Ross swayed against a guard, was fended off, and bounced against the
wall as the man shouted words Ross could not understand. A determined
roar from the leader brought a semblance of order, but it was plain that
they had not been expecting this. Ross was hustled out of the room back
to his cell. His guards were opening the cell door when a second shock
was felt and he was thrust into safekeeping with no ceremony.
He half crouched against the questionable security of the wall, waiting
through two more twisting earth waves, both of which were accompanied or
preceded by dull sounds. Bombing! That last wrench was really bad. Ross
found himself lying on the floor, feeling tremors rippling along the
earth. His stomach knotted convulsively with a fear unlike any he had
known before. It was as if the very security of the world had been
jerked from under him.
But that last explosion--if it was an explosion--appeared to be the end.
Ross sat up gingerly after several long moments during which no more
shocks moved the floor and walls. A line of light marked the door,
showing cracks where none had previously existed. Ross, not yet ready to
try standing erect, was heading toward it on his hands and knees when a
sharp noise behind him brought him to a stop.
There was no light to see by, but he was certain that the scrape of
metal against metal sounded from the far side of the wall. He crawled
back and put his ear to the surface. Now he heard not only that
scraping, but an undercurrent of clicks, chippings....
Under his exploring hands the surface remained as smooth as ever,
however. Then suddenly, perhaps a foot from his head, there sounded a
rip of metal. The wall was being holed from the other side! Ross caught
a flicker of very weak light, and moving in it was the point of a tool
pulling at the smooth surface of the wall. It broke away with a brittle
sound, and a hand holding a light reached through the aperture.
Ross wondered if he should catch that wrist, but the hope that the
digger might just possibly be an ally kept him motionless. After the
hand with the light whipped back beyond the wall, a wide section gave
away and a hunched figure crawled through, followed by a second. In the
limited glow he saw the first tunneler clearly enough.
"Assha!"
Ross was unprepared for what followed his cry. The lean brown man moved
with a panther's striking speed, and Ross was forced back. A hand like a
steel ring on his throat shut the breath away from his bursting lungs;
the other's muscular body held him flat in spite of his struggles. The
light of the small flash glowed inches beyond his eyes as he fought to
fill his lungs. Then the hand on his throat was gone and he gasped, a
little dizzy.
"Murdock! What are you doing--?" Ashe's clipped voice was muffled by
another sudden explosion. This time the earth tremors not only hurled
them from their feet, but seemed to run along the walls and across the
ceiling. Ross, burying his face in the crook of his arm, could not rid
himself of the fear that the building was being slowly twisted into
scrap. When the shock was over he raised his head.
"What's going on?" He heard McNeil ask.
"Attack." That was Ashe. "But why, and by whom--don't ask me! You are a
prisoner, I suppose, Murdock?"
"Yes, sir." Ross was glad that his voice sounded normal enough.
He heard someone sigh and guessed it was McNeil. "Another digging
party." There was tired disgust in that.
"I don't understand," Ross appealed to that section of the dark where
Ashe had been. "Have you been here all the time? Are you trying to dig
your way out? I don't see how you can cut out of this glacier that we're
parked under----"
"Glacier!" Ashe's exclamation was as explosive as the tremors. "So we're
inside a glacier! That explains it. Yes, we've been here--"
"On ice!" McNeil commented and then laughed. "Glacier--ice--that's
right, isn't it?"
"We're collaborating," Ashe continued. "Supplying our dear friends with
a lot of information they already have and some flights of fancy they
never dreamed about. However, they didn't know we had a few surprise
packets of our own strewn about. It's amazing what the boys back at the
project can pack away in a belt, or between layers of hide in a boot. So
we've been engaged in some research of our own----"
"But I didn't have any escape gadgets." Ross was struck by the
unfairness of that.
"No," Ashe agreed, his voice even and cold, "they are not entrusted to
first-run men. You might slip up and use them at the wrong moment.
However, you appear to have done fairly well...."
The heat of Ross's rising anger was chilled by the noise which cracked
over their heads, ground to them through the walls, flattened and
threatened them. He had thought those first shocks the end of this ice
burrow and the world; he knew that this one was.
And the silence that followed was as threatening in its way as the
clamor had been. Then there was a shout, a shriek. The space of light
near the cell door was widening as that barrier, broken from its lock,
swung open slowly. The fear of being trapped sent the men in that
direction.
"Out!"
Ross was ready enough to respond to that order, but they were stopped by
a crackle of sound that could be only one thing--rapid-fire guns.
Somewhere in this warren a fight was in progress. Ross, remembering the
arrogant face of the bald ship's officer, wondered if this was not an
attack in force--the aliens against the looting Reds. If so, would the
ship people distinguish between those found here. He feared not.
The room outside was clear, but not for long. As they lay watching, two
men backed in, then whirled to stare at each other. A voice roared from
beyond as if ordering them back to some post. One of them took a step
forward in reluctant obedience, but the other grabbed his arm and pulled
him away. They turned to run, and an automatic cracked.
The man nearest Ross gave a queer little cough and folded forward to his
knees, sprawling on his face. His companion stared at him wildly for an
instant, and then skidded into the passage beyond, escaping by inches a
shot which clipped the door as he lunged through it.
No one followed, for outside there was a crescendo of noise--shouting,
cries of pain, an unidentifiable hissing. Ashe darted into the room,
taking cover by the body. Then he came back, the fellow's gun in his
hand, and with a jerk of his head summoned the other two. He motioned
them on in a direction away from the sounds of battle.
"I don't get all this," McNeil commented as they reached the next
passage. "What's going on? Mutiny? Or have our boys gotten through?"
"It must be the ship people," Ross answered.
"What ship?" Ashe caught him up swiftly.
"The big one the Reds have been looting----"
"Ship?" echoed McNeil. "And _where_ did you get that rig?" In the bright
light it was easy to see Ross's alien dress. McNeil fingered the elastic
material wonderingly.
"From the ship," Ross returned impatiently. "But if the ship people are
attacking, I don't think they will notice any difference between us and
the Reds...."
There was a burst of ear-splitting sound. For the third time Ross was
thrown from his feet. This time the burrow lights flickered, dimmed, and
went out.
"Oh, fine," commented McNeil bitterly out of the dark. "I never did care
for blindman's buff."
"The transfer plate--" Ross clung to his own plan of escape--"if we can
reach that--"
The light which had served Ashe and McNeil in their tunneling clicked
on. Since the earth shocks appeared to be over for a while, they moved
on, with Ashe in the lead and McNeil bringing up the rear. Ross hoped
Ashe knew the way. The sound of fighting had died out, so one side or
the other must have gained the victory. They might have only a few
moments left to pass undetected.
Ross's sense of direction was fairly acute, but he could not have gone
so unerringly to what he sought as Ashe did. Only he did not lead them
to the room with the glowing plate, and Ross stifled a protest as they
came instead to a small record room.
On a table were three spools of tape which Ashe caught up avidly,
thrusting two in the front of his baggy tunic, passing the third to
McNeil. Then he sped about trying the cupboards on the walls, but all
were locked. His hand falling from the last latch, Ashe came back to the
door where Ross waited.
"To the plate!" Ross urged.
Ashe surveyed the cupboards once more regretfully. "If we could have
just ten minutes here----"
McNeil snorted. "Listen, you may yearn to be the filling in an ice
sandwich, but I don't! Another shock and we'll be buried so deep even a
drill couldn't find us. Let's get out now. The kid is right about
that--if we still can."
Once more Ashe took the lead and they wove through ghostly rooms to what
must have been the heart of the post--the transfer point. To Ross's
unvoiced relief the plate was glowing. He had been nagged by the fear
that when the lights blew out the transfer plate might also have been
affected. He jumped for the plate.
Neither Ashe nor McNeil wasted time in joining him there. As they clung
together there was a cry from behind them, underlined by a shot. Ross,
feeling Ashe sag against him, caught him in his arms. By the reflected
glow of the plate he saw the Red leader of the post and behind him, his
hairless face hanging oddly bodiless in the gloom, was the alien. Were
those two now allies? Before Ross could be sure that he had really seen
them, the wracking of space time caught him and the rest of the room
faded away.
"... free. Get a move on!"
Ross glanced across Ashe's bowed shoulders to McNeil's excited face. The
other was pulling at Ashe, who was only half-conscious. A stream of
blood from a hole in his bare shoulder soaked the upper edge of his
Beaker tunic, but as they steadied him between them, he gained some
measure of awareness and moved his feet as they pulled him off the
plate.
Well, they were free if only for a few seconds, and there was no
reception committee waiting for them. Ross gave thanks silently for
those two small favors. But if they were now returned to the Bronze Age
village, they were still in enemy territory. With Ashe wounded, the odds
against them were so high it was almost hopeless.
Working hurriedly with strips torn from McNeil's kilt, they managed to
stop the flow of blood from Ashe's wound. Although he was still groggy,
he was fighting, driven by the fear which whipped them all--time was one
of their foremost enemies. Ross, Ashe's gun in hand, kept watch on the
transfer plate, ready to shoot at anything appearing there.
"That will have to do!" Ashe pulled free from McNeil. "We must move." He
hesitated, and then pulling the spools of tape from his bloodstained
tunic, passed them to McNeil. "You'd better carry these."
"All right," the other answered almost absently.
"Move!" The force of that order from Ashe sent them into the corridor
beyond. "The plate...."
But the plate remained clear. And Ross noted that they must have
returned to the proper time, for the walls about them were the logs and
stone of the village he remembered.
"Someone coming through?"
"Should be--soon."
They fled, the hide boots of the other two making only the faintest
whisper of sound, Ross's foam-soled feet none at all. He could not have
found the door to the outer world, but again Ashe guided them, and only
once did they have to seek cover. At last they faced a barred door. Ashe
leaned against the wall, McNeil supporting him, as Ross pulled free the
locking beam. They let themselves out into the night.
"Which way?" McNeil asked.
To Ross's surprise Ashe did not turn to the gate in the outer stockade.
Instead he gestured at the mountain wall in the opposite direction.
"They'll expect us to try for the valley pass. So we had better go up
the slope there."
"That has the look of a tough climb," ventured McNeil.
Ashe stirred. "When it becomes too tough for me"--his voice was dry--"I
shall say so, never fear."
He started out with some of his old ease of movement, but his companions
closed in on either side, ready to offer aid. Ross often wondered later
if they could have won free of the village on their own efforts that
night. He was sure their resolution would have been equal to the
attempt, but their escape would have depended upon a fabulous run of
luck such as men seldom encounter.
As it was, they had just reached a pool of shadow beside a small hut
some two buildings away from the one they had fled, when the fireworks
began. As if on signal the three fugitives threw themselves flat. From
the roof of the building at the center of the village a pencil of
brilliant-green light pointed straight up into the sky, and around that
spear of radiance the roof sprouted tongues of more natural
red-and-yellow flames. Figures shot from doors as the fire lapped down
the peak of the roof.
"Now!" In spite of the rising clamor, Ashe's voice carried to his two
companions.
The three sprinted for the palisade, mingling with bewildered men who
ran out of the other cabins. The waves of fire washed on, providing
light, too much light. Ashe and McNeil could pass as part of the crowd,
but Ross's unusual clothing might be easily marked.
Others were running for the wall. Ross and McNeil boosted Ashe to the
top, saw him over in safety. McNeil followed. Ross was just reaching to
draw himself up when he was enveloped in a beam of light.
A high, screeching call, unlike any shout he had heard, split the
clamor. Frantically Ross tried for a hold, knowing that he was
presenting a perfect target for those behind. He gained the top of the
stockade, looked down into a black block of shadow, not knowing whether
Ashe and McNeil were waiting for him or had gone ahead. Hearing that
strange cry again, Ross leaped blindly out into the darkness.
He landed badly, hitting hard enough to bruise, but thanks to the skill
he had learned for parachuting, he broke no bones. He got to his feet
and blundered on in the general direction of the mountain Ashe had
picked as their goal. There were others coming over the wall of the
village and moving through the shadows, so he dared not call out for
fear of alerting the enemy.
The village had been set in the widest part of the valley. Behind its
stockade the open ground narrowed swiftly, like the point of a funnel,
and all fugitives from the settlement had to pass through that channel
to escape. Ross's worst fear was that he had lost contact with Ashe and
McNeil, and that he would never be able to pick up their trail in the
wilderness ahead.
Thankful for the dark suit he wore which was protective covering in the
night, he twice ducked into the brush to allow parties of refugees to
pass him. Hearing them speak the guttural clicking speech he had learned
from Ulffa's people, Ross deduced that they were innocent of the
village's real purpose. These people were convinced they had been
attacked by night demons. Perhaps there had only been a handful of Reds
in that hidden retreat.
Ross pulled himself up a hard climb, and pausing to catch his breath,
looked back. He was not overly surprised to see figures moving leisurely
about the village examining the cabins, perhaps in search of the
inhabitants. Each of those searchers was clad in a form-fitting suit
that matched his own, and their bulbous hairless heads gleamed white in
the firelight. Ross was astonished to see that they passed straight
through walls of flame, apparently unconcerned and unsinged by the heat.
The human beings trapped in the town wailed and ran, or lay and beat
their heads and hands on the ground, supine before the invaders. Each
captive was dragged back to a knot of aliens near the main building.
Some were hurled out again into the dark, unharmed; a few others were
retained. A sorting of prisoners was plainly in progress. There was no
question that the ship people had followed through into this time, and
that they had their own arrangements for the Reds.
Ross had no desire to learn the particulars. He started climbing again,
finding the pass at last. Beyond, the ground fell away again, and Ross
went forward into the full darkness of the night with a vast surge of
thankfulness.
Finally, he stopped simply because he was too weary, too hungry, to keep
on his feet without stumbling, and a fall in the dark on these heights
could be costly. Ross discovered a small hollow behind a stunted tree
and crept into it as best he could, his heart laboring against his ribs,
a hot stab of pain cutting into his side with every breath he drew.
He awoke all at once with the snap of a fighting man who is alert to
ever present danger. A hand lay warm and hard over his mouth, and above
it his eyes met McNeil's. When he saw that Ross was awake McNeil
withdraw his hand. The morning sunlight was warm about them. Moving
clumsily because of his stiff, bruised body, Ross crawled out of the
hollow. He looked around, but McNeil stood there alone. "Ashe?" Ross
questioned him.
McNeil, showing a haggard face covered with several days' growth of
rusty-brown beard, nodded his head toward the slope. Fumbling inside his
kilt, he brought out something clenched in his fist and offered it to
Ross. The latter held out his palm and McNeil covered it with a handful
of coarse-ground grain. Just to look at the stuff made Ross long for a
drink, but he mouthed it and chewed, getting up to follow McNeil down
into the tree-grown lower slopes.
"It's not good." McNeil spoke jerkily, using Beaker speech. "Ashe is out
of his head some of the time. That hole in his shoulder is worse than we
thought it was, and there's always the threat of infection. This whole
wood is full of people flushed out of that blasted village! Most of
them--all I've seen--are natives. But they have it firmly planted in
their minds now that there are devils after them. If they see you
wearing that suit----"
"I know, and I'd strip if I could," Ross agreed. "But I'll have to get
other clothing first; I can't run bare in this cold."
"That might be safer," McNeil growled. "I don't know just what happened
back there, but it certainly must have been plenty!"
Ross swallowed a very dry mouthful of grain and then stooped to scoop up
some leftover snow in the shadow of a tree root. It was not as
refreshing as a real drink, but it helped. "You said Ashe is out of his
head. What do we do for him, and what are your plans?"
"We have to reach the river, somehow. It drains to the sea, and at its
mouth we are supposed to make contact with the sub."
The proposal sounded impossible to Ross, but so many impossible things
had happened lately he was willing to go along with the idea--as long as
he could. Gathering up more snow, he stuffed it into his mouth before he
followed the already disappearing McNeil.