilkinson! We have come to rescue you!”

  “Like hell they have!” snarled the tall blonde.

  She turned to face the aircraft, and her right hand, holding a heavy machine pistol, lifted. The weapon chattered violently and, with a crash of breaking glass, the light went out. In spite of the glare from the burning buildings and the searchlights of the other helicopters the darkness seemed intense. Vanessa caught Wilkinson’s free hand, tugging at it violently. Malcolm gave him a shove from behind that sent him staggering forward. And then, pulled by the girl and pushed by the surly giant, he was stumbling over the soft moss, crying out in pain as he stubbed an unprotected toe on a projecting rock, but moving, slowly at first, then faster, in spite of himself caught up in the feeling of panicked flight, joining the exodus from the doomed encampment.

  Behind him there was still the staccato rattle of automatic fire, and a tinny crash that told of another helicopter shot down, and a series of heavy explosions.

  Ahead of him there was the pale form of Vanessa flitting through the opaque darkness, the will-o’-the-wisp that he had followed across vast gulfs of Space and Time — that he was, he realized, well content to follow still.

  XIV

  DAWN CAME slowly — a wan, gray luminescence creeping in from the east, gradually assuming a pale golden tinge. Around the little party slowly swirled the eddying mists, the touch of the air like damp, warm fingers on their naked skins. Nothing was visible beyond the little circle in which they trudged — spongy moss, an occasional upthrusting boulder, the looming shape of a tree-fern.

  Claire halted them by the bank of a little, noisy rivulet.

  She said, “I think we’ve come far enough for the time being. We’ll rest and have a meal of sorts.”

  Wilkinson was glad to sit down. He had found it hard to maintain the same pace as the others and besides, they had all seemed to be familiar with the way, and he had been continually blundering into rocks and trees and bushes. Had they not allowed him a brief pause to put on his boots he would, by this time, have been crippled; as it was, his feet were bruised and aching.

  He sprawled on the soft moss and looked at his companions. He realized that he must cut as fantastic a figure as they did. The four of them looked like a group of people out of the earliest dawn of Mankind — the nudity, the rough sandals on the feet of three of them, the tangled hair, the heavy, villainous stubble on Malcolm’s craggy face. Wilkinson ran his fingers over his own smooth jawline; at least, thanks to the inhibitory technique practised in his own Universe, it would be at least six months before he would need depilation. Even so … He wondered what his shipmates would think if they could see him now.

  Yes, a group of primitive men and women — but hung around with modern equipment; the tough plastic belts, the machine pistols, and even the arbalests. He wondered briefly why his companions had bothered to bring the hand-powered weapons along, then felt a slight glow of pride as he worked out for himself their advantages. First of all, they were relatively silent. Secondly and most importantly, should they be used either in defence or for the killing of small game the bolts were recoverable. And pistol ammunition, most unfortunately, did not grow on trees. For his own weapon, for example, he possessed only what was in the magazine, a mere ten rounds.

  Having refreshed herself from the stream, Claire opened the bag which she carried slung at her w
aist. From it she brought four flat cakes, passed one to each of the others, and kept one for herself. Wilkinson examined his curiously. He asked, “What is it?”

  “Food,” mumbled the tall blonde through a mouthful. “Go ahead. It won’t kill you.”

  “It’s a change to find something on this crazy world that’s non-lethal,” replied Wilkinson. He saw that Vanessa was looking at him with a hurt expression. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Claire swallowed noisily. She said, “Either your story is true, Chris Wilkinson, or you’re putting on a damn good act. But if you must know, these cakes are made from flour that we get by grinding down the seeds of the stinkweed blossoms. Baking gets rid of most of the smell, but not all. The flavor leaves much to be desired, but there’s enough concentrated nourishment in one of these cakes for two days’ tough marching. We always keep supplies on hand for emergencies such as this.”

  Wilkinson nibbled cautiously. The taste was, as he had been warned, vile, but there was plenty of clear, cool water in the stream to wash it away.

  When the simple meal was finished he asked, “What now?”

  “We press on to the alternative camp, hoping that it hasn’t been wiped out before we get there. There’s a cache of weapons and ammunition, and a small hydro-electric power station …” Her face hardened. “But whoever betrayed the location of our old headquarters could have sold us out altogether. Somebody must have told the Committee about you, and where to find you. It was obvious during the raid that they were being careful with their machine guns and laser beams, and two or three good bombs could have wiped out everybody, including you, Chris.”

  “One good bomb,” he said. “Just one good fission or fusion bomb.”

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “Just a piece of military unpleasantry that we’ve grown out of — although there are a few stockpiled against emergencies. Didn’t you have atomic weapons in your history?”