Once again Ross sat waiting for others to decide his future. He was as
outwardly composed as he had been in Judge Rawle's chambers, but
inwardly he was far more apprehensive. Out in the wilderness of the
polar night he had had no chance for escape. Heading away from Kurt's
rendezvous, Ross had run straight into the search party from the base,
had seen in action that mechanical hound that Kurt had said they would
put on the fugitives' trail--the thing which would have gone on hunting
them until its metal rusted into powder. Kurt's boasted immunity to that
tracker had not been as good as he had believed, though it had won them
a start.
Ross did not know just how much it might count in his favor that he had
been on his way back, with Kurt a prisoner in the cat. As his waiting
hours wore on he began to think it might mean very little indeed. This
time there was no show on the wall of his cell, nothing but time to
think--too much of that--and no pleasant things to think about.
But he had learned one valuable lesson on that cold expedition.
Kelgarries and the others at the base were the most formidable
opponents he had ever met, and all the balance of luck and equipment lay
on their side of the scales. Ross was now convinced that there could be
no escape from this base. He had been impressed by Kurt's preparations,
knowing that some of them were far beyond anything he himself could have
devised. He did not doubt that Kurt had come here fully prepared with
every ingenious device the Reds could supply.
At least Kurt's friends had had a rude welcome when they did arrive at
the meeting place. Kelgarries had heard Ross out and then had sent ahead
a team. Before Ross's party had reached the base there had been a blast
which split the arctic night wide open. And Kurt, conscious by then, had
shown his only sign of emotion when he realized what it meant.
The door to Ross's cell room clicked, and he swung his feet to the
floor, sitting up on his bunk to face his future. This time he made no
attempt to put on an act. He was not in the least sorry he had tried to
get away. Had Kurt been on the level, it would have been a bright play.
That Kurt was not, was just plain bad luck.
Kelgarries and Ashe entered, and at the sight of Ashe the taut feeling
in Ross's middle loosened a bit. The major might come by himself to pass
sentence, but he would not bring Ashe along if the sentence was a really
harsh one.
"You got off to a bad start here, Murdock." The major sat down on the
edge of the wall shelf which doubled as a table. "You're going to have a
second chance, so consider yourself lucky. We know you aren't another
plant of our enemies, a fact that saves your neck. Do you have anything
to add to your story?"
"No, sir." He was not adding that "sir" to curry any favor; it came
naturally when one answered Kelgarries.
"But you have some questions?"
Ross met that with the truth. "A lot of them."
"Why don't you ask them?"
Ross smiled thinly, an expression far removed and years older than his
bashful boy's grin of the shy act. "A wise guy doesn't spill his
ignorance. He uses his eyes and ears and keeps his trap shut----"
"And goes off half cocked as a result..." the major added. "I don't
think you would have enjoyed the company of Kurt's paymaster."
"I didn't know about him then--not when I left here."
"Yes, and when you discovered the truth, you took steps. Why?" For the
first time there was a trace of feeling in the major's voice.
"Because I don't like the line-up on his side of the fence."'
"That single fact has saved your neck this time, Murdock. Step out of
line once more, and nothing will help you. But just so we won't have to
worry about that, suppose you ask a few of those questions."
"How much of what Kurt fed me is the truth?" Ross blurted out. "I mean
all that stuff about shooting back in time."
"All of it." The major said it so quietly that it carried complete
conviction.
"But why--how--?"
"You have us on a spot, Murdock. Because of your little expedition, we
have to tell you more now than we tell any of our men before the final
briefing. Listen, and then forget all of it except what applies to the
job at hand.
"The Reds shot up Sputnik and then Muttnik.... When--? Twenty-five years
ago. We got up our answers a little later. There were a couple of
spectacular crashes on the moon, then that space station that didn't
stay in orbit, after that--stalemate. In the past quarter century we've
had no voyages into space, nothing that was prophesied. Too many bugs,
too many costly failures. Finally we began to get hints of something
big, bigger than any football roaming the heavens.
"Any discovery in science comes about by steps. It can be traced back
through those steps by another scientist. But suppose you were
confronted by a result which apparently had been produced without any
preliminaries. What would be your guess concerning it?"
Ross stared at the major. Although he didn't see what all this had to do
with time-jumping, he sensed that Kelgarries was waiting for a serious
answer, that somehow Ross would be judged by his reply.
"Either that the steps were kept strictly secret," he said slowly, "or
that the result didn't rightfully belong to the man who said he
discovered it."
For the first time the major regarded him with approval. "Suppose this
discovery was vital to your life--what would you do?"
"Try to find the source!"
"There you have it! Within the past five years our friends across the
way have come up with three such discoveries. One we were able to trace,
duplicate, and use, with a few refinements of our own. The other two
remain rootless; yet they are linked with the first. We are now
attempting to solve that problem, and the time grows late. For some
reason, though the Reds now have their super, super gadgets, they are
not yet ready to use them. Sometimes the things work, and sometimes they
fail. Everything points to the fact that the Reds are now experimenting
with discoveries which are not basically their own----"
"Where did they get them? From another world?" Ross's imagination came
to life. Had a successful space voyage been kept secret? Had there been
contact made with another intelligent race?
"In a way it's another world, but the world of time--not space. Seven
years ago we got a man out of East Berlin. He was almost dead, but he
lived long enough to record on tape some amazing data, so wild it was
almost dismissed as the ravings of delirium. But that was after Sputnik,
and we didn't dare disregard any hints from the other side of the Iron
Curtain. So the recording was turned over to our scientists, who proved
it had a core of truth.
"Time travel has been written up in fiction; it has been discussed
otherwise as an impossibility. Then we discover that the Reds have it
working----"
"You mean, they go into the future and bring back machines to use now."
The major shook his head. "Not the future, the past."
Was this an elaborate joke? Somewhat heatedly Ross snapped out the
answer to that. "Look here, I know I haven't the education of your big
brains, but I do know that the farther back you go into history the
simpler things are. We ride in cars; only a hundred years ago men drove
horses. We have guns; go back a little and you'll find them waving
swords and shooting guys with bows and arrows--those that don't wear tin
plate on them to stop being punctured----"
"Only they were, after all," commented Ashe. "Look at Agincourt, m'lad,
and remember what arrows did to the French knights in armor."
Ross disregarded the interruption. "Anyway"--he stuck doggedly to his
point--"the farther back you go, the simpler things are. How are the
Reds going to find anything in history we can't beat today?"
"That is a point which has baffled us for several years now," the major
returned. "Only it is not _how_ they are going to find it, but _where_.
Because somewhere in the past of this world they have contacted a
civilization able to produce weapons and ideas so advanced as to baffle
our experts. We have to find that source and either mine it ourselves or
close it off. As yet we're still trying to find it."
Ross shook his head. "It must be a long way back. Those guys who
discover tombs and dig up old cities--couldn't they give you some hints?
Wouldn't a civilization like that have left something we could find
today?"
"It depends," Ashe remarked, "upon the type of civilization. The
Egyptians built in stone, grandly. They used tools and weapons of
copper, bronze, and stone, and they were considerate enough to operate
in a dry climate which preserved relics well. The cities of the Fertile
Crescent built in mud brick and used stone, copper, and bronze tools.
They also chose a portion of the world where climate was a factor in
keeping their memory green.
"The Greeks built in stone, wrote their books, kept their history to
bequeath it to their successors, and so did the Romans. And on this side
of the ocean the Incas, the Mayas, the unknown races before them, and
the Aztecs of Mexico all built in stone and worked in metal. And stone
and metal survive. But what if there had been an early people who used
plastics and brittle alloys, who had no desire to build permanent
buildings, whose tools and artifacts were meant to wear out quickly,
perhaps for economic reasons? What would they leave us--considering,
perhaps, that an ice age had intervened between their time and ours,
with glaciers to grind into dust what little they did possess?
"There is evidence that the poles of our world have changed and that
this northern region was once close to being tropical. Any catastrophe
violent enough to bring about a switch in the poles of this planet might
well have wiped out all traces of a civilization, no matter how
superior. We have good reason to believe that such a people must have
existed, but we must find them.
"And Ashe is a convert from the skeptics--" the major slipped down from
his perch on the wall shelf--"he is an archaeologist, one of your tomb
discoverers, and knows what he is talking about. We must do our hunting
in time earlier than the first pyramid, earlier than the first group of
farmers who settled by the Tigris River. But we have to let the enemy
guide us to it. That's where you come in."
"Why me?"
"That is a question to which our psychologists are still trying to find
the answer, my young friend. It seems that the majority of the people of
the several nations linked together in this project have become too
civilized. The reactions of most men to given sets of circumstances have
become set in regular patterns and they cannot break that conditioning,
or if personal danger forces them to change those patterns, they are
afterward so adrift they cannot function at their highest potential.
Teach a man to kill, as in war, and then you have to recondition him
later.
"But during these same wars we also develop another type. He is the born
commando, the secret agent, the expendable man who lives on action.
There are not many of this kind, and they are potent weapons. In
peacetime that particular collection of emotions, nerve, and skills
becomes a menace to the very society he has fought to preserve during a
war. He is pressured by the peaceful environment into becoming a
criminal or a misfit.
"The men we send out from here to explore the past are not only given
the best training we can possibly supply for them, but they are all of
the type once heralded as the frontiersman. History is sentimental about
that type--when he is safely dead--but the present finds him difficult
to live with. Our time agents are misfits in the modern world because
their inherited abilities are born out of season now. They must be young
enough and possess a certain brand of intelligence to take the stiff
training and to adapt, and they must pass our tests. Do you understand?"
Ross nodded. "You want crooks because they are crooks----"
"No, not because they are crooks, but because they are misfits in their
time and place. Don't, I beg of you, Murdock, think that we are
operating a penal institution here. You would never have been recruited
if you hadn't tested out to suit us. But the man who may be labeled
murderer in his own period might rank as a hero in another, an extreme
example, but true. When we train a man he not only can survive in the
period to which he is sent, but he can also pass as a native born in
that era----"
"What about Hardy?"
The major gazed into space. "There is no operation which is foolproof.
We have never said that we don't run into trouble or that there is no
danger in this. We have to deal with both natives of different times,
and if we are lucky and hit a hot run, with the Reds. They suspect that
we are casting about, hunting their trail. They managed to plant Kurt
Vogel on us. He had an almost perfect cover and conditioning. Now you
have it straight, Murdock. You satisfy our tests, and you'll be given a
chance to say yes or no before your first run. If you say no and refuse
duty, it means you must become an exile and stay here. No man who has
gone through our training can return to normal life; there is too much
chance of his being picked up and sweated by the opposition."
"Never?"
The major shrugged. "This may be a long-term operation. We hope not, but
there is no way of telling now. You will be in exile until we either
find what we want or fail entirely. That is the last card I have to lay
on the table." He stretched. "You're slated for training tomorrow. Think
it over and then let us know your answer when the time comes. Meanwhile,
you are to be teamed with Ashe, who will see to putting you through the
course."
It was a big hunk to swallow, but once down, Ross found it digestible.
The training opened up a whole new world to him. Judo and wrestling were
easy enough to absorb, and he thoroughly enjoyed the workouts. But the
patient hours of archery practice, the strict instruction in the use of
a long-bladed bronze dagger were more demanding. The mastering of one
new language and then another, the intensive drill in unfamiliar social
customs, the memorizing of strict taboos and ethics were difficult. Ross
learned to keep records in knots on hide thongs and was inducted into
the art of primitive bargaining and trade. He came to understand the
worth of a cross-shaped tin ingot compared to a string of amber beads
and some well-cured white furs. He now understood why he had been shown
a traders' caravan during that first encounter with the purpose behind
Operation Retrograde.
During the training days his feeling toward Ashe changed materially. A
man could not work so closely with another and continue to resent his
attitude; either he blew up entirely, or he learned to adjust. His awe
at Ashe's vast amount of practical knowledge, freely offered to serve
his own blundering ignorance, created a respect for the man which might
have become friendship, had Ashe ever relaxed his own shield of
impersonal efficiency. Ross did not try to breach the barrier between
them mainly because he was sure that the reason for it was the fact
that he was a "volunteer." It gave him an odd new feeling he avoided
trying to analyze. He had always had a kind of pride in his record; now
he had begun to wish sometimes that it was a record of a different type.
Men came and went. Hodaki and his partner disappeared, as did Jansen and
his. One lost track of time within that underground warren which was the
base. Ross gradually discovered that the whole establishment covered a
large area under an external crust of ice and snow. There were
laboratories, a well-appointed hospital, armories which stocked weapons
usually seen only in museums, but which here were free of any signs of
age, and ready for use. There were libraries with mile upon mile of tape
recordings as well as films. Ross could not understand everything he
heard and saw, but he soaked up all he could so that once or twice, when
drifting off to sleep at night, he thought of himself as a sponge which
had nearly reached its total limit of absorption.
He learned to wear naturally the clumsy kilt-tunic he had seen on the
wolf slayer, to shave with practiced assurance, using a leaf-shaped
bronze razor, to eat strange food until he relished the taste. Making
lesson time serve a double duty, he lay under sunlamps while listening
to tape recordings, until his skin darkened to a weathered hue
resembling Ashe's. There was always talk to listen to, important talk
which he was afraid to miss.
"Bronze." Ashe weighed a dagger in his hand one day. Its hilt, made of
dark horn studded with an intricate pattern of tiny golden nail heads,
had a gleam not unlike that of the blade. "Do you know, Murdock, that
bronze can be tougher than steel? If it wasn't that iron is so much more
plentiful and easier to work, we might never have come out of the Bronze
Age? Iron is cheaper and easier found, and when the first smith learned
to work it, an end came to one way of life, a beginning to another.
"Yes, bronze is important to us here, and so are the men who worked it.
Smiths were sacred in the old days. We know that they made a secret of
their trade which overrode the bounds of district, tribe, and race. A
smith was welcome in any village, his person safe on the road. In fact,
the roads themselves were under the protection of the gods; there was
peace on them for all wayfarers. The land was wide then, and it was
empty. The tribes were few and small, and there was plenty of room for
the hunter, the farmer, the trader. Life was not such a scramble of man
against man, but rather of man against nature----"
"No wars?" asked Ross. "Then why the bow-and-dagger drill?"
"Wars were small affairs, disputes between family clans or tribes. As
for the bow, there were formidable things in the forests--giant animals,
wolves, wild boars----"
"Cave bears?"
Ashe sighed with weary patience. "Get it through your head, Murdock,
that history is much longer than you seem to think. Cave bears and the
use of bronze weapons do not overlap. No, you will have to go back maybe
several thousand years earlier and then hunt your bear with a
flint-tipped spear in your hand if you are fool enough to try it."
"Or take a rifle with you." Ross made a suggestion he had longed to
voice for some time.
Ashe rounded on him swiftly, and Ross knew him well enough now to
realize that he was seriously displeased.
"That is just what you don't do, Murdock, not from this base, as you
well know by now. You take no weapon from here which is not designed for
the period in which your run lies. Just as you do not become embroiled
while on that run in any action which might influence the course of
history."
Ross went on polishing the blade he held. "What would happen if someone
did break that rule?"
Ashe put down the dagger he had been playing with. "We don't know--we
just don't know. So far we have operated in the fringe territory,
keeping away from any district with a history which we can trace
accurately. Maybe some day--" his eyes were on a wall of weapon racks he
plainly did not see--"maybe some day we can stand and watch the rise of
the pyramids, witness the march of Alexander's armies.... But not yet.
We stay away from history, and we are sure that the Reds are doing the
same. It has become the old problem once presented by the atom bomb.
Nobody wants to upset the balance and take the consequences. Let us find
their outpost and we'll withdraw our men from all the other runs at
once."
"What makes everyone so sure that they have an outpost somewhere?
Couldn't they be working right at the main source, sir?"
"They could, but for some reason they are not. As for how we know that
much, it's information received." Ashe smiled thinly. "No, the source is
much farther back in time than their halfway post. But if we find that,
then we can trail them. So we plant men in suitable eras and hope for
the best. That's a good weapon you have there, Murdock. Are you willing
to wear it in earnest?"
The inflection in that question caught Ross's full attention. His gray
eyes met those blue ones. This was it--at long last.
"Right away?"
Ashe picked up a belt of bronze plates strung together with chains, a
twin to that Ross had seen worn by the wolf slayer. He held it out to
the younger man. "You can take your trial run any time--tomorrow."
Ross drew a deeper breath. "Where--to when?"
"An island which will later be Britain. When? About two thousand B.C.
Beaker traders were beginning to open their stations there. This is your
graduation exercise, Murdock."
Ross fitted the blade he had been polishing into the wooden sheath on
the belt. "If you say I can do it, I'm willing to try."
He caught that glance Ashe shot at him, but he could not read its
meaning. Annoyance? Impatience? He was still puzzling over it when the
other turned abruptly and left him alone.