"Listen to this infernal thing!" Altamont raged. "'Wielding a
gold-plated spade handled with oak from an original rafter of the
Congressional Library, at three-fifteen one afternoon last
week--' One afternoon last week!" He cursed luridly. "Why
couldn't that blasted magazine say what afternoon? I've gone over
a lot of twentieth century copies of that magazine and that
expression was a regular cliche with them."
Loudons looked over his shoulder at the photostated magazine
page.
"Well, we know it was between June thirteen and nineteen,
inclusive," he said. "And there's a picture of the university
president, complete with gold-plated spade, breaking ground. Call
it Wednesday, the sixteenth. Over there's the tip of the shadow
of the old Cathedral of Learning, about a hundred yards away.
There are so many inexactitudes, that one'll probably cancel out
the other."
"That's so, and it's also pretty futile getting angry at somebody
who's been dead two hundred years, but why couldn't they say
Wednesday, or Monday, or Saturday, or whatever?"
Monty checked back in the astronomical handbook, and the
photostated pages of the old almanac, then looked over his
calculations. "All right, here is the angle of the shadow, and
the compass-bearing.
"I had a look, yesterday, when I was taking the local citizenry
on that junket. The old baseball diamond at Forbes Field is
plainly visible, and I located the ruins of the Cathedral of
Learning from that.
"Here's the above-sea-level altitude of the top of the tower.
After you've landed us, go up to this altitude--use the
barometric altimeter, not the radar--and hold position."
Loudons leaned forward from the desk to the contraption Altamont
had rigged up in the nose of the helicopter; one of the
telescope-sighted hunting rifles clamped in a vise, with a
compass and a spirit-level under it.
"Rifle's pointing downward at the correct angle now?" he asked.
"Good. Then all I have to do is to hold the helicopter steady,
keep it at the right altitude, level and pointed in the right
direction, and watch through the sight while you move the flag
around, and direct you by radio."
"Simple, if I had been born quintuplets!"
"Mr. Altamont! Doctor Loudons!" a voice outside the helicopter
called. "Are you ready for us now?"
Altamont went to the open door and looked out. The old Toon
Leader, the Reader, Toon Sarge Hughes, his son and four young men
in buckskins with slung rifles were standing outside.
"I have decided," the Tenant said, "that Mr. Rawson and Sarge
Hughes and I would be of more help than an equal number of young
men. We may not be as active, but we do know the old ruins
better, especially the paths and hiding places of the Scowrers.
These four young men you probably met last evening, but it will
do no harm to introduce them again.
"Birdy Edwards; Sholto Jiminez; Jefferson Burns; Murdo Olsen."
"Very pleased, Tenant, gentlemen. I met all of you young men last
evening and I remember you," Altamont said. "Now, if you'll crowd
in here, I'll explain what we're going to try to do."
He showed them the old picture. "You see where the shadow of a
tall building falls?" he asked. "We know the height and location
of this building. Doctor Loudons will hold this helicopter at
exactly the position of the top of the building and aim through
the sights of the rifle, there. One of you will have this flag in
his hand, and will move it back and forth. Doctor Loudons will
tell us when the flag is in sight of the rifle."
"He'll need a good pair of lungs to do that," Verner Hughes
commented.
"We'll use the radio. A portable set on the ground, and the
helicopter's radio set," Altamont said.
To his surprise, he was met with looks of incomprehension. He had
not supposed that these people would have lost all memory of
radio communication.
"Why, that's wonderful!" the Reader exclaimed, when the
explanation was concluded. "You can talk directly. How much
better than just sending a telegram!"
"But, finding the crypt by the shadow, that's exactly like the--"
Murray Hughes began, then stopped short. Immediately, he began
talking about the rifle that was to be used as a surveying
transit, comparing it with the ones in the big first-floor room
at the Aitch-Cue House.
Locating the point where the shadow of the old Cathedral of
Learning had fallen proved easier than either Altamont or Loudons
had expected. The towering building was now a tumbled mass of
slagged rubble, but it was quite possible to determine its
original center, and with the old data from the excellent
reference library at Fort Ridgeway, its height above sea level
was known. After a little jockeying, the helicopter came to a
hovering stop, and the slanting barrel of the rifle in the vise
pointed downward along the line of the shadow that had been cast
on that afternoon in June, 1993.
The cross-hairs of the scope sight centered almost exactly on the
spot Altamont had estimated on the map.
Guiding himself by peering through the rifle-sight, Loudons
brought the helicopter slanting down to land on the sheet of
fused glass that had once been a grassy campus.
"Well, this is probably it," Altamont said. "We didn't have to
bother fussing around with that flag after all. That hump over
there looks as though it had been a small building, and there's
nothing corresponding to it on the city map. That may be the
bunker over the stair-head to the crypt."
They began unloading equipment--a small, portable
nuclear-electric conversion unit, a powerful solenoid-hammer,
crowbars and intrenching tools, tins of blasting plastic. They
took out the two hunting rifles and the auto-carbines, and
Altamont showed the young men of Murray Hughes' detail how to use
them.
"If you will pardon me, sir," the Tenant said to Altamont, "I
think it would be a good idea if your companion went up in the
flying machine and circled over us, to keep watch for the
Scowrers. There are quite a few of them, particularly farther up
the rivers, to the east, where the damage was not so great and
they can find cellars and shelters and buildings to live in."
"Good idea. That way, we won't have to put out guards," Altamont
said. "From the looks of this, we'll need every body to help dig
into that thing. Hand out one of the portable radios, Jim and go
up to about a thousand feet. If you see anything suspicious, give
us a yell, then spray it with bullets, and find out what it is
afterward."
They waited until the helicopter had climbed to position and was
circling above, and then turned their attention to the place
where the sheet of fused earth and stone bulged upward. It must
have been almost ground-zero of one of the hydrogen-bombs: the
wreckage of the Cathedral of Learning had fallen predominantly to
the north, and the Carnegie Library was tumbled to the east.
"I think the entrance would be on this side, toward the Library,"
Altamont said. "Let's try it, to begin with."
He used the solenoid-hammer, slowly pounding a hole in the glaze,
and placed a small charge of the plastic explosive. Chunks of the
lava-like stuff pelted down between the little mound and the huge
one of the old library, blowing a hole six feet in diameter and
the two and a half feet deep, revealing concrete bonded with
crushed steel-mill slag.
"We missed the door," Altamont said. "That means we'll have to
tunnel in through who knows how much concrete. Well...."
He used a second and larger charge, after digging a hole a foot
deep. When he and his helpers came up to look, they found a large
mass of concrete blown out, and solid steel behind it. Altamont
cut two more holes, one on either side of the blown-out place,
and fired a charge in each of them, bringing down more concrete.
He found he hadn't missed the door after all. It had merely been
concreted over.
A few more shots cleared it, and after some work, they got it
open. There was a room inside, concrete-floored and entirely
empty. Altamont stood in the doorway and inspected the interior
with his flashlight; he heard somebody behind him say something
about a most peculiar sort of dark-lantern.
Across the small room, on the opposite wall, was a bronze plaque.
The plaque carried quite a lengthy inscription, including the
names of all the persons and institutions participating in the
microfilm project. The History Department at the Fort would be
interested in that, but the only thing that interested Altamont
was the statement that the floor had been laid over the trapdoor
leading to the vault where the microfilms were stored. He went
outside to the radio.
"Hello, Jim. We're inside, but the films were stored in an
underground vault, and so we have to tear up a concrete floor,"
he said. "Go back to the village and gather up all the men you
can carry. I don't want to use explosives inside. The interior of
the crypt oughtn't to be damaged. Besides, I don't know what a
blast in there might do to the film, and I don't want to take any
chances."
"No, of course not. How thick do you think the floor is?"
"Haven't the least idea. Plenty thick, I would guess. Those films
would have to be well-buried, to shield them from radioactivity.
We can expect that it will take some time."
"All right. I'll be back as soon as I can."
The helicopter turned and went windmilling away, over what had
been the Golden Triangle, down the Ohio. Altamont went back to
the little concrete bunker and sat down, lighting his pipe.
Murray Hughes and his four riflemen spread out, one circling
around the glazed butte that had been the Cathedral of Learning,
another climbing to the top of the old Library, and the others
taking positions to the south and east.
Altamont sat in silence, smoking his pipe and trying to form some
conception of the wealth under that concrete floor.
It was no use.
Jim Loudons probably understood a little more clearly what those
books would mean to the world of today, and what they could do
toward shaping the world of the future.
There was a library at Fort Ridgeway, and it was an excellent one ...
for its purpose. In 1996, when the rockets had come crashing
down, it had contained the cream of the world's technical
knowledge--and very little else. There was only a little fiction,
a few books of ideas, just enough to give the survivors a
tantalizing glimpse of the world of their fathers.
But now....
* * * * *
A rifle banged to the south and east, and banged again. Either
Murray Hughes or Birdy Edwards: it was one of the two hunting
rifles from the helicopter.
On the heels of the reports, they heard a voice shouting,
"Scowrers! A lot of them, coming from up the river!"
A moment later, there was a light whip-crack of one of the
muzzleloaders, from the top of the old Carnegie Library, and
Altamont could see a wisp of grey-white smoke drifting away from
where it had been fired.
Altamont jumped to his feet and raced for the radio, picking it
up and bring it to the bunker.
Tenant Jones, old Reader Rawson, and Verner Hughes had caught up
their rifles. The Tenant was shouting. "Come on in! Everybody,
come on in!"
The boy on top of the library began scrambling down. Another came
running from the direction of the half-demolished Cathedral of
Learning, a third from the baseball field that had served as
Altamont's point of reference the afternoon before.
The fourth, Murray Hughes, was running in from the ruins of the
old Carnegie Tech buildings, and Birdy Edwards sped up the main
road from Schenley Park. Once, twice, as he ran, Murray Hughes
paused, turned, and fired behind him.
Then his pursuers came into sight!
They ran erect, they wore a few rags of skin garments, and they
carried spears and hatchets and clubs, so they were probably
classifiable as men. But their hair was long and unkempt, and
their bodies were almost black with dirt and from the sun. A few
of them were yelling, but most of them ran silently. They ran
more swiftly than the boy they were pursuing: the distance
between them narrowed every moment. There were at least fifty of
them.
Verner Hughes' rifle barked, one of them dropped. As cooly as
though he were shooting squirrels instead of his son's pursuers,
he dropped the butt of the rifle to the ground, poured a charge
of powder, patched a ball and rammed it home, replaced the
ramrod. Tenant Jones fired then, and Birdy Edwards joined them,
beginning to shoot with the telescope-sighted rifle.
The young man who had been north of the Cathedral of Learning had
one of the auto-carbines; luckily, Altamont had providently set
the control for semi-auto before giving it to him. He dropped to
one knee and began to empty the clip, shooting slowly and
deliberately, picking off the runners who were in the lead.
The boy who had started to climb down off the Library halted,
fired his flintlock, and began reloading it.
Altamont, sitting down and propping his elbows on his knees, took
both hands to the automatic which was his only weapon, emptying
the magazine and replacing it. The last three savages he shot in
the back: they had had enough and were running for their lives.
So far, everybody was safe. The boy in the Library came down
through a place where the wall had fallen. Murray Hughes stopped
running and came slowly toward the bunker, putting a fresh clip
into his rifle. The others came drifting in.
* * * * *
"Altamont, calling Loudons," the scientist from Fort Ridgeway was
saying into the radio. "Monty to Jim: can you hear me?"
Silence.
"We'd better get ready for another attack," Birdy Edwards said.
"There's another gang coming from down that way. I never saw so
many Scowrers!"
"Maybe there's a reason, Birdy," Tenant Jones said. "The Enemy is
after big game, this time."
"Jim, where the devil are you?" Altamont fairly yelled into the
radio; and as he did, he knew the answer. Loudons was in the
village, away from the helicopter, gathering tools and workers.
Nothing to do but keep on trying!
"Here they come!" Reader Rawson warned.
"How far can these rifles be depended on?" Birdy Edwards wanted
to know.
Altamont straightened, saw the second band of savages approaching
about four hundred yards away.
"Start shooting now," he said. "Aim for the upper part of their
bodies."
The two auto-loading rifles began to crack. After the first few
shots, the savages took cover. Evidently they understood the
capabilities and limitations of the villagers' flintlocks, but
this was a terrifying surprise to them.
"Jim!"--Altamont was almost praying into the radio--"Come in,
Jim!"
"What is it, Monty? I was outside."
Altamont told him.
"Those fellows you had up with you yesterday, think they could
be trusted to handle the guns? A couple of them are here with
me," Loudons inquired.
"Take a chance on it! It won't cost anything but my life, and
that's not worth much at the present."
"All right, hold on. We'll be there in a few minutes."
"Loudons is bringing the helicopter," Altamont told the others.
"All we have to do is to hold on, here, until he comes."
A naked savage raised his head from behind what might, two
hundred years ago, have been a cement park-bench and he was only
a hundred yards away. Reader Rawson promptly killed him and began
reloading.
"I think you're right, Tenant," he said. "The Scowrers have never
attacked in bands like this before. They must have a powerful
reason and I can think of only one."
"That's what I'm beginning to think, too," Verner Hughes agreed.
"At least, we've eliminated the third of your possibilities,
Tenant. And I think probably the second, as well."
Altamont wondered what they were double-talking about. There
wasn't any particular mystery about the mass attack of the wild
men to him.
Debased as they were, they still possessed speech and the ability
to transmit experiences. No matter how beclouded in superstition,
they still remembered that aircraft dropped bombs, and bombs
killed people, and where people had been killed, they would find
fresh meat. They had seen the helicopter circling about, and had
heard the blasting: everyone in the area had been drawn to the
scene as soon as Loudons had gone down the river.
But they seemed to have forgotten that aircraft carried guns,
although they did spring to their feet and start to run at the
return of the helicopter.
However, most of them did not run far.