CHAPTER 11
It took Ross a while to learn that the dirty-white walls of this tunnelwhich were almost entirely opaque, with dark objects showing dimlythrough them here and there, were of solid ice. A black wire was hookedoverhead and at regular intervals hung with lights which did nothing tobreak the sensation of glacial cold about them.
Ross shuddered. Every breath he drew stung in his lungs; his bareshoulders and arms and the exposed section of thigh between kilt andboot were numb. He could only move on stiffly, pushed ahead by hisguards when he faltered. He guessed that were he to lose his footinghere and surrender to the cold, he would forfeit the battle entirely andwith it his life.
He had no way of measuring the length of the boring through the solidice, but they were at last fronted by another opening, a ragged onewhich might have been hacked with an ax. They emerged from it into thewildest scene Ross had ever seen. Of course, he was familiar with iceand snow, but here was a world surrendered completely to the brutalforce of winter in a strange, abnormal way. It was a still, deadwhite-gray world in which nothing moved save the wind which curled thedrifts.
His guards covered their eyes with the murky lenses they had worn pushedup on their foreheads within the shelter, for above them sunlightdazzled on the ice crest. Ross, his eyes smarting, kept his gazecentered on his feet. He was given no time to look about. A rope wasproduced, a loop of it flipped in a noose about his throat, and he wastowed along like a leashed dog. Before them was a path worn in the snow,not only by the passing of booted feet, but with more deeply scoredmarks as if heavy objects had been sledded there. Ross slipped andstumbled in the ruts, fearing to fall lest he be dragged. The numbnessof his body reached into his head. He was dizzy, the world about himmisting over now and again with a haze which arose from the longstretches of unbroken snow fields.
Tripping in a rut, he went down upon one knee, his flesh too numbed nowto feel the additional cold of the snow, snow so hard that its crustdelivered a knife's cut. Unemotionally, he watched a thin line of redtrickle in a sluggish drop or two down the blue skin of his leg. Therope jerked him forward, and Ross scrambled awkwardly until one of hiscaptors hooked a fur mitten in his belt and heaved him to his feet oncemore.
The purpose of that trek through the snow was obscure to Ross. In fact,he no longer cared, save that a hard rebel core deep inside him wouldnot let him give up as long as his legs could move and he had a scrap ofconscious will left in him. It was more difficult to walk now. Heskidded and went down twice more. Then, the last time he slipped, hesledded past the man who led him, sliding down the slope of aglass-slick slope. He lay at the foot, unable to get up. Through thehaze and deadening blanket of the cold he knew that he was being pulledabout, shaken, generally mishandled; but this time he could not respond.Someone snapped open the rings about his wrists.
There was a call, echoing eerily across the ice. The fumbling about hisbody changed to a tugging and once more he was sent rolling down theslope. But the rope was now gone from his throat, and his arms werefree. This time when he brought up hard against an obstruction he wasnot followed.
Ross's conscious mind--that portion of him that was Rossa, thetrader--was content to lie there, to yield to the lethargy born of thefrigid world about him. But the subconscious Ross Murdock of the Projectprodded at him. He had always had a certain cold hatred which couldcrystalize and become a spur. Once it had been hatred of circumstancesand authority; now it became hatred for those who had led him into thiswilderness with the purpose, as he knew now, of leaving him to freezeand die.
Ross pulled his hands under him. Though there was no feeling in them,they obeyed his will clumsily. He levered himself up and looked around.He lay in a narrow crevicelike cut, partly walled in by earth so frozenas to resemble steel. Crusted over it in long streaks from above weretongues of ice. To remain here was to serve his captors' purpose.
Ross inched his way to his feet. This opening, which was intended as hisgrave, was not so deep as the men had thought it in their hurry to berid of him. He believed that he could climb out if he could make hisbody answer to his determination.
Somehow Ross made that supreme effort and came again to the rutted pathfrom which they had tumbled him. Even if he could, there was no sense ingoing along that rutted trail, for it led back to the ice-encasedbuilding from which he had been brought. They had thrust him out todie; they would not take him in.
But a road so well marked must have some goal, and in hopes that hemight find shelter at the other end, Ross turned to the left. The tracecontinued down the slope. Now the towering walls of ice and snow werebroken by rocky teeth as if they had bitten deep upon this land, only tobe gnawed in return. Rounding one of those rock fangs, Ross looked at astretch of level ground. Snow lay here, but the beaten-down trail ledstraight through it to the rounded side of a huge globe half buried inthe ground, a globe of dark material which could only be man-made.
Ross was past caution. He must get to warmth and shelter or he was donefor, and he knew it. Wavering and weaving, he went on, his attentionfixed on the door ahead--a closed oval door. With a sob of exhaustedeffort, Ross threw himself against it. The barrier gave, letting himfall forward into a queer glimmering radiance of bluish light.
The light rousing him because it promised more, he crawled on pastanother door which was flattened back against the inner wall. It waslike making one's way down a tube. Ross paused, pressing his lifelesshands against his bare chest under the edge of his tunic, suddenlyrealizing that there was warmth here. His breath did not puff out infrosty streamers before him, nor did the air sear his lungs when heventured to draw in more than shallow gulps.
With that realization a measure of animal caution returned to him. Toremain where he was, just inside the entrance, was to court disaster. Hemust find a hiding place before he collapsed, for he sensed he was verynear the end of his ability to struggle. Hope had given him a flash offalse strength, the impetus to move, and he must make the most of thatgift.
His path ended at a wide ladder, coiling in slow curves into gloom belowand shadows above. He sensed that he was in a building of some size. Hewas afraid to go down, for even looking in that direction almostfinished his sense of balance, so he climbed up.
Step by step, Ross made that painful journey, passing levels from whichthree or four hallways ran out like the radii of a spider's web. He wasclose to the end of his endurance when he heard a sound, echoed,magnified, from below. It was someone moving. He dragged his body intothe fourth level where the light was very faint, hoping to crawl farenough into one of the passages to remain unseen from the stair. But hehad gone only part-way down his chosen road when he collapsed, panting,and fell back against the wall. His hands pawed vainly against thatsleek surface. He was falling through it!
Ross had a second, perhaps two, of stupefied wonder. Lying on a softsurface, he was enfolded by a warmth which eased his bruised and frozenbody. There was a sharp prick in his thigh, another in his arm, and theworld was a hazy dream until he finally slept in the depths ofexhaustion.
There were dreams, detailed ones, and Ross stirred uneasily as his sleepthinned to waking. He lay with his eyes closed, fitting together oddbits of--dreams? No, he was certain that they were memories. Rossa ofthe Beaker traders and Ross Murdock of the project were again fused intoone and the same person. How it had happened he did not know, but it wastrue.
Opening his eyes, he noticed a curved ceiling of soft blue which mistedat the edges into gray. The restful color acted on his troubled, wakingmind like a soothing word. For the first time since he had been struckdown in the night his headache was gone. He raised his hand to explorethat old hurt near his hairline that had been so tender only yesterdaythat it could not bear pressure. There remained only a thin, rough linelike a long-healed scar, that was all.
Ross lifted his head to look about him. His body lay supported in acradlelike arrangement of metal, almost entirely immersed in a redgelatinous substance with a clean, aromatic odor. Just as he was n
olonger cold, neither was he hungry. He felt as fit as he ever had in hislife. Sitting up in the cradle, he stroked the jelly away from hisshoulders and chest. It fell from him cleanly, leaving no trace ofgrease or dampness on his skin.
There were other fixtures in the small cylinderlike chamber besides thatodd bed in which he had lain. Two bucket-shaped seats were placed at thenarrow fore part of the room and before those seats was a system ofcontrols he could not comprehend.
As Ross swung his feet to the floor there was a click from the sidewhich brought him around, ready for trouble. But the noise had beencaused by the opening of a door into a small cupboard. Inside thecupboard lay a fat package. Obviously this was an invitation toinvestigate the offering.
The package contained a much folded article of fabric, compressed andsealed in a transparent bag which he fumbled twice before he succeededin releasing its fastening. Ross shook out a garment of material such ashe had never seen before. Its sheen and satin-smooth surface suggestedmetal, but its stuff was as supple as fine silk. Color rippled across itwith every twist and turn he gave to the length--dark blue fading topale violet, accented with wavering streaks of vivid and startlinggreen.
Ross experimented with a row of small, brilliant-green studs which madea transverse line from the right shoulder to the left hip, and theycame apart. As he climbed into the suit the stuff modeled to his body ina tight but perfect fit. Across the shoulders were bands of green tomatch the studs, and the stockinglike tights were soled with a thicksubstance which formed a cushion for his feet.
He pressed the studs together, felt them lock, and then stood smoothingthat strange, beautiful fabric, unable to account for either it or hissurroundings. His head was clear; he could remember every detail of hisflight up to the time he had fallen through the wall. And he was certainthat he had passed through not only one, but two, of the Red time posts.Could this be the third? If so, was he still a captive? Why would theyleave him to freeze in the open country one moment and then treat himthis way later?
He could not connect the ice-encased building from which the Reds hadtaken him with this one. At the sound of another soft noise Ross glancedover his shoulder just in time to see the cradle of jelly, from which hehad emerged, close in upon itself until its bulk was a third of itsformer size. Compact as a box, it folded up against the wall.
Ross, his cushioned feet making no sound, advanced to the bucket-chairs.But lowering his body into one of them for a better look at what vaguelyresembled the control of a helicopter--like the one in which he hadtaken the first stage of his fantastic journey across space and time--hedid not find it comfortable. He realized that it had not beenconstructed to accommodate a body shaped precisely like his own.
A body like his own.... That jelly bath or bed or whatever it was....The clothing which adapted so skillfully to his measurements....
Ross leaned forward to study the devices on the control board,confirming his suspicions. He had made the final jump of them all! Hewas now in some building of that alien race upon whose existenceMillaird and Kelgarries had staked the entire project. This was thesource, or one of the sources, from which the Reds were getting theknowledge which fitted no modern pattern.
A world encased in ice and a building with strange machinery. Thisthing--a cylinder with a pilot's seat and a set of controls. Was it analien place? But the jelly bath--and the rest of it.... Had his presenceactivated that cupboard to supply him with clothing? And what had becomeof the tunic he was wearing when he entered?
Ross got up to search the chamber. The bed-bath was folded against thewall, but there was no sign of his Beaker clothing, his belt, the hideboots. He could not understand his own state of well being, the lack ofhunger and thirst.
There were two possible explanations for it all. One was that the aliensstill lived here and for some reason had come to his aid. The other wasthat he stood in a place where robot machinery worked, though those whohad set it up were no longer there. It was difficult to separate hismemory of the half-buried globe he had seen from his sickness of thatmoment. Yet he knew that he had climbed and crawled through emptiness,neither seeing nor hearing any other life. Now Ross restlessly paced upand down, seeking the door through which he must have come, but therewas not even a line to betray such an opening.
"I want out," he said aloud, standing in the center of the cramped room,his fists planted on his hips, his eyes still searching for the vanisheddoor. He had tapped, he had pushed, he had tried every possible way tofind it. If he could only remember how he had come in! But all he couldrecall was leaning against a wall which moved inward and allowed him tofall. But where had he fallen? Into that jelly bath?
Ross, stung by a sudden idea, glanced at the ceiling. It was low enoughso that by standing on tiptoes he could drum his fingers on its surface.Now he moved to the place directly above where the cradle had swungbefore it had folded itself away.
Rapping and poking, his efforts were rewarded at last. The blue curvegave under his assault. He pushed now, rising on his toes, though inthat position he could exert little pressure. Then as if some faultycatch had been released, the ceiling swung up so that he lost hisfooting and would have fallen had he not caught the back of one of thebucket-seats.
He jumped and by hooking his hands over the edge of the opening, wasable to work his way up and out, to face a small line of light. Hisfingers worked at that, and he opened a second door, entering a familiarcorridor.
Holding the door open, Ross looked back, his eyes widening at what hesaw. For it was plain now that he had just climbed out of a machine withthe unmistakable outline of a snub-nosed rocket. The small flyer--or ajet, or whatever it was--had been fitted into a pocket in the side ofthe big structure as a ship into a berth, and it must have been setthere to shoot from that enclosing chamber as a bullet is shot from arifle barrel. But why?
Ross's imagination jumped from fact to theory. The torpedo craft couldbe an atomic jet. All right, he had been in bad shape when he fell intoit by chance and the bed machine had caught him as if it had beencreated for just such a duty. What kind of a small plane would beequipped with a restorative apparatus? Only one intended to handleemergencies, to transport badly injured living things who had to leavethe building in a hurry.
In other words, a lifeboat!
But why would a building need a lifeboat? That would be rather standardequipment for a ship. Ross stepped into the corridor and stared abouthim with open and incredulous wonder. Could this be some form of ship,grounded here, deserted and derelict, and now being plundered by theReds? The facts fitted! They fitted so well with all he had been able todiscover that Ross was sure it was true. But he determined to prove itbeyond all doubt.
He closed the door leading to the lifeboat berth, but not so securelythat he could not open it again. That was too good a hiding place. Onhis cushioned feet he padded back to the stairway, and he stood therelistening. Far below were sounds, a rasp of metal against metal, a lowmurmur of muted voices. But from above there was nothing, so he wouldexplore above before he ventured into that other danger zone.
Ross climbed, passing two more levels, to come out into a vast room witha curving roof which must fill the whole crown of the globe. Here wassuch a wealth of machines, controls, things he could not understand thathe stood bewildered, content for the moment merely to look. Therewere--he counted slowly--five control boards like those he had seen inthe small escape ship. Each of these was faced by two or three of thebucket-seats, only these swung in webbing. He put his hand on one, andit bobbed elastically.
The control boards were so complicated that the one in the lifeboatmight have been a child's toy in comparison. The air in the ship hadbeen good; in the lifeboat it had held the pleasant odor of the jelly;but here Ross sniffed a faint but persistent hint of corruption, of anold malodor.
He left the vantage point by the stairs and paced between the controlboards and their empty swinging seats. This was the main control room,of that he was certain. From this point all the vas
t bulk beneath himhad been set in motion, sailed here and there. Had it been on the sea,or through the air? The globe shape suggested an air-borne craft. But acivilization so advanced as this would surely have left some remains.Ross was willing to believe that he could be much farther back in timethan 2000 B.C., but he was still sure that traces of those who couldbuild a thing like this would have existed in the twentieth century A.D.
Maybe that was how the Reds had found this. Something they had turned upwithin their country--say, in Siberia, or some of the forgotten cornersof Asia--had been a clue.
Having had little schooling other than the intensive cramming at thebase and his own informal education, the idea of the race who hadcreated this ship overawed Ross more than he would admit. If the projectcould find this, turn loose on it the guys who knew about such things....But that was just what they were striving for, and he was the onlyproject man to have found the prize. Somehow, someway, he had to getback--out of this half-buried ship and its icebound world--back to wherehe could find his own people. Perhaps the job was impossible, but he hadto try. His survival was considered impossible by the men who had thrownhim into the crevice, but here he was. Thanks to the men who had builtthis ship, he was alive and well.
Ross sat down in one of the uncomfortable seats to think and thusavoided immediate disaster, for he was hidden from the stairs on whichsounded the tap of boots. A climber, maybe two, were on their way up,and there was no other exit from the control cabin.