Across Time
Red Barrett was the first to break the silence that blanketed the
little group.
"See, Ramey?" he cried. "Look at that! What did I tell you! Now, I bet
there's steps in that thing. A trapdoor or something."
But womanlike, it was Sheila Aiken who, obeying the Pandora impulse,
stepped forward into the open cubicle. Darkness swallowed her like an
engulfing maw. Dr. Aiken cried out in swift alarm, "Sheila! Be careful!"
Her voice came back, excited but unfearful, "I'm all right, Daddy.
And--Barrett was right! There _is_ a ladder in here. But it goes up
instead of down! Come and bring the torch! This is the _strangest
room_!"
Syd had already torn the flambeau from its bracket. Now he and the
others crowded forward eagerly into the metal chamber. But if they had
hoped a view of its interior would solve their questions, they were
doomed to disillusionment. For the mystery of the cube was heightened,
rather than decreased, by that which the flickering torch revealed.
An interior fashioned and equipped like a small room; for all the
world, Ramey thought confusedly, like one of those efficiently compact
cabins on ocean liners. A metal bench or working table. Two wooden
chair frames, now seatless. In one corner a stiff pallet. Everywhere
mouldering dust that fumed upward as their feet scuffed the floor;
dust that must be, Ramey realized suddenly, the detritus of ages.
The wheezy puff they had heard as the door swung open was proof that
the cubicle was nearly airtight. That which eddied about them now,
tickling their nostrils, must be the dust of less permanent materials
than metal and wood, disintegrated by slow years. Those whorls beneath
the seatless chairs might once have been rush or tapestry; the thick,
powdery fluff on the pallet be the residue of vanished bedsilks.
But it was foolish to conjecture on things vanished when so many
tangible wonders greeted the eye. For as Sheila had said, a ladder
climbed the near wall to the ceiling; on the wall before one of the
chairs was a panel, and on this panel--
Ramey's eyes bulged.
"Doctor!" he cried. "Those dials! Those levers!"
Dr. Aiken was staring at the panel like one who sees a lifetime of
reason and learning collapse before him. "I--I can't understand it!" he
stammered weakly. "Machinery? But the ancients had no knowledge--"
* * * * *
Ramey, moving forward, kicked something. He bent and picked it up. It
was as incomprehensible as the panel. It was a metal arch about three
feet long, supported by a cross-brace upon which was mounted a sealed
cylinder, also of metal. The instrument was equipped with a rest carven
to fit the shoulder. Its semi-circular portion was pierced on the outer
rim at one-eighth inch intervals with tiny holes, and where the hoop
joined the cylinder there were what seemed to be two handgrips equipped
with finger-studs.
Instinctively Ramey raised it to his shoulder. It balanced like an
archer's crossbow, except that it had neither stock nor projectile
grooves. That it was a weapon of some sort he had no doubt. An impulse
stirred him to press the stud beneath his trigger finger, but he
subdued it. It would be folly to test a weapon of unguessed nature in
such confined quarters.
In this weird moment he had forgotten everything save his own
excitement. Now a cry dragged him back from the world of wonder to the
world of actuality.
"The door!" roared Lake O'Brien. "It's closing!"
Whirling, Ramey saw the unguarded metal shield swinging shut. With a
hoarse cry he leaped toward it. His shoulder and that of Lake smashed
it at the same time. But the bruising impact was in vain. Even as they
struck it there came the _snick!_ of clasping locks. They were sealed
in the metal cube. And Syd O'Brien's voice told why.
"It didn't close!" roared Syd. "It was closed _on_ us--intentionally!
Tomasaki!"
Ramey, glancing about him, realized that of their number all were
present but the little brown man. Suspicion, latent until now, flared
into sudden understanding.
"Then _he's_ the one! The one who showed the Japs the 'plane, told them
who I was! He's been with them since the beginning. Sneaked around to
betray us at the east gate, and probably shot Sirabhar himself when
Sirabhar tried to warn us."
Lake boomed, "By God! That's why he offered to go after supplies! So
he could reveal our hiding place. He's probably gone to fetch the Japs
now, the traitorous little--"
As ever, Dr. Aiken's head was levelest in a crisis.
"There are Quislings in all races," he said sadly. "It's too bad we
discovered the enemy in our midst so late. But we have no time to
waste in recriminations. We must get out of here before the soldiers
come. The ladder--where does it go?"
Red had mounted the rungs, was fumbling above him. Now he called down,
"It's a trapdoor of some kind, Doc. Just a minute and--Ouch! This damn
catch is stuck. There it comes--_oh-oh_!"
Hastily he let drop back into place the yard-square sheet of metal he
had pried open. Ramey looked at him anxiously. "What's the matter,
Redhead?"
"This thing opens right smack into the main altar room," whispered
Barrett. "There's a bunch of Japs up there snooping around. They almost
seen me."
"Then we--we're trapped?" asked Sheila faintly.
Ramey's eyes narrowed. "Not yet! That trap door gives us a chance. When
Tomasaki leads the Japs down here, emptying the courts above, we'll
beat it out that way!"
* * * * *
He glanced at Dr. Aiken commiseratingly. "Tough luck, Doc! Just when
you make the greatest find of your career, we have to duck out. But
maybe someday we can come back and figure out this mystery. Meanwhile
we ought to try to find some way to lock this door from the inside.
Tomasaki's just clever and treacherous enough to have seen how Red
opened it. We've got to try to stall the Japs for an hour or so to give
us a head start. One of these levers might be the answer."
He stared at the wall panel dubiously. Dr. Ian Aiken said, "I don't
know, Ramey. It's foolhardy to experiment with things we don't
understand. I'd be careful if I were you."
"It's now or never," Ramey reminded him. "In a few minutes it'll be
too late to experiment."
He stepped toward the largest of several levers. As he did so a shrill
cry sounded behind him. A mournful cry of terror.
"_Aiee!_ Out of the chamber of the past comes doom! Doom to the men of
the earth and of not-earth!"
"Will somebody please gag that perambulating wailing-wall?" demanded
Ramey irately. "All right, everybody--look sharp! I'm going to try it
easy. If you see anything happening, holler! And be careful no trap
doors open beneath you. Okay! Here we go!"
He laid his hand on the upright strip of metal and pulled it slowly
toward him. But nothing happened. So long had it rested unused that it
seemed welded to the plate on which it stood. Ramey tried again, more
forcibly. Still no result. He hunched his shoulders, took a good grip.
This time he wrenched at the lever with every ounce of power in his
six-foot frame. And--
The rod gave suddenly, jolting back in its groove, burying its handle
in the pit of Ramey's stomach, jarring the wind out of him. Ramey sat
down, abruptly. A startled "_Ooph!_" burst from his lips. Then as he
caught his wind, a grin overspread his features. "Did it!" he claimed
triumphantly. Then as he stared about him, seeing no change in either
the room or his companions' expressions, his eyebrows raised. "But now
that I did it," he demanded plaintively, "what did I do?"
"You pulled a little stick," said Red genially. "Only nothing happened.
I'll give you a recommend if you ever need one. Chief stick-puller and
nothing-happened."
But one at least did not share his mirth. "Wait!" Sheila Aiken cried
suddenly. "Something _did_ happen! Listen--a humming noise--"
* * * * *
It was so. Singing so faintly through the cubicle as to be almost
inaudible was the thin, far moan as of a diminutive motor heard from
a vast distance. And where Ramey's hand touched the floor, he thought
he could detect just the faintest, the barest, tingle of vibration
coursing through the metal. Nor was this just an hallucination.
Because--
"It _is_ a motor!" cried Dr. Aiken. "We must be moving! For, see? The
panel!"
Ramey's eyes followed the archeologist's finger. On the curious
instrument panel before them was a circular dial. And the pointer of
this dial was slowly revolving!
Red Barrett, who had clambered down the ladder, took one startled look
at the spinning needle and started up again. "Excuse me, folks," he
gulped, "I just remembered I got to see a guy about nine million miles
away from here!" His hands fumbled for the latch of the ceiling trap
door.
Dr. Aiken stayed him with a sharp command. "No, Red! Don't!"
"H-huh? Why not?"
"Because something is happening to us. Obviously, we are moving in some
direction or other. It might be perfectly safe to open that trap door,
but on the other hand--well, I think it would be better to wait until
the needle reaches the end of its circuit."
"If you ask me," vouchsafed Syd O'Brien gloomily, "we've probably
marched ourselves right into some sort of ancient torture chamber.
An Iron Maiden, or something like that. We'll probably end up under
the moat or being cooked in boiling mud--" He stared about him
suspiciously. "Do these walls look like they're closing in on us?"
His brother chuckled. "Cheerful little cherub, isn't he? I agree with
the doctor; you shouldn't open that trap door just yet, Barrett.
But I don't think we're in any danger. Evidently this chamber was a
secret of the ancient priesthood. They wouldn't build anything to hurt
themselves. Wherever it's taking us--"
"Taking us?" interrupted Ramey. "What's all this talk about movement?
We don't seem to be going anywhere."
* * * * *
Dr. Aiken permitted himself a thin smile. "Spoken like a true airman,
Ramey. I'm afraid your profession has accustomed you to judge motion
by external appearances. Within this closed chamber we have no object
relative to which we can judge speed or direction. But by the hum of
the motors, movement of these several dials, it is perfectly obvious we
are doing _something_. Just what, I cannot say." Here a frown flickered
across the forehead of the older man. "It is quite true that if we
move either up or down there should be a visceral sensation similar to
that experienced in elevators. Similarly, were we moving in a lateral
direction we should have felt the shock of over-balanced inertia when
we started in one or another direction. Since we did not feel these
things there is only one other possibility, but it is so fantastic--"
"It ain't fantastic," broke in Red Barrett. "It's whacky. We ain't
going up or down; we ain't going sideways. That's all the directions
there is."
"All the _common_ directions known to man," corrected Dr. Aiken slowly.
"There is one other about which we know absolutely nothing. A direction
of flight which is, at best, but a mathematical concept--"
This time Sheila Aiken stared at her father. "Daddy, it's unbelievable.
You can't mean--?"
"I venture no opinion," said the old man mildly. "I am simply trying
to apply to a most unusual situation the rules of logic."
Ramey gave up. He looked at the girl helplessly.
"What does he mean, Sheila?"
There was equal helplessness, and for the first time, an expression of
uncertainty, in the girl's eyes as she answered. "He means--we may be
moving across Time, Ramey!"
"Time!" For a moment Ramey was jarred completely out of his
self-possession. Then his sense of humor came to his rescue. "Oh, come
now! We _are_ letting ourselves go hogwild! It's been a hell of a day,
I know. And we've had some unnerving experiences, but--_Time!_"
Syd O'Brien did not share his scorn. The more sober twin nodded
moodily. "Nevertheless, it's a possibility, Winters. Time is a
dimension just as truly as height, breadth, depth. Some have called it
the Fourth Dimension and evolved the concept of a Space-Time continuum
wherein all things past and present exist side by side. Even the
man-in-the-street acknowledges the dimension of Time in his everyday
life. When he says he will meet a friend at Broad and Main Streets, his
directions are inadequate unless he specifies the _floor_, for if he is
on the tenth floor and his friend waits at ground level they will not
meet. The third dimension, height, must be taken into consideration.
"Similarly, if he tells his friend he will meet him on the tenth floor
of a building at Broad and Main, and he is there at ten o'clock but his
friend does not arrive until two, they will still not meet--for they
did not take into consideration the Fourth extension, Time."
"I understand that," acknowledged Ramey impatiently. "But to speak
of _crossing_ Time or 'traveling through' Time--that's absurd. Sheer
nonsense for imaginative fictioneers to toy with."
* * * * *
The old scientist stared at him quizzically. "I wish I could be as sure
of that as you, Ramey. Unfortunately, science is forced to admit too
many contradictory points of evidence to make such bold statements. I
might mention the strange case of the two Twentieth Century American
lady-tourists who, strolling in the gardens at Versailles, found
themselves suddenly translated, incomprehensibly face to face with
members of the Eighteenth Century royal French Court. This record is,
unhappily, too well authenticated to ignore. I might also point to the
accuracy of the prophecies of Michel de Nostradamus who claimed that by
means of his magic he was able to move forward into the future and see
those things which were to be.[5]
[Footnote 5: Michel de Nostradamus, most amazing of all prophets, not
only accurately forecast major world events for many hundreds of years
but supplemented his prophecies with the _exact dates_ as well as the
names of _persons_ and _places_ involved. So highly is he regarded on
the continent that at the outbreak of World War II, more than five new
editions of his book, _The Prophetic Centuries_, were rushed into print
to supply the demand of Frenchmen eager to learn the outcome of the new
strife.
Unhappily the prophecies of Nostradamus suffered the fate of those of
Cassandra. Few believed his statements that France would be betrayed
from within, Paris fall, and the greater part of the nation be occupied
by German forces.--Ed.]
"Many other instances. An Italian record of a stranger who appeared
mysteriously in Sicily some two hundred years ago in a machine, the
description of which shows a marked resemblance to a rocket-propelled
airship. Legend relates that this wise man, who spoke a curiously
distorted English, made his home with the natives for several months,
taught them new and better methods of husbandry, instructed them in
the construction of mechanical devices, and stayed an incipient plague
by medical means unknown to that era."
"Still," expostulated Ramey, "to travel across Time--"
"As a hazard," pursued the old man, "let us suppose the continuum
of Space-Time may be likened to a huge volume in which is inscribed
all the history of past, present, and future. All things are written
there--_all_. From man's darkest beginnings till the last feeble
flutter of a dying sun stills in cold death a forlorn earth. Man,
reading this volume, must perforce turn the pages one by one. He has
memory of that which he has read, comprehension of that upon which his
eyes presently rest--but no knowledge whatsoever of what lies before.
"But there is another pathway through this volume. The creeping pathway
of the bookworm. This is the shortest route between era and era.
Through this infinitesimal tunnel the bookworm--or let us say a 'time
machine' constructed by one who knows the manner of its making--can
skip from epoch to epoch in the twinkling of an eye."
Ramey stared at him incredulously. "And you--you think this thing we're
in may be a sort of mechanical bookworm piercing the pages of Time?"
"I do not know," Dr. Aiken told him again. "I simply point out that at
least hypothetically these things could be. I do not know; no. But we
will learn in a minute. For, see? The needle has stopped. And if I am
not mistaken, the humming, too, has ended."
He pointed. The moving needle had indeed completed its circuit and
come to rest; the vibration was gone. Whatever had been the nature of
the metal chamber's movements, it was motionless now. Red fidgeted
impatiently above them.
"All right now, Doc? Okay for me to lift the trap now?"
"Yes. By all means, Barrett."
* * * * *
Red raised the trapdoor gingerly. But no sunlight filtered into the
inch-wide slit. He lifted it still farther, glanced anxiously down at
his companions. "Hey, lookit! This is funny! It's dark! No, wait a
minute--there's a little spot of light. And there's _another_ wall here
and _another_ ladder."
"Give him the torch, Syd," cried Dr. Aiken. "There.... Got it, Barrett?
Go on up. Climb the ladder. See if you can find out where we are, and
what--"
The flaming brand bobbed upward ten, twenty feet, for a few seconds
weaved in uncertain circles, its light reflecting to those below only
a gray formlessness and the foreshortened outlines of the climbing
Barrett. Then:
"Ramey! Doc!" cried Red.
"What is it?"
"Come on up here, everybody, quick! Look! There's a platform up here
and a couple of peepholes, and--and it's the damnedest thing you ever
seen. We ain't moved an inch. We're still in the temple. But--but it
ain't empty now. There's about three billion people gathered in it!"