"... that's my half of it. The rest of it you know." Ross held his hands
close to the small fire sheltered in the pit he had helped dig and
flexed his cold-numbed fingers in the warmth.
From across the handful of flames Ashe's eyes, too bright in a
fever-flushed face, watched him demandingly. The fugitives had taken
cover in an angle where the massed remains of an old avalanche provided
a cave-pocket. McNeil was off scouting in the gray drizzle of the day,
and their escape from the village was now some forty-eight hours behind
them.
"So the crackpots were right, after all. They only had their times
mixed." Ashe shifted on the bed of brush and leaves they had raked
together for his comfort.
"I don't understand----"
"Flying saucers," Ashe returned with an odd little laugh. "It was a wild
possibility, but it was on the books from the start. This certainly will
make Kelgarries turn red----"
"Flying saucers?"
Ashe must be out of his head from the fever, Ross supposed. He wondered
what he should do if Ashe tried to get up and walk away. He could not
tackle a man with a bad hole in his shoulder, nor was he certain he
could wrestle Ashe down in a real fight.
"That globe-ship was never built on this world. Use your head, Murdock.
Think about your furry-faced friend and the baldy with him. Did either
look like normal Terrans to you?"
"But--a spaceship!" It was something that had so long been laughed to
scorn. When men had failed to break into space after the initial
excitement of the satellite launchings, space flight had become a matter
for jeers. On the other hand, there was the evidence collected by his
own eyes and ears, his own experience. The services of the lifeboat had
been techniques outside of his experience.
"This was insinuated once"--Ashe was lying flat now, gazing
speculatively up at the projection of logs and earth which made them a
partial roof--"along with a lot of other bright ideas, by a gentleman
named Charles Fort, who took a lot of pleasure in pricking what he
considered to be vastly over-inflated scientific pomposity. He gathered
together four book loads of reported incidents of unexplainable
happenings which he dared the scientists of his day to explain. And one
of his bright suggestions was that such phenomena as the vast artificial
earthworks found in Ohio and Indiana were originally thrown up by space
castaways to serve as S O S signals. An intriguing idea, and now perhaps
we may prove it true."
"But if such spaceships were wrecked on this world, I still don't see
why we didn't find traces of them in our own time."
"Because that wreck you explored was bedded in a glacial era. Do you
have any idea how long ago that was, counting from our own time? There
were at least three glacial periods--and we don't know in which one the
Reds went visiting. That age began about a million years before we were
born, and the last of the ice ebbed out of New York State some
thirty-eight thousand years ago, boy. That was the early Stone Age,
reckoning it by the scale of human development, with an extremely thin
population of the first real types of man clinging to a few warmer
fringes of wilderness.
"Climatic changes, geographical changes, all altered the face of our
continents. There was a sea in Kansas; England was part of Europe. So,
even though as many as fifty such ships were lost here, they could all
have been ground to bits by the ice flow, buried miles deep in quakes,
or rusted away generations before the first really intelligent man
arrived to wonder at them. Certainly there couldn't be too many such
wrecks to be found. What do you think this planet was, a flypaper to
attract them?"
"But if ships crashed here once, why didn't they later when men were
better able to understand them?" Ross countered.
"For several reasons--all of them possible and able to be fitted into
the fabric of history as we know it on this world. Civilizations rise,
exist, and fall, each taking with it into the limbo of forgotten things
some of the discoveries which made it great. How did the Indian
civilizations of the New World learn to harden gold into a useable point
for a cutting weapon? What was the secret of building possessed by the
ancient Egyptians? Today you will find plenty of men to argue these
problems and half a hundred others.
"The Egyptians once had a well-traveled trade route to India. Bronze Age
traders opened up roads down into Africa. The Romans knew China. Then
came an end to each of these empires, and those trade routes were
forgotten. To our European ancestors of the Middle Ages, China was
almost a legend, and the fact that the Egyptians had successfully sailed
around the Cape of Good Hope was unknown. Suppose our space voyagers
represented some star-born confederacy or empire which lived, rose to
its highest point, and fell again into planet-bound barbarism all before
the first of our species painted pictures on a cave wall?
"Or take it that this world was an unlucky reef on which too many ships
and cargoes were lost, so that our whole solar system was posted, and
skippers of star ships thereafter avoided it? Or they might even have
had some rule that when a planet developed a primitive race of its own,
it was to be left strictly alone until it discovered space flight for
itself."
"Yes." Every one of Ashe's suppositions made good sense, and Ross was
able to believe them. It was easier to think that both Furry-face and
Baldy were inhabitants of another world than to think their kind existed
on this planet before his own species was born. "But how did the Reds
locate that ship?"
"Unless that information is on the tapes we were able to bring along, we
shall probably never know," Ashe said drowsily. "I might make one
guess--the Reds have been making an all-out effort for the past hundred
years to open up Siberia. In some sections of that huge country there
have been great climatic changes almost overnight in the far past.
Mammoths have been discovered frozen in the ice with half-digested
tropical plants in their stomach. It's as if the beasts were given some
deep-freeze treatment instantaneously. If in their excavations the Reds
came across the remains of a spaceship, remains well enough preserved
for them to realize what they had discovered, they might start questing
back in time to find a better one intact at an earlier date. That theory
fits everything we know now."
"But why would the aliens attack the Reds now?"
"No ship's officers ever thought gently of pirates." Ashe's eyes closed.
There were questions, a flood of them, that Ross wanted to ask. He
smoothed the fabric on his arm, that stuff which clung so tightly to his
skin yet kept him warm without any need for more covering. If Ashe were
right, on what world, what kind of world, had that material been woven,
and how far had it been brought that he could wear it now?
Suddenly McNeil slid into their shelter and dropped two hares at the
edge of the fire.
"How goes it?" he said, as Ross began to clean them.
"Reasonably well," Ashe, his eyes still closed, replied to that before
Ross could. "How far are we from the river? And do we have company?"
"About five miles--if we had wings." McNeil answered in a dry tone. "And
we have company all right, lots of it!"
That brought Ashe up, leaning forward on his good elbow. "What kind?"
"Not from the village." McNeil frowned at the fire which he fed with
economic handfuls of sticks. "Something's happening on this side of the
mountains. It looks as if there's a mass migration in progress. I
counted five family clans on their way west--all in just this one
morning."
"The village refugees' stories about devils might send them packing,"
Ashe mused.
"Maybe." But McNeil did not sound convinced. "The sooner we head
downstream, the better. And I hope the boys will have that sub waiting
where they promised. We do possess one thing in our favor--the spring
floods are subsiding."
"And the high water should have plenty of raft material." Ashe lay back
again. "We'll make those five miles tomorrow."
McNeil stirred uneasily and Ross, having cleaned and spitted the hares,
swung them over the flames to broil. "Five miles in this country," the
younger man observed, "is a pretty good day's march"--he did not add as
he wanted to--"for a well man."
"I will make it," Ashe promised, and both listeners knew that as long as
his body would obey him he meant to keep that promise. They also knew
the futility of argument.
Ashe proved to be a prophet to be honored on two counts. They did make
the trek to the river the next day, and there was a wealth of raft
material marking the high-water level of the spring flood. The
migrations McNeil had reported were still in progress, and the three men
hid twice to watch the passing of small family clans. Once a respectably
sized tribe, including wounded men, marched across their route, seeking
a ford at the river.
"They've been badly mauled," McNeil whispered as they watched the people
huddled along the water's edge while scouts cast upstream and down,
searching for a ford. When they returned with the news that there was no
ford to be found, the tribesmen then sullenly went to work with flint
axes and knives to make rafts.
"Pressure--they are on the run." Ashe rested his chin on his good
forearm and studied the busy scene. "These are not from the village.
Notice the dress and the red paint on their faces. They're not like
Ulffa's kin either. I wouldn't say they were local at all."
"Reminds me of something I saw once--animals running before a forest
fire. They can't all be looking for new hunting territory," McNeil
returned.
"Reds sweeping them out," Ross suggested. "Or could the ship people--?"
Ashe started to shake his head and then winced. "I wonder...." The
crease between his level brows deepened. "The ax people!" His voice was
still a whisper, but it carried a note of triumph as if he had fitted
some stubborn jigsaw piece into its proper place.
"Ax people?"
"Invasion of another people from the east. They turned up in prehistory
about this period. Remember, Webb spoke of them. They used axes for
weapons and tamed horses."
"Tartars"--McNeil was puzzled--"This far west?"
"Not Tartars, no. You needn't expect those to come boiling out of middle
Asia for some thousands of years yet. We don't know too much about the
ax people, save that they moved west from the interior plains.
Eventually they crossed to Britain; perhaps they were the ancestors of
the Celts who loved horses too. But in their time they were a tidal
wave."
"The sooner we head downstream, the better." McNeil stirred restlessly,
but they knew that they must keep to cover until the tribesmen below
were gone. So they lay in hiding another night, witnessing on the next
morning the arrival of a smaller party of the red-painted men, again
with wounded among them. At the coming of this rear guard the activity
on the river bank rose close to frenzy.
The three men out of time were doubly uneasy. It was not for them to
merely cross the river. They had to build a raft which would be
water-worthy enough to take them downstream--to the sea if they were
lucky. And to build such a sturdy raft would take time, time they did
not have now.
In fact, McNeil waited only until the last tribal raft was out of bow
shot before he plunged down to the shore, Ross at his heels. Since they
lacked even the stone tools of the tribesmen, they were at a
disadvantage, and Ross found he was hands and feet for Ashe, working
under the other's close direction. Before night closed in they had a
good beginning and two sets of blistered hands, as well as aching backs.
When it was too dark to work any longer, Ashe pointed back over the
track they had followed. Marking the mountain pass was a light. It
looked like fire, and if it was, it must be a big one for them to be
able to sight it across this distance.
"Camp?" McNeil wondered.
"Must be," Ashe agreed. "Those who built that blaze are in such numbers
that they don't have to take precautions."
"Will they be here by tomorrow?"
"Their scouts might, but this is early spring, and forage can't have
been too good on the march. If I were the chief of that tribe, I'd turn
aside into the meadow land we skirted yesterday and let the herds graze
for a day, maybe more. On the other hand, if they need water----"
"They will come straight ahead!" McNeil finished grimly. "And we can't
be here when they arrive."
Ross stretched, grimacing at the twinge of pain in his shoulders. His
hands smarted and throbbed, and this was just the beginning of their
task. If Ashe had been fit, they might have trusted to logs for support
and swum downstream to hunt a safer place for their shipbuilding
project. But he knew that Ashe could not stand such an effort.
Ross slept that night mainly because his body was too exhausted to let
him lie awake and worry. Roused in the earliest dawn by McNeil, they
both crawled down to the water's edge and struggled to bind stubbornly
resisting saplings together with cords twisted from bark. They
reinforced them at crucial points with some strings torn from their
kilts, and strips of rabbit hide saved from their kills of the past few
days. They worked with hunger gnawing at them, having no time now to
hunt. When the sun was well westward they had a clumsy craft which
floated sluggishly. Whether it would answer to either pole or improvised
paddle, they could not know until they tried it.
Ashe, his face flushed and his skin hot to the touch, crawled on board
and lay in the middle, on the thin heap of bedding they had put there
for him. He eagerly drank the water they carried to him in cupped hands
and gave a little sigh of relief as Ross wiped his face with wet grass,
muttering something about Kelgarries which neither of his companions
understood.
McNeil shoved off and the bobbing craft spun around dizzily as the
current pulled it free from the shore. They made a brave start, but luck
deserted them before they had gotten out of sight of the spot where they
embarked.
Striving to keep them in mid-current, McNeil poled furiously, but there
were too many rocks and snagged trees projecting from the banks. Sharing
that sweep of water with them, and coming up fast, was a full-sized
tree. Twice its mat of branches caught on some snag, holding it back,
and Ross breathed a little more freely, but it soon tore free again and
rolled on, as menacing as a battering ram.
"Get closer to shore!" Ross shouted the warning. Those great, twisted
roots seemed aimed straight at the raft, and he was sure if that mass
struck them fairly, they would not have a chance. He dug in with his own
pole, but his hasty push did not meet bottom; the stake in his hands
plunged into some pothole in the hidden river bed. He heard McNeil cry
out as he toppled into the water, gasping as the murky liquid flooded
his mouth, choking him.
Half dazed by the shock, Ross struck out instinctively. The training at
the base had included swimming, but to fight water in a pool under
controlled conditions was far different from fighting death in a river
of icy water when one had already swallowed a sizable quantity of that
flood.
Ross had a half glimpse of a dark shadow. Was it the edge of the raft?
He caught at it desperately, skinning his hands on rough bark, dragged
on by it. The tree! He blinked his eyes to clear them of water, to try
to see. But he could not pull his exhausted body high enough out of the
water to see past the screen of roots; he could only cling to the small
safety he had won and hope that he could rejoin the raft somewhere
downstream.
After what seemed like a very long time he wedged one arm between two
water-washed roots, sure that the support would hold his head above the
surface. The chill of the stream struck at his hands and head, but the
protection of the alien clothing was still effective, and the rest of
his body was not cold. He was simply too tired to wrest himself free and
trust again to the haphazard chance of making shore through the
gathering dusk.
Suddenly a shock jarred his body and strained the arm he had thrust
among the roots, wringing a cry out of him. He swung around and brushed
footing under the water; the tree had caught on a shore snag. Pulling
loose from the roots, he floundered on his hands and knees, falling
afoul of a mass of reeds whose roots were covered with stale-smelling
mud. Like a wounded animal he dragged himself through the ooze to higher
land, coming out upon an open meadow flooded with moonlight.
For a while he lay there, his cold, sore hands under him, plastered with
mud and too tired to move. The sound of a sharp barking aroused him--an
imperative, summoning bark, neither belonging to a wolf nor a hunting
fox. He listened to it dully and then, through the ground upon which he
lay, Ross felt as well as heard the pounding of hoofs.
Hoofs--horses! Horses from over the mountains--horses which might mean
danger. His mind seemed as dull and numb as his hands, and it took quite
a long time for him to fully realize the menace horses might bring.
Getting up, Ross noticed a winged shape sweeping across the disk of the
moon like a silent dart. There was a single despairing squeak out of the
grass about a hundred feet away, and the winged shape arose again with
its prey. Then the barking sound once more--eager, excited barking.
Ross crouched back on his heels and saw a smoky brand of light moving
along the edge of the meadow where the band of trees began. Could it be
a herd guard? Ross knew he had to head back toward the river, but he had
to force himself on the path, for he did not know whether he dared enter
the stream again. But what would happen if they hunted him with the dog?
Confused memories of how water spoiled scent spurred him on.
Having reached the rising bank he had climbed so laboriously before,
Ross miscalculated and tumbled back, rolling down into the mud of the
reed bed. Mechanically he wiped the slime from his face. The tree was
still anchored there; by some freak the current had rammed its rooted
end up on a sand spit.
Above in the meadow the barking sounded very close, and now it was
answered by a second canine belling. Ross wormed his way back through
the reeds to the patch of water between the tree and the bank. His few
poor efforts at escape were almost half-consciously taken; he was too
tired to really care now.
Soon he saw a four-footed shape running along the top of the bank,
giving tongue. It was then joined by a larger and even more vocal
companion. The dogs drew even with Ross, who wondered dully if the
animals could sight him in the shadows below, or whether they only
scented his presence. Had he been able, he would have climbed over the
log and taken his chances in the open water, but now he could only lie
where he was--the tangle of roots between him and the bank serving as a
screen, which would be little enough protection when men came with
torches.
Ross was mistaken, however, for his worm's progress across the reed bed
had liberally besmeared his dark clothing and masked the skin of his
face and hands, giving him better cover than any he could have
wittingly devised. Though he felt naked and defenseless, the men who
trailed the hounds to the river bank, thrusting out the torch over the
edge to light the sand spit, saw nothing but the trunk of the tree
wedged against a mound of mud.
Ross heard a confused murmur of voices broken by the clamor of the dogs.
Then the torch was raised out of line of his dazzled eyes. He saw one of
the indistinct figures above cuff away a dog and move off, calling the
hounds after it. Reluctantly, still barking, the animals went. Ross,
with a little sob, subsided limply in the uncomfortable net of roots,
still undiscovered.