Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  The king guessed the meaning of the words even if he did not know the language in which they were spoken. He smiled broadly, pointed to the unfortunate Herak. The defeated wrestler had managed to sit up, was being attended to by a filthy old hag in a tattered skin robe who was holding a crude, clay cup of some brew to his lips.

  The sergeant would have been quite capable of using this target—but, “No,” ordered Grimes firmly. “No.”

  “But I could shoot the mug outa her hands, sir . . .”

  “You’re not to try it. Use that!” That was a small, yellow-white boulder about two hundred meters distant.

  “But it’ll damage the quarrel, sir.”

  “That’s too bad. Aim. Shoot!”

  “Very good, sir,” responded the man in a resigned voice.

  The taut wire bowstring twanged musically. The short, metal shaft flashed in the sunlight as it sped towards the rock. It hit in a brief, sudden explosion of glittering dust. And when this cleared the boulder was seen to be split in two; sheer good chance had guided the projectile to a hidden fault line.

  The king rumbled obvious approval. He thrust his sword into the ground, held out both his big hands for the new toy. He took hold of it lovingly and then, with almost no fumbling, succeeded in cocking it. The sergeant handed him a bolt. Grimes moved as unobtrusively as possible so that his body was between the native ruler and what probably would be his choice of targets.

  But there was a herd of goats drifting slowly over the grassy plain towards the ship. The king grinned again, took careful aim on the big, black buck in the lead. He seemed to be having a little trouble understanding the principle of the sights with which the weapon was fitted, but at last pulled the trigger.

  It was another lucky shot, catching the hapless animal squarely in the head, between the horns.

  What have I done? Grimes asked himself guiltily. But surely the bow was already in existence, and the introduction of the arbalest into this world, even though it might be a few centuries too early, would make very little difference to the course of history.

  “We have a satisfied customer, sir,” said Dalzell smugly.

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes.

  Chapter 17

  AFTER THE EXCHANGE OF GIFTS—the crossbow, a few knives, a couple of hammers and a saw for the baskets of produce and the jars of oil, beer and milk—the natives returned to their village. Grimes wondered if he and a party should accompany them, but Mayhew advised against it. “They wouldn’t object, John; they’re essentially too courteous. But the party’s laid on for tonight, and they have to get things ready . . .”

  “What party?” asked Grimes.

  “Do you expect a gilt-edged invitation card?” Sonya asked him.

  “I suppose not.” He turned again to the telepath. “So there’s to be a feast, is that it?”

  “Yes. In our honor.”

  “Then the samples of the local foodstuffs will be useful. Major Dalzell, please have these gifts delivered to the biochemist, and tell him from me to go into a huddle with the Quack to find out if we can enjoy the wine and food of the country without serious consequences . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Major . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “There is to be no, repeat no, fraternizing with the natives. I shall give the same order to Commander Williams regarding the spacemen and women of the ship’s complement.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Grimes could not help noticing the expressions on the faces of Dalzell’s marines. If looks could have killed, he would have had only another second to live. Titanov glowered even more ferociously than his mates.

  “And what about tonight’s . . . er . . . feast?” asked the major.

  “I’ll let you know later,” said Grimes. He heard one of the men mutter, “One o’ those officers-only bun struggles, I suppose . . .” But it would not be, he had already decided. It would all too probably be the sort of affair at which any staid, respectable senior officer should be conspicuous by his absence.

  Back aboard the ship Grimes called Williams, Mayhew and Clarisse into his quarters. He said, “We know where we are. We still don’t know when.”

  “Wasn’t there a Bronze Age?” asked Williams. “The sword that the chief or king or whatever he is was carrying looked like bronze . . .”

  “An Age is an Age is an Age,” remarked Sonya. “In other words, it’s not a mere two or three weeks.”

  Grimes grunted irritably. His wife was right, as she usually was. The Bronze Age, following the Stone Age, had lasted for quite a while. But when, roughly, had it started? He, Grimes, did not know, and he doubted very much if anybody in the ship knew. Faraway Quest’s data banks were stuffed almost to bursting with information on just about everything but ancient Terran history.

  “This period,” said Sonya, “must be towards the beginning of the Bronze Age . . .”

  “How do you make that out?” asked Williams.

  “Metal artifacts are so scarce as to be the perquisites of the rulers. The local king has a bronze sword. The spears of his soldiers are tipped with stone.”

  “Could be,” admitted Grimes. “Could be. On the other hand, this may be a backward, poverty-stricken little kingdom. Just as in our day and age not every world can afford the very latest in sophisticated weaponry.”

  “There are precious few planets that can’t,” she told him. “Guns before butter has been a working principle of Man for all the millennia that he has been Man. It was a working principle ages before that mad German dictator—Hitler, wasn’t it?—coined the phrase.”

  “So we can assume,” said the commodore, “that bronze artifacts are rare as well as being expensive.”

  “You can assume all you like, my dear, but that does seem to be the way of it.”

  “Mphm. two thousand B.C.? three thousand? I read up on Greek history after I got involved in that Spartan Planet affair, but I’m afraid that not much of it stuck in my memory. In any case, I never could remember dates. This land, as I recall it, was settled by a variety of peoples, some coming by sea and some by land. Our friends in the village seem to be land nomads who have settled down in one spot, who are living in permanent wooden houses rather than tents. But they should have horses, and we haven’t seen any . . .”

  “Horses,” said Sonya, “have been known to die. Perhaps some epidemic in the past wiped all their horses out, so they had to stay put and make the best of it.”

  “But they should have cattle,” persisted Grimes.

  “Not necessarily. They have sheep, and goats . . .”

  “And figs,” added Williams. “And some very small pears . . .”

  “How do you know?”

  “I looked in the baskets when the pongoes brought them aboard.”

  “I hope,” said Sonya, “that you did no more than look.”

  “I was tempted,” admitted the commander. “But I’ve no desire to come down with a case of the squitters. I hope that the local tucker is passed fit for human—our sort of human—consumption.”

  “Yes,” said Grimes, “I do, too. We have this feast tonight. Have you any idea, Ken, what’s being laid on for us?”

  “It’ll be a barbecue,” answered the telepath. “Already they’re slaughtering lambs and kids . . .”

  “Sounds a bit of all right,” commented Williams, licking his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” Grimes told him, “but you won’t be among the guests.”

  “Have a heart, Skipper!”

  “I’m sorry, and I mean it. But somebody has to watch the shop. I shall require a skeleton crew remaining on board—you, in command in my absence, and Hendriks, in case any show of force is required, and either the chief or the second engineer . . . And such ratings as you consider necessary.”

  “Talking of the engineers—the chief wants to have a grand overhaul of the inertial drive. He was telling me that it’ll not be safe to lift off until he’s satisfied himself that everything
is as it should be.”

  “We’ll see how things go tonight,” said Grimes. “If I’m reasonably happy he can take things apart tomorrow. Meanwhile, arrange a meeting of all hands for 1600 hours.”

  Faraway Quest’s people were in a restive mood when they assembled in the main lounge at 1600 hours. This was understandable. Outside the ship there was an unspoiled world, bathed in sunshine. Inside the ship there were the same old drab surroundings, and the subtle scents of thyme and asphodel, mingled with the aroma of distant pines, drifting through the ventilation system, made their virtual imprisonment harder to endure.

  However, Grimes, when he mounted his platform, had the attention of the meeting.

  He opened proceedings briefly, then said, “You will all be pleased to learn that the samples of foodstuffs and liquor brought on board have been passed as fit for human consumption. It will be necessary, however, for all hands to receive a broad spectrum antibiotic injection to ensure their continuing good health while on this world. This will also lessen the possibility of our transmitting any diseases to the natives, although after our long spell in space we should be practically sterile.” He smiled briefly. “In the surgical sense of the word, of course. Mphm.

  “As many of you are already aware there will be a feast in the village tonight. I am given to understand that we shall be the honored guests. Save for a shipkeeping skeleton crew—the duty list will be posted by Commander Williams—we shall all attend. Rig of the day—of the evening, rather—will be Number Seven. Major Dalzell will see to it that his men wear the marine equivalent. Side-arms will be worn only by officers of lieutenant commander’s rank and up, although Marine other ranks will carry stunclubs. Weapons, however, are not, repeat not; to be used unless in circumstances of extreme provocation.

  “All hands attending the feast will behave in a gentlemanly . . .” he grinned . . . “or ladylike manner. Remember that we are ambassadors. Do not partake too freely of the local liquor—or, if you do, do not fail to counteract the effects with antidrunk tablets that you will all be carrying. Do not molest the native women. And as for you, ladies, try to avoid too close contact with the native men.

  “And do not forget that even though you are away from the ship you are still subject to discipline.

  “That is all.”

  He heard somebody mutter, “With old Pickle Puss keeping an eye on us it’s going to be a fine party. I don’t bloody think!”

  Chapter 18

  THE SUN WAS WELL DOWN and the silvery sliver of the new moon, swimming in the afterglow, was about to lose itself behind the black peaks to the west’ard when the invitation to the feast was delivered. From the village marched a small procession—six men bearing aloft flaring pine-knot torches, four drummers, two pipers. All of them were wrapped in cloaks of sheepskin against the evening chill. They paraded around the ship to the squealing of their pipes and the rattle of their drums.

  Said Grimes sourly, “It could be a serenade . . .”

  Mayhew told him, “I’m picking up their thoughts. It’s a traditional melody, John. It could be called Come To The Party . . .”

  “To be played on the typewriter?” asked Sonya. Then, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the party.”

  “And can we take our quick red foxes and lazy brown dogs with us?” wondered Grimes aloud. He got up out of his chair, reached for and put on his third-best uniform cap. He was wearing Number Seven uniform—tunic and trousers of tough khaki drill over a thick black sweater, black kneeboots. It was the standard wear for shore excursions in rough country in less than subtropical temperature. For an occasion such as this promised to be the cloth had the big advantage of being stain-resistant.

  Before leaving his quarters he said to Williams, “I don’t anticipate any trouble, Billy. But if there is, we’ll yell for help on our personal transceivers.”

  “I’ll be listening, Skipper. Have a good time.”

  The commodore led the way down to the after airlock, followed by Sonya, Mayhew and Clarisse. The others were assembling there—ship’s officers and ratings, Dalzell and his Marines. They stood to one side to allow Grimes to be first down the ramp.

  As he stepped on to the ground the torch bearers advanced and then, with their flambeaux, made a beckoning gesture. They turned about and, flanked by the pipers and the drummers, began to march back towards the village. The commodore and his party fell in behind them, then a larger contingent of men and women led by Carnaby, finally the major and his men.

  It was rough going in the deepening dusk; the fitful flare of the torches was more of a nuisance than a help. Luckily most of the boulders were well clear of the short grass and glimmered whitely. Nonetheless, Grimes was thankful for his stout boots.

  On they marched to the barbaric music, towards the dark huddle of houses among which fires flared and flickered ruddily. Downwind drifted the tang of wood smoke, the aroma of roasting meat. Grimes realized that he was starting to salivate. Nobody could have described Faraway Quest as a hungry ship—but after a very few weeks, tank-grown food loses its essential flavors, its individuality.

  Suddenly drummers and pipers fell silent, but there was still music. They were singing in the village, a song in which male and female voices blended in compulsive rhythm.

  “And what is that?” Grimes asked Mayhew.

  “A . . . a welcome . . .” The telepath tripped over a rock and would have fallen flat on his face had Clarisse not caught him. “A welcome reserved for heroes or for superior beings . . .”

  “Gods?” asked Grimes.

  “As I keep saying,” replied Mayhew, “these people regard gods as sort of older brothers. Powerful, but not quite omnipotent, and with all sorts of all-too-human weaknesses . . .”

  “That last part is true as far as we’re concerned!”

  They were very close to the village now. The low houses stood in black silhouette against the glare of the fires—which must be, Grimes decided, in some sort of central square. The noise of singing was loud. And then he saw a huge figure, dark against the unsteady firelight, advancing to meet them. The torch bearers and the musicians stepped to one side to make way for the newcomer. It was the king, Hektor. In one hand he held not his sword but the arbalest, in the other a huge mug. He thrust this at Grimes, who had to use both his hands to grasp it.

  “Drink it. All of it,” urged Mayhew in a whisper.

  The commodore lifted the vessel to his lips. He toasted briefly, “Down the hatch!” He sipped—then decided ruefully that this was something he would have to get over with quickly. He liked beer, and this was beer, but . . . It smelled musty and tasted mustier. It had an unpleasantly thick consistency, and there were semisolid bodies suspended in it.

  He gulped and swallowed manfully.

  He muttered, “Garrgh!”

  But he finished the muck in one draught. At least, it was alcoholic . . .

  The king was leading the way now to where the feast was already in progress. It was, decided Grimes, quite a party. There were at least six huge fires burning in the village square; two of them were blazing, affording illumination, the other four were beds of red coals over which the spitted carcasses of animals dripped and sizzled, spurts of yellow flame marking the fall of each spatter of hot fat. The older women were attending to the cookery; the younger ones came dancing out to meet the party from the ship. A trio of beauties, more naked than otherwise, surrounded the commodore, and one of them hung a garland of rather wilted flowers about his neck.

  “And which one are you giving the apple to?” whispered Sonya.

  But these were no pale-skinned animated statues. These were shapely girls, very human, whose sun-browned skins gleamed ruddily in the firelight. The blonde who had presented the garland, greatly daring, threw her slim yet strong arms around Grimes’ shoulders, brought her face close to his in a gesture of invitation. He hesitated only for a second, then kissed her full on the mouth. Her lips were greasy; it was obvious that she had been sampling
one of the roasts of lamb—but, Grimes told himself, they tasted far better than that vile beer had and were just as intoxicating.

  “Down, boy, down!” growled Sonya.

  Reluctantly the commodore disengaged the girl’s arms from his neck, put his own hands on her shoulders and turned her away from him. He could not resist the temptation to speed her on her way with a friendly slap on the buttocks. She squealed happily.

  They were led by the villagers to places around the fire—Grimes and his party, Carnaby and the men and women with him, Dalzell and his marines. They sat on the threadbare grass, not too comfortably, yet pleasantly conscious of the heat from the flames. Men and women brought them mugs of drink. The commodore sipped his dubiously; it was wine this time, much too sweet but a vast improvement on the beer. And there was coarse bread in thin, flat cakes, and rough hunks of hot meat, lamb and kid, thyme- and onion- and garlic-flavored. There was the continual drumming, and the singing, and—almost inaudible in the general uproar—the squealing of the pipes.

  There was dancing.

  There was a circle of girls weaving sinuously about a huge, naked, bearlike man crowned with a wreath of green leaves, laughing shrilly as he reached out and tried to grab them. It must be Herak, Grimes thought at first, and was pleased that the defeated wrestler had made a good recovery. Herak? No, it was the marine, Titanov.

  He nudged Sonya.

  “Do you see what I see?”

  “What of it?” she countered.

  “He . . . He’s going native . . .” And he thought, This won’t do at all, at all. Have to put a stop to it . . . He realized that his thinking was getting muzzy and fumbled for the no-drunk tablets in his pocket, swallowing two of them.

  He got unsteadily to his feet, walked with careful deliberation to where Dalzell was reclining on the grass like a dissolute Roman, attended closely by two women. One of them was feeding him with bite-sized pieces that she was tearing from a leg of lamb, the other was holding a mug to his lips at frequent intervals.