Time of the Great Freeze

by Robert Silverberg

  On the fourth morning, they spied a distant encampment of nomads, far out to the south-dark dots on the horizon, nothing more. It might have been a herd of moose or a pack of wolves, but that smoke could plainly be seen rising to the sky. So the nomads had fire-some of them, at least.

  "What do they use for fuel?" Jim asked. "There's no wood here, no coal…"

  "They must bum animal oils," Ted Callison suggested.

  It struck Jim as an eerie life these people must lead-without metal, without real fuel, without books, without plastics, without synthetics. Yet they survived. The glaciers had covered the United States for century upon century, and still the stubborn bands of huntsmen endured. Of course, as his father had said, they had probably not been in the area all along. During the worst part of the Ice Age, some two hundred years back, when the sun scarcely shone and the temperature rarely rose as high as zero, not even these hardy wanderers could have survived. They must have gone south and then wandered north fifty or a hundred years ago, perhaps forced into the colder regions by unfriendly peoples living in the relatively warm parts of the world.

  As they ventured onward during the day, Jim began to notice something odd happening to the glacier over which they were traveling. It appeared to be sloping, ever so gently, toward the east.

  He said nothing about it for a while, for he was not certain that he really saw what he thought he was seeing. Possibly it was only some trick of perspective, or some folly of his eyes, brought on by staring too intently at empty white wastelands. Still, the impression persisted, and as he looked backward over the miles they had traveled, he became certain that the plateau really was dipping, that they were moving down the side of a very gentle incline.

  When they halted to eat, late in the day, he decided to ask his father about it. Dr. Barnes had left the sled and had walked perhaps fifty feet away, and stood by himself, a tall, spindly figure outlined sharply against the white backdrop. He was staring off toward the distance, frozen in the deepest concentration, and for a moment Jim was uncertain about disturbing him.

  "Dad?" he said finally.

  "What is it, Jim?"

  "I was wondering," Jim said, pointing back up the slope. "Isn't the ice field dropping? Is it just an optical illusion, or have we been going down hill all day?"

  Dr. Barnes grinned and shook his head. "It's no illusion. We're heading down the eastern face of the glacier now. Down toward the sea. And we're almost to it."

  "Really?"

  Dr. Barnes stretched one long arm off toward the east. "Right down there," he said. "We'll reach it tomorrow, I figure. We're nearing the continental shelf, and that drops right down into the Atlantic."

  Jim stared. All he could see was whiteness-and the plain in front of them seemed almost level.

  Almost.

  But yet it sloped. The glacier was tailing off. It held sway only over the land. Out there in the whiteness somewhere the land came to an end, and the broad Atlantic-frozen, as white as the land-waited for them.

  The sea! The all-but-endless sea!

  And beyond it, London. Jim felt like a Columbus going the wrong way. Doggedly, desperately, against all the odds, men from the New World had set out to rediscover Europe. Turning, he looked back at the setting sun, reddening the ice that lay to the westward, and a cold, shaking thrill gripped his nerves and muscles. He yearned for it to be tomorrow, so that they could break camp and move on, onward toward the sea!

  7

  A RING OF SPEARS

  Morning was bright and clear-the second fine day in a row, as the ice-world turned toward summer. The voyagers were on the move early, within an hour of dawn. The ice glittered gold as they sped eastward.

  There was no mistaking the slope now. The glacier dropped off toward sea level-the old sea level-and lay in a sheet no more than a few hundred feet thick over what had once been a shelf of submerging land. They had already passed the old shore line, and perhaps even over the site of old New York, its proud skyscrapers still strangled in the grip of the ice, its cloud-stabbing towers buried thousands of feet down.

  Beyond lay the sea, itself frozen, distinguishable from the glacier only by its lower altitude. The new sea level was probably several hundred feet below the old, since so much water lay locked in the glaciers, and a relatively thin crust of ice lay over the surface of the ocean. Just how sturdy that crust of ice would prove to be was a matter to be tested when the proper time came, a day or two hence.

  They headed down the slope.

  When they had traveled ten miles, it became apparent that a nomad camp lay squarely in their path. Dark shapes moved on the horizon, and sharp-eyed Ted Callison reported that he saw at least a dozen igloos.

  "All right," Dr. Barnes said. "We'll change course a little and avoid them."

  "That'll waste time," Ted argued.

  "Can't be helped. It'll waste more time if we have to stop and parley with the nomads. Let's cut to the north and go around them."

  The sled angled northward. But moments later it appeared that the maneuver was pointless. The nomads were breaking camp! They were on the move, too-heading northward as if to intercept the sleds.

  "Looks as if they're trying to cut us off," Chet Farrington said. "There must be a hundred of them."

  Dr. Barnes nodded unhappily. "We're trespassing on their territory, I guess."

  "If we cut farther north-" Jim suggested.

  "No, Jim. They'll only follow us all over the place. And we've got to stop for recharging soon anyway. I guess we'll just have to deal with them."

  The party changed course again, heading due eastward now, straight into the nomad line. As they drew nearer, it could be seen that this band was considerably larger than the hunting party they had met a few days earlier. Not only that, but they were better equipped, dressed in well-made leather clothes whose careful tailoring indicated considerable skill.

  They had been spread out in a thin line, stretching from north to south in the path of the sleds. Now the glacier dwellers gathered together, forming a tight semicircle whose ends curved toward the city people. An ominous muttering could be heard, and as the sleds approached within a few hundred feet, the tribesmen suddenly couched their weapons in open sign of hostility: not clubs or bone knives, this time, but long, wicked-looking bone-tipped spears.

  "Somehow I get the feeling they aren't going to be as friendly as the last bunch," Dave Ellis said.

  Jim laughed and looked at Carl. "Better get your medic kit ready," he said. But he did not feel very amused at the situation.

  The sleds halted. Dr. Barnes, tight-lipped and tense-looking, stepped from the lead sled and went forward to parley. Jim took a firm grip on a power torch. His father looked so terribly vulnerable, standing there alone in the open space between the two groups. His long, lean figure was rock-steady, but who knew what uneasiness he felt? A single accurate cast of one of those spears, and…

  Dr. Barnes said, that amazingly deep booming voice of his coming resonantly out of his narrow chest, "We mean no harm. We come in peace."

  A figure stepped out of the semicircle. It was that of a thick-bodied, powerful-looking man of middle years, whose glossy, curling black beard hung almost to the middle of his barrel of a chest. His voice matched Dr. Barnes's in deepness-and, Jim realized in wonder, his words could be understood!

  "What folk be ye?" he demanded.

  "Folk from far away," Dr. Barnes replied. "We come from the sunset land. We go toward the sunrise."

  "Ye be trespassers here!" came the cold, somber reply. "This be Dooney turf!"

  "We will not stay," Dr. Barnes said. "Nor will we hunt here. We ask leave to pass through Dooney turf on our way to the sunrise land."

  "Pay ye the toll, then!"

  "Which is?"

  The Dooney chieftain smiled craftily. His dark, glittering eyes raked the faces of the seven city men waiting in the sleds. Alter a long moment of silence he said, "The toll be-the life of one of your warriors!"

  Dr.
Barnes seemed to stiffen. Jim gasped, and clasped his fist so tightly his nails scratched deep into his palm. The Dooney chieftain spoke in a thick voice, and with a barbarous accent, but there was no mistaking the meaning of his words. The toll for passing through Dooney turf-one life!

  "No," Dr. Barnes said. "Such a toll we will not pay."

  "Then ye do not pass!"

  "The savage," Dave Ellis murmured. "The dirty, foul-smelling, greasy-haired savage! Why does he have to make trouble for us? What would it cost him to let us through?"

  "Pride," Jim said. "This strip of ice is his kingdom. And he's going to make us pay to get through!"

  Dr. Barnes said, his tone softer now, "Why take a life? We can offer other toll."

  "A life!" the Dooney chief rumbled. "No else!"

  "What good is a dead man?" Dr. Barnes asked. "He can do no labor for you. He can slay no game. There is not even meat enough on a dead man's bones to feed your people for a day. Let us give you something else, then." Dr. Barnes reached to his belt and drew out his keen hunting knife. The shining blade gleamed mirror-bright in the midday sun. "Look!" he shouted. "A knife that cuts everything!" He drew up his left arm and slashed the blade through the outer lining of his jacket sleeve. "See? It cuts like fire! We will give you knives!"

  The Dooney leader spat contemptuously. "We have knives, stranger. What good be your knives? They be no better than our!"

  "A hatchet, then." Turning, Dr. Barnes beckoned toward the sled. Jim found one of the ice axes and bore it to his father, who hefted it, lifted it high, brought it down resoundingly into the floor of ice. Chips sprayed; he hacked again and again, and in moments was able to lift a thick slab of ice.

  It made an impression on the Dooney folk. The spearsmen, obviously amazed by the speed with which the axe had cut free the slab, as compared with the time it took for them to slice out a block of ice with their knives of bone, jabbed one another in the ribs, and muttered whispers of awe. Only the chief remained impassive. His scowl deepened.

  Dr. Barnes held forth the axe. "Here," he said. "Take this as your toll."

  "No. Our toll be one life. Else ye go back where you came. Ye do not pass!"

  For an ugly moment of silence the two leaders confronted each other. Then Dr. Barnes shrugged and stepped back, his shoulders slumping. He returned to the sleds.

  "It's hopeless," he said. "He's determined to show us what a big man he is. Ted, how are the accumulators doing?"

  "We could use another half hour of charging."

  "Well, we'll get it somewhere else. Let's continue onward," Dr. Barnes said. "If we have to, we'll just head north until we're out of Dooney territory-even if it takes us all week."

  He climbed back into the lead sled. But the Dooney folk were not minded to give up their demands so easily, it seemed. They moved forward, uncertainly, in a ragged line, until they were only a dozen yards from the sleds. The chief shouted a hoarse, guttural command.

  Suddenly the ragged line shaped up in tight formation. The Dooney warriors assembled themselves into a circle, completely surrounding the sleds.

  The eight wanderers stared with dismay at a ring of spears!

  "Start the sleds," Dr. Barnes ordered quietly. "Dave, give me that power torch. Jim, Ted, Roy-keep your torches ready, but don't use them unless there's an attack."

  Jim nodded. He tried to imitate his fathers calmness, but this did not strike him as a situation for calmness at all. Fighting off a hundred armed and hostile barbarians was not the same thing as slaughtering twenty hungry wolves. These were human beings, these men with spears, and Jim shivered at the thought that in a few moments he might be called upon to blast the life out of them with the power torch. To take any life ran powerfully against his beliefs. But to take human life-!

  It could be self-defense, he told himself. But even that had a hollow, hollow ring.

  The sled motors whirred. The ring of spears bristled as the warriors went tense. Their faces showed a mingling of fear and defiance, always a bad combination.

  "Let's go," Dr. Barnes said. "Due east. Maybe they'll break ranks if we start to run them down."

  The sleds glided forward at a crawl, moving no faster than two or three miles an hour. The warriors backed up, but held their formation, keeping their tight ring around the sleds even as they moved.

  Jim eyed the spearsmen uneasily. Power torches against bone-tipped spears did not seem like much of a contest-except that there were only four torches, and more than a hundred spears. If the Dooney folk attacked, the torches might take thirty or forty lives in the first moments of combat-but, trapped as the eight men were within the ring of spears, they could not hope to withstand the furious onslaught of the survivors.

  The chieftain's jaws were working, but he was saying nothing. The sleds rolled forward. Now they were no more than a dozen feet from the eastern curve of the ring. The chief himself stood there, eyes blazing.

  "Stop!" he cried. "Toll be paid or ye die!"

  Dr. Barnes lifted the power torch. Was he going to gun the chief down, Jim thought? Murder him in cold blood and perhaps touch off a massacre?

  "Jim, take your cap," he said. "Fling it high in the air, straight overhead, high as you can. Ted, Dave, get ready to open the sleds to full throttle."

  Jim understood. He pushed back his hood, removed his cap, cocked his arm, tossed it high-thirty, forty feet into the air. The eyes of the Dooney warriors followed it.

  Dr. Barnes aimed and fired.

  The power torch spurted a globe of light. The dropping hat fell into it…

  And then light and hat winked out of existence.

  The Dooney warriors screamed like women at the terrifying sight. Sudden destruction-a hand that could reach into the sky and destroy-they had never seen anything like it! Panic swept them.

  "Full speed ahead!" Dr. Barnes shouted.

  The spearsmen were fleeing, the ring breaking up, fur-clad warriors scrambling helter-skelter away from the frightening beings from the sunset land. Only the Dooney chieftain himself stood his ground, roaring like an enraged bull, bellowing to his men to return to formation, thundering at them to strike the invaders dead.

  The sleds rolled toward him. With a sudden frenzied cry of anger and frustration, the barbarian chieftain hurled his spear into one of the sleds, and an instant later himself came leaping over the runners and threw himself upon Dr. Barnes!

  Jim went into action without pausing to think. In the underground city, he had painstakingly learned how to make the most of his natural endowments, how to focus his strength for maximum effort. Judo, it was called, the technique of defense through body leverage. It had been born, so it was said, in a country called Japan, far to the west. Jim knew nothing of Japan, but he knew judo well, and now he employed his knowledge against the Dooney chieftain. He rose and lunged forward, grabbing the powerful old man by his shoulders and pulling him away from his fathers much lighter form. There was no question of using power torches in the cramped confines of the sled, and no time to draw a knife. Jim tugged at the thick-thewed chieftain and swung him around. For an instant they were face to face, and Jim saw the rage in the grim old face, the fire in the furious eyes, the trail of spittle running down the bearded chin.

  The chief clawed at Jim, then came charging forward, head lowered to butt. Jim rose high, locked his arm around the thick neck, levered downward and then upward in a quick, instinctive hold.

  The chief went flying high over the runners of the sled and came down on the ice with a solid thud, landing on his back. He lay there a moment as if stunned. The sled sped onward, and by the time the Dooney leader was on his feet, a hundred yards separated him from his humiliators.

  Panting, Jim glanced at his father. "You all right, Dad?"

  "No damage. Just shaken up. I never thought your judo would be so useful," Dr. Barnes said.

  Jim glanced back. The tribesmen were still running, scattering in every direction. Alone and storming, the old chief was doing a dance of tempest
uous rage on the ice, leaping up and down and ripping at his clothes.

  From the other sled, Ted Callison called, "We've got to stop! We need Carl!"

  "Someone hurt?" Dr. Barnes yelled back.

  "It's Dom! The chief's spear got him-"

  Jim caught his breath. Things had happened so quickly as they burst from the ring of spears that he had forgotten all about that wild spear-cast toward the other sled. He stood up suddenly, looked across Ted's sled, twenty feet away.

  Dom Hannon lay slumped in the back, against a folded tent. His parka was stained with red, and the shaft of the chiefs spear projected from the lower part of his chest.

  The sleds ground to a halt in a shower of ice chips. The Dooney folk were too far in the distance to matter now. Jim and Carl ran to the other sled, with Dave and Dr. Barnes not far behind.

  Jim had never seen anyone look so pale. Dom was like a waxen image of himself. He lay limp and unconscious, arms and legs dangling bonelessly. His face was deathly white, and he looked old and shrunken, his whole body seemed even smaller and more wiry than it actually was.

  Dr. Barnes opened Dom's parka while Carl readied the medic kit. Carl looked pale himself-he was, after all, only a policeman with first-aid training, not a surgeon.

  The layers of clothing were drawn back. Jim bit his lip in sudden dismay as he saw how deeply the spear had penetrated. It was no scratch. The entire bone tip had slashed through clothing and flesh, had buried itself six inches in Dom's body. The angry old barbarian had cast his spear with a mighty thrust.

  Carl looked up doubtfully. "We've got to get that spear out of him," he said, "but the point is barbed-"

  "Cut it out," Dr. Barnes said. "Cut away the shaft first, and then try to slice through the barbs."

  Jim forced himself to watch. Carl worked delicately, but blood spurted all the same. Away came the shaft of the spear, and then, using bone snippers, Carl sheared through the barbs of the point and wiggled it free of the wound. Blood gushed, a river of it. How much blood did someone as thin as Dom have, anyway? How much could he afford to lose?