Close Up the Sky

by James L. Ferrell

  After he was settled, he removed a water bottle from the pack and poured some of the cool liquid over his face. It felt good to rinse the sand from his mouth and eyes. He screwed the top back on and turned the flashlight toward the cave's mouth. Sand sliding down from above had piled up to the bottom level of the cave and was starting to pour into the opening. He pulled the pack over and pushed it into the hole. It stopped most of the sand and relieved the wind noise to some degree. The exertion caused his head to throb, and the nausea returned. There was nothing he could do about getting out of the crevasse until the storm abated, so he stretched out as far as possible and laid his head in the crook of his arm. The closeness of the little cave gave him a sense of security, but the throbbing in his head was growing worse. He massaged it gently as he contemplated his situation.

  The Chronocom had apparently deposited them in the middle of a three-thousand-year-old sandstorm. Except for seeing them in the movies it was his first experience with such a storm, and in his opinion they were everything they were portrayed to be. His face and hands felt raw, almost as if they had been sandpapered. He thought of Taylor, and a sudden pang of anxiety surged through him. She and the others were still on the surface, exposed to gale force winds. His fear for her safety almost drove him from the security of the cave to search for her, but better judgment prevailed. She's a veteran time agent with many trips into the Egyptian desert, he reassured himself. Williams and Summerhour are with her. Williams is a desert expert, and Summerhour, whatever else he might be, is also a professional. He reasoned that their combined knowledge and resourcefulness was more than a match for something no more formidable than a big wind. By now they would have found cover and would be riding it out. Besides, the storm had probably been blowing for some time before they arrived, so its end was most likely closer than its beginning. To attempt to find them now would be the height of foolishness.

  The pragmatic way of thinking bolstered his confidence and he allowed himself to relax a little. The L-suit kept his body warm and comfortable, and the moaning voice of the wind rose and fell as it rushed through the crevasse. Safe inside his shelter, he found the sound oddly soothing. He still felt giddy, and the exertion of the last few moments had left him exhausted. He fought to stay awake, but within a few minutes he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Gail Wilson was speaking to him, but there was something different about her. “How did I get here?” he asked her.

  "The rabbit hole, how else would you get here? Didn’t I warn you?"

  He stared at her and saw her eyes change from blue to bright green. He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted before he could say anything.

  "You only have a short time."

  “What’s important is that you get on with it,” said a dark man who sat at a table. He wore a white lab coat and held a chunk of green stone in his hands.

  Gail was speaking again. “I warned you to be careful, now you can never go back.”

  A door opened and Taylor stepped through. She was reaching for him, and suddenly he could not breathe. "Follow me!” she said. “This way!”

  Leahy’s eyes snapped open and he found himself gasping for breath. He was lying face down in the dirt. He lifted his head and spat sand from his mouth. Dim light illuminated his surroundings. Through the grogginess he remembered that he was in a cave. He sat up and looked around. The light was coming from a flashlight on the ground beside him. He shook his head to clear it. The water bottle was beside him where it had fallen from his hand. He picked it up, opened it, and drank sparingly. He rested for another moment then poured a small amount of water over his eyes to wash out the grit. After returning the bottle to the pack he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, listening. Except for his breathing there was no sound. The sandstorm was over. He opened his eyes and picked up the flashlight. Judging from the weakness of the beam, he reasoned that he must have been unconscious for hours. The air inside the cave had gone stale, and breathing was difficult.

  He got to his knees and pulled the pack out of the cave's mouth. Sand poured in, blocking the entrance. He forced down panic at the thought of being buried alive and began scooping the sand toward him. There was no way to tell how much sand the storm had deposited in the crevasse, but it was above the top of the cave entrance. He worked steadily for about five minutes, lungs laboring in the thin air. A minute later his hands broke through to the outside and fresh air rushed into the cave. He rested for a moment, pulling great draughts of it into his burning lungs. From there it was short work to dig the rest of the way out. When he was outside he put on the pack and looked up. The vertical walls of the crevasse limited his view of the sky to a narrow band, but a thick mat of stars was visible overhead. It was afternoon when the Chronocom had jerked the familiar ground of the twenty-first century from beneath his feet and tossed him into the ancient sandstorm; now it was night. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed since the time warp, but he estimated that it was now early evening.

  The flashlight was weak, but it lighted the ground enough to see a short distance. He played the beam around and noticed that near the walls the sand was smooth and undisturbed, but tracks of some kind were visible along the center. Someone or something had moved through the crevasse after the storm had ended. It could have been a member of his party searching for him, but he doubted it. The impressions were too far apart for an ordinary man's stride. Whoever or whatever it was, had passed by his little cave without knowing he was there. The thought sent a chill up his back. He cinched up the pack’s straps and started moving.

  It was hard going in the loose sand, but after a half-hour he began to notice the walls were getting further apart. The floor was rising at an increasing angle and was becoming rockier. The mysterious tracks were fainter here and soon disappeared altogether. A few minutes later he emerged into the open desert. The darkness was not as complete here as it had been in New Mexico during his training. He found he could see fairly well, so he switched off the flashlight and laid it on the ground. A thin crescent moon hung a few degrees above the horizon. The long mountain he had seen while waiting for the Chronocom beam was now visible only as a dark mass against the night sky; however, the hills he knew to be in the south were not tall enough to be silhouetted. The air felt cool and refreshing against his face. He shucked off the pack and unzipped the L-suit a little way, letting the air circulate over his chest. He found that he was still suffering from the effects of oxygen depletion, and was exhausted from his passage through the crevasse. His breath was ragged and his heartbeat was rapid. He sat down to rest until his system returned to normal.

  As far as he could see into the darkness, there was nothing but open desert around him. He closed his eyes and held his breath, listening for any familiar sounds. Except for the heartbeat throbbing in his ears, there was silence. After a few seconds he fumbled inside the pack for his walkie-talkie. The usual burst of squelch static did not crackle when he turned it on. He pressed the button a couple of times, but the transmit light failed to illuminate.

  "Can anybody hear me?" he said into the mike. He waited a few seconds then repeated the call. When there was no answer he picked up the flashlight, turned it on and examined the radio. A thin crack ran along the back from the volume knob to the battery compartment. It was ruined. "Damn!" he muttered to himself. "That must have happened in the fall." He stuck it back into the pack and stood up.

  A large boulder jutted up from the ground a few yards to his right. He walked over to it and climbed to the top. Standing, he switched on the flashlight and turned slowly through a full circle, imitating a lighthouse beacon. The beam was too weak to illuminate anything beyond the immediate area of the rock, but in the clear air the glow would be visible for a much greater distance. He repeated the ritual several times, but there was no answering signal. After awhile he got off the rock and went back to where he had left the pack. He unbuckled a side pocket and took out a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol, part of the equipme
nt issued at Apache Point. The black metal of the gun was almost invisible in the darkness, but there was a gratifying comfort in the feel of it. He considered firing a shot into the air, but rejected the idea. There was too great a possibility that someone other than his team members would hear it. His knowledge of desert tribes was very limited but he knew they could be dangerous, especially where strangers were concerned. And in this particular desert, no one was more of a stranger than Matt Leahy. I told you to be careful, Gail had said in his delirium. The spooky thought prompted him to take an extra ammunition magazine out of the pack and stick it in his pocket.

  He positioned himself as best as he could on the stony ground to wait for daylight. In spite of the moon, the night sky was ablaze with stars. The absence of lights from civilization and the pollution-free air made them stand out like ice crystals on a winter lawn. Never before had he been able to discern their colors so clearly. Green, red, orange, white, and yellow blazed against the blackness. One beautiful ruby he thought might be Mars glowed brightly just above the black mountain. How many times had Edgar Rice Burroughs’s heroic character, John Carter, looked heavenward on a night like this and watched the moon Thuria hurtle through the dark skies of Barsoom? The thought brought a smile to his face. No matter how far from home you were, you could always find something familiar to comfort you. He tried to find the star Polaris, but it was not in its usual position in the north. In fact, the entire sky was of a different configuration than the one he knew. The only familiar thing was the moon, riding cold and beautiful on the horizon. In this time and place you are still a mysterious lady, he thought. But some day man will steal your virginity and mar your face with the heel of his boot. For some reason, the thought saddened him. He rested his head on the pack and made himself as comfortable as possible.

  There was no way to tell from looking at the stars or moon how far off daylight was. Wristwatches were not worn by time travelers for obvious reasons, so he tried to estimate the hour by past events. They were supposed to have arrived in this time era at four in the afternoon. Judging from the condition of the flashlight batteries, he calculated that he must have slept in the cave for about six or seven hours. That would make the current time somewhere around ten. Then a thought occurred to him. In an inside breast pocket of the L-suit was his Chronocom pager. He took it out and pressed his thumb against a small pressure plate on one side. The cover popped up revealing a tiny row of lighted numerals. They read 08.05.01250.2247. It was August 5, 1250 B.C., 10:47 P.M.

  He looked out across what little of the pale landscape he could see by the celestial light. At this time of the year it would be at least eight hours before sunrise. He glanced down at the pager. The numerals glowed red in their black background. How easy it would be to reset them, and when Dr. Durant opened the portal he would instantly be pulled through to safety. But he dismissed the thought even as it occurred to him. Hundreds of lives depended on what he did here and how soon he did it. Moreover, the success or failure of Babylon Station rested entirely on the shoulders of his team. Then there was Edward. He had never once truly believed that his brother was guilty of murder, but until he was found and the murders were solved, there would always be doubt. He wondered where the graves of the dead time agents were located. For all he knew they could be buried within a stone's throw from where he was sitting, cold and decaying beneath the rocky soil. However, the most dominant reason why he would not use the pager was Taylor. In the last seventy-two hours she had become the most important thing in his life. Under no circumstances would he seek safety while she remained in danger. He closed the pager and put it away. When daylight came he would try to find the Nile and make his way to Thebes.

  The plan had been to start the search for Edward there. They were to trek overland to the river where they would trade for passage by boat to the lower Egyptian capital. It would have been far simpler for them to have transported to a location nearer the city, but he knew such an option was impractical. To materialize near a populated place might have attracted unwanted attention. Though he had never witnessed it, he knew that the Chronocom caused a powerful release of energy manifested by a bright flash of green light. Taylor had described it as looking like a forty-foot column of swirling green fire that flared out twenty feet at the bottom. The effect lasted only a few seconds, but the unobstructed luminosity would be visible for miles. Because of that, no time transfer took place near populated areas, day or night. The one exception to the rule was transporting into eras where humans did not yet populate the earth. In those cases there was no need for caution.

  Leahy wondered if perhaps some of the ancient gods had found creation in the imaginations of men who had inadvertently seen such energy releases and the time travelers that appeared with them. Maybe the writers who speculated that those gods were nothing more than ancient astronauts came closer to the truth than they realized. He settled deeper against the pack. The bright stars and moon reminded him of what he always thought the Arabian Nights should look like. The scene was storybook beautiful. He lay still and let his eyes wander among the points of light. Idly, he wondered if someone on a planet circling one of those distant suns was lying in a desert looking at Sol, wondering if anyone was out there. He closed his eyes and felt a gentle breeze drift over him. Not long afterward, with thoughts of Taylor in his mind, he settled into a shallow sleep.

  Meanwhile, though they were not of another planet, alien eyes were indeed watching. From atop the black mountain the watchers had taken note of the flashes of light coming from the desert floor, and as Leahy lay sleeping, they were making their way down its steep slopes toward him.

  He awoke in the gray dawn and scanned his immediate area. Nothing had changed during the night. He opened the pack, ate sparingly from his supply of concentrated food, and took a few sips of water. In addition to food and water, the pack contained some contemporary clothing of the time period, part of his disguise while in Egypt. He pulled out a thin cotton robe and looked at it. He considered putting it on over the L-suit but could not think of a good reason to do so. There was no one in the desert to see him, and it would only serve to restrict his movement over the rugged terrain. He dismissed the idea as unnecessary unless he began to observe signs of civilization. Next he took out an item that had proven to be an essential piece of equipment for time agents. It was a black nylon utility belt about three inches wide with zippered pockets sewn along its length. The pockets contained items like medical supplies, folding knife, nylon string, extra ammunition, and a variety of other things that might be useful in the field, including a small plastic compass. He took out the compass, fastened the belt around his waist with the Velcro catch, and stuffed the robe back into the pack. When it was light enough to walk safely, he started out across the desert.

  The leading edge of the sun was still below the horizon, but it already provided enough light for good visibility. He estimated the Nile to be about fifteen miles due east. If he walked in that direction at a normal pace, he calculated he should reach the river just before nightfall. He gave the flat mountain a cursory glance and froze. A thin, twisting ribbon of smoke was rising from its crest. He dropped to his knees and tried to make himself as small as possible. Though he strained his eyes, the distance to the mountaintop was too great to discern anything but the smoke. He remained motionless for several minutes, watching. Most of the mountain consisted of jagged cliffs, but in one place near the eastern face it sloped to the desert floor at an angle that could be traversed by people. For an instant he thought he saw movement on the slope, but at that distance he could not be sure. Finally, when the movement did not repeat itself, he dismissed it as heat distortion.

  He got to his feet and resumed his trek across the rough terrain. Occasionally, he glanced back at the mountain. The smoke was still visible but there was no sign of its makers. He had gone less than a mile when the edge of the sun broke the horizon scattering red rays across the sky. He paused to observe the beauty of the sunrise for a mome
nt, then cinched up the pack and settled into a steady stride. The early morning air was cold, but he could already feel sweat forming on his brow.

  Chapter 13

  Nessif Eguic Famaed, Chief of the Morruk tribe, pulled back on the reigns of the emaciated horse he rode. The mountain slope was steep, and the sudden jerk caused the animal to stumble in the loose rock. It squatted and dug in with its hind feet, recovering its balance just in time to avoid throwing the rider. Fear made the horse’s eyes bulge from their bony sockets. Nessif cursed the animal to his ancestors and spat over his shoulder. One of the Morruks stumbling along behind him dodged the stream of saliva. Nessif considered dismounting and leading the horse down the mountainside, but thought better of it. It was not fitting for a chief to walk in front of his men when he could ride. He formed his fleshy lips into a grimace and leaned back against the horse's rump to compensate for the steep grade. A feeling of urgency washed over him as he saw the sun edge into the sky. Like everything else, time was against him. Had it not been for the difficulty of negotiating the slope during darkness, he would at this moment be standing at the source of the strange light. Now the sun would be well into the sky before he could possibly reach the spot. He scowled at the thought of the plunder he might lose because of the delay.

  Nessif was exasperated. The Morruk tribe had many mouths to feed, and the burden of responsibility hung heavy across his shoulders. He and his band of ruffians had been combing the desert around their mountain stronghold for almost ten days searching for prey, but only a few mangy sheep and some worthless trinkets had been brought in. It was barely enough to feed the tribe one good meal, and certainly not worth the time he had spent away from his women.