And, he supposed also, he knew the job.
More explosions sounded. Somewhere outside of Operations, but still uncomfortably close. Voices were yelling, some of them in panic.
The panels at the driver’s and observer’s positions indicated that the vehicle was ready, fueled and targeted for an emergency launching into time. To get it away safely, ready to fight somewhere, sometime, had to be the first objective of its crew and their commander.
But all the crew was not here yet; Agnes was still missing. Swearing, Norlund got himself out of his seat and stuck his head up through the hatch. Operations was chaos, in which no trace of Agnes could be seen. He dropped down again, pulling the hatch closed above him. Jerry Rosen, in the driver’s seat, was looking up at him expectantly.
“Drive us out, Jerry,” Norlund ordered.
Jerry didn’t move at first, except to look over at Ginny as if requesting confirmation.
“I’m RM now,” said Norlund. “Do it. Get us the hell out of here, somewhere fast.”
Three seconds later the APC launched. There had been nothing surprising about Jerry’s assignment as first driver, given his high scores on the simulator tests in training. And from the start of training Jerry had insisted that these APC’s weren’t as hard to control as their reputation had it. “They just tell us they’re tough to keep us from trying to use ‘em to get home.”
The launching at Jerry’s hands now was barely in time, for a last explosion, very near, almost overtook the vehicle. Norlund, watching the observer’s screens, could see how the reaching tendrils of that blast came after them, spreading like cracks in a fine vase across the last milliseconds of their existence within the Operations chamber. Then those computer-drawn lines were gone, along with all other information from the world of normal timeflow. The vehicle with them in it had survived the blast, but it was obvious to everyone that it was going to be thrown off course.
What wasn’t obvious at first, at least to Norlund, was how far off they were going to be. Their passage through the brightly-colored world between the years continued through hours of subjective inside-the-vehicle time, a much longer period than any normal launching would have entailed.
From time to time during these hours, Jerry would lay hands on the controls, and make some minor adjustment to them, and reluctantly take his hands away again. Given the magnitude of the initial deflection caused by that explosion, there was probably little that any driver could have done in the way of correcting course. It would be necessary to wait until some destination was reached, and try again. Mean-while indications were that the computers were laboring to do their best.
Norlund glanced several times at the envelope containing his sealed orders. But the warning on it was plain—he was to wait until first emergence before opening it.
Some of the hours of passage time were occupied by getting into combat clothing and gear, something of a struggle in the cramped space available. When everyone had done that there was really nothing more to do but wait, and be ready for emergence when it came. The vehicle felt as steady as an airliner in smooth flight, and was almost quiet; muffled chaotic noises came and went outside the hull at intervals, and now and then there was a perceptible movement, a shift as if gravity had altered slightly. The waiting conditions were endurable, so far, if not comfortable. An APC was built for survival, not comfort, and with four people and their gear aboard the interior was dense with equipment and supplies and bodies.
Norlund, trying to relax in his chair—trying above all to look confident—could close his eyes and hear to right and left the engines of the old Fortress. But the engines he heard were far too quiet, and he was too warm and relatively too comfortable, for the illusion to be in the least convincing.
At last the colored lights that made up their surrounding universe began to change, their images in the viewscreens signalling imminent emergence. Presently Ginny in the observer’s position announced that the early sensors were beginning to recover, another sign that they were fast approaching normal timeflow.
Moments after Ginny’s report the vehicle lurched more strongly than before, and those inside briefly knew the sensation of free fall. This lasted for only a fraction of a second before the APC found solid footing, wheels and tracks bouncing and then coming to rest with brushing, crackling noises, in what sounded like tall grass.
Now the screens showing the outside were filled with a different color, what Norlund took to be gray daylight. “Battle stations,” he ordered, and realized even as he spoke that he ought to have given the command sooner.
Stillness reigned, inside and outside the vehicle. The crew looked over their surroundings as well as they could, with instruments that were still recovering from passage through time. It was impossible as yet to tell where and when they had emerged.
“Clear from stations,” Norlund said at last. He looked again at the envelope of sealed orders. It would be legitimate to open them now, but he felt that finding out where they were took precedence even over that.
“I’m going out to take a look around.”
When he opened the top hatch the air that came in was chill. The sun was hidden in a thick overcast, and Norlund was struck immediately by a couple of drops of rain, feeling cold as snow. When he stuck his head out of the hatch he saw that the vehicle was surrounded on three sides by miles of tall, brown grass. Near the horizon the grass made islands out of groves of trees, looking brown and leafless. On the fourth side—there was no telling which compass direction it might be—the grass was cut off at about a hundred yards’ distance, by a rank of tall sand dunes.
Climbing free of the vehicle, Norlund dropped into the tall grass, which crunched under his combat boots. Just behind the APC were the three or four yards of tracks it had left between materializing in the air and rolling to a stop. Norlund’s crew followed him out, some of them with sidearms at the ready. He thought that the dismal peace around them mocked weaponry.
Jerry, after a moment, holstered his gun. “I bet this ain’t nineteen thirty-four,” he said.
“Toto,” said Norlund, “I don’t think this is Kansas.” Seeing how blankly the others looked at him, he sighed. “Or maybe it could be. All right, I’m going to climb to the top of one of those dunes and take a look around from there.”
“We could drive up it,” Andy suggested.
Norlund shook his head. “I’d rather keep the APC in time-mode, save a few seconds on a quick getaway if it’s necessary. If we move it spatially we lose that, right? Jerry, you come with me. Andy, Ginny, you stay here.”
In silence he trudged with Jerry through crackling grass, over to the nearest dune and up its flank. Their feet slid frustratingly on the slope of sand.
Increasing elevation revealed nothing but more of the same landscape—until they reached the top. Then a plain of water came into sight, stretching from just past the line of dunes out to a calm gray horizon.
“The lake,” said Jerry, true Chicagoan.
“Maybe.” Norlund was scanning the expanse for sails, for smoke, for any sign of human presence, but finding none. “I don’t know what our geographic displacement was on that launch. For all I know, we could be in Asia now.”
Jerry, as if his natural navigator’s or hot-shot pilot’s instinct were affronted by this idea, shook his head and muttered something vulgar. He was plainly not impressed by Norlund’s recently acquired rank.
Gesturing for Jerry to follow, Norlund went sliding and scrambling down the side of the dune toward the water. Meanwhile he scanned the narrow beach for footprints. Only bird-tracks were visible in the strip of damp sand until he and Jerry crossed it. At the very shoreline Norlund squatted to scoop up in his palm a small sample of a cold, gentle wave. He tasted it and found it fresh.
“Maybe this is Lake Michigan,” he said, standing up again. “Anyway, I’m not sure that really matters to us now.” He surveyed the world, which from this viewpoint contained only the dull sky, the lake, the wind-carved dunes�
��all speaking of slow time. Small waves lap-lapped on sand. The breeze lofted birds that looked like gulls, and stirred the sparse, tough grass that half-clothed some of the dunes. It urged the small waves in from the horizon to the shoreline that smelled vaguely of dead fish.
And suddenly Norlund knew fear; this time not combat-terror of the enemy, but a more subtle and inescapable dread of time itself. He felt sure that they had been deflected further into the past than any of them realized. Further, perhaps, than anyone ought to go. He understood vaguely from his brief training that there were limits that ought not to be transgressed. He was afraid of what Ginny might tell him when he got back to the vehicle, afraid of hearing what the numbers really were.
“What now, chief?” Jerry, untroubled by metaphysics, was waiting to be given orders and be informed about what happened next.
Norlund shrugged, concealing his feelings. “Let’s get back to the APC.”
As they approached the carrier, they found Andy standing sentry in the open top hatch. Inside, Ginny was back in the observer’s seat, busy at the panel. As Norlund entered she looked up. “I’m not going to be able to determine where we are without a number of additional readings, and then some lengthy calculations. Anyway, the computer indicates that it might not be worth the trouble of trying to find out.”
“No?” Norlund felt obscure relief.
“No. Our best move in this situation may simply be to take a good guess as to where we are—or a bad guess, even, if it works out that way—and then start moving. We ought to be able to zero in on our target year by a series of successive approximations. We can tell if we’re moving toward it, even if we don’t know what time we’re starting from—where we are now.” And Norlund thought that Ginny shivered slightly as she spoke. He wondered if she were frightened, too, of time. The thought was not reassuring.
He nodded briskly. “All right, let’s do it that way.”
He got into his chair again, and there was the envelope of sealed orders, still waiting to be opened. As casually as possible he added: “While you guys are getting set up for another launch, I better take a look at this.”
He settled himself back into his seat and took up the envelope and ripped it open. He skimmed through the contents, saving details for later study. Several times in the course of scanning the papers he looked up from them, and each time found at least one member of his crew observing him.
Whatever they might be able to read in his face, thought Norlund, it was probably not surprise.
Once more he read through the key sentences in the orders. He looked up to find that his crew were all ready for launching, watching him and waiting.
Norlund told them.
“We’re going to kill Hitler.”
1934
As Norlund had feared, it took a long struggle, a good many subjective, inside-the-vehicle hours, to get back to their proper target year. Almost a full day passed, the crew grumbling and stiffening in their cramped positions, as the APC hunted from one approximation to another, before the change of exterior light and the revival of early instruments signalled once more that a full emergence was at hand. But in a sense the hours passed more quickly than those of that first deflected trip. Driver and observer had more to do, working out a course and staying with it. And Norlund used the opportunity to brief and drill everyone on the details of the plans and alternate plans that the sealed orders had presented.
“Roosevelt invited Hitler’t’visit the US?” Andy Burns, for all the classes they’d all had discussing timelines, was having trouble with the idea.
Norlund sighed. “Yeah. The idea was that between them they could maybe work out some way of keeping world peace. Getting out of economic troubles.”
“But it wouldn’t work.”
“No, it wouldn’t. But it gives us our chance at him.”
Andy nodded, probably not understanding much—a waist-gunner following orders, being briefed for the next mission.
An hour came when signs of emergence began to develop, and then a minute came when the signs were very strong.
“This is it, guys.”
“This is it . . . yeah, no doubt about it this time. Here we are, nineteen thirty-four.”
“The New York site? Chicago?”
“We’ll see.” That one wasn’t possible to answer so confidently.
As before, abrupt momentary free-fall was followed by a crunching landing. This time arrival was on what sounded like packed cinders.
The first glimpses of the outside obtainable through viewscreens were ambiguous. Again Norlund got the definite impression that he had probably not reached Kansas. More to the point, the APC did not seem to be in either of the landing slots, in New York and Illinois, that its crew had been attempting to reach.
“This is one of the emergency alternate sites, I’ll bet. The autopilot must have found it for us.”
“Or else the navigational grid diverted us again . . .”
Suddenly there were more possibilities than had been readily foreseeable. There was no absolute certainty. Anyway, sensors showed that this time the APC had come to rest in comparatively warm near-darkness, on a cindered or graveled flat of land. In the distance, Norlund thought he caught just a quick glimpse of something pyrotechnic—a skyrocket? A volcanic flare?
A cliff-like surface reared up close on the right side of the vehicle, cutting off the view in that direction and shadowing it from what was probably faint moonlight. In the opposite direction trees were silhouetted against sky, and Norlund recognized a palm. Near the palm was another shape: lower, peculiar . . . It wasn’t until Norlund had led the way out of the APC to reconnoiter, and had taken a couple of steps in that direction, that he recognized the horned head of a triceratops.
Norlund was still almost frozen, his weapon on the way to being leveled at the dinosaur, when brisk human footsteps off to one side distracted him. The single approach was quiet, though not really stealthy.
Norlund shifted his aim. “Who is it?” he called sharply.
“Mercury,” a low voice replied, as some yards away the footsteps stopped. It took Norlund a moment to recognize in the answer one of the code words that he had been taught to expect—in this case it was one of the less likely ones, the code name of a local agent at one of the alternate emergence sites in Thirty-four.
“Okay, come ahead.” Puffing out his breath, Norlund relaxed his aim. A quick glance back at the triceratops assured him that it had not moved.
The footsteps again came nearer, slowly, as quietly as could be expected for a man walking on cinders. Mercury on arrival was quite ordinary-looking: a youngish man dressed in overalls, an appropriate outfit for some Thirties caretaker or janitor. Now Norlund could see that the cliff-like surface right beside the vehicle was really the stuccoed and almost windowless wall of some huge building.
Mercury gave the vehicle a looking-over, and also the people emerging from it. He did not appear to be enormously impressed. “How many of you, four? You’ll need clothes, I suppose. Not weapons, I see. If you need money, I’m a little short but I’ll see what I can do. You can just leave the vehicle right where it is if you want to; it’ll be all right for an hour or so. Then I can get rid of it.”
“Where are we?” Norlund demanded, almost hopelessly.
Mercury blinked at him, surprised that Norlund did not know. “This is the fourth of July. Uh, nineteen thirty-four.”
“But where?”
“Why, Hollywood. This is the Paramount back lot.”
At Mercury’s suggestion the travelers stayed with their vehicle, while he went to a nearby building. He emerged again in a few minutes, clothing bundled in his arms. They had told him what sizes they required.
“Little short of money right now,” he repeated as he rejoined them, dumping his bundle down. “Even if I put in some of my personal funds, things are kinda tough, you know? But here’s six bucks each.” And he counted out fives and ones, pausing before he gave Ginny her share, as if he th
ought that for some reason a woman might not really require it. Meanwhile Norlund was silently cursing the decision, made higher up, for them to refit and resupply locally this time.
“And there’s the clothes,” Mercury went on. “I got extras’ stuff out of Wardrobe. Hope that dress fits you, lady.”
Ginny ducked inside the APC to change. The men meanwhile shuffled garments on and off while standing on the cindered lot. Norlund, fortunately for him, had got both legs into his new pants before the futuristic gunfire struck at them from the general direction of the palm tree and triceratops—he was able to hit the dirt without breaking a leg in the process.
The defensive shields of the APC had already reached out to embrace the exposed members of its crew, saving Norlund’s life and Jerry’s. For Mercury and Andy Burns, standing a trifle closer to the foe, the protection came fractionally too late, and they both were hit.
Norlund, sprawled on his belly in cinders, pumped silent and almost invisible death rays from his side-arm out into the darkness, toward the enemy’s concealed position somewhere near the dinosaur, while Jerry lying beside him did the same. Then, just above their heads, the heavier weapons of the APC lashed out, in the same spooky silence. Plaster triceratops and real palms were pretty much unaffected, but the enemy fire stopped.
Norlund turned his head. Mercury’s body and Andy’s were shriveled husks inside scorched clothing; it was obvious that they had been somehow fried to death. Only Andy’s artificial right arm was still moving, as if there might be a trace of life left in it . . .
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