The Time Traders

  CHAPTER 12

  Ross dropped from the web-slung chair to the floor and made himself assmall as possible under the platform at the front of the cabin. Here,where there was a smaller control board and two seats placed closelytogether, the odd, unpleasant odor clung and became stronger to Ross'ssenses as he waited tensely for the climbers to appear. Though he hadsearched, there was nothing in sight even faintly resembling a weapon.In a last desperate bid for freedom he crept back to the stairwell.

  He had been taught a blow during his training period, one which requireda precise delivery and, he had been warned, was often fatal. He woulduse it now. The climber was very close. A cropped head arose through thefloor opening, and Ross struck, knowing as his hand chopped against thefolds of a fur hood that he had failed.

  But the impetus of that unexpected blow saved him after all. With achoked cry the man disappeared, crashing down upon the one followinghim. A scream and shouts were heard from below, and a shot ripped up thewell as Ross scrambled away from it. He might have delayed the finalbattle, but they had him cornered. He faced that fact bleakly. They needonly sit below and let nature take its course. His session in thelifeboat had restored his strength, but a man could not live foreverwithout food and water.

  However, he had bought himself perhaps a yard of time which must be putto work. Turning to examine the seats, Ross discovered that they couldbe unhooked from their webbing swings. Freeing all of them, he draggedtheir weight to the stairwell and jammed them together to make abarricade. It could not hold long against any determined push frombelow, but, he hoped, it would deflect bullets if some sharpshootertried to wing him by ricochet. Every so often there was the crash of ashot and some shouting, but Ross was not going to be drawn out of coverby that.

  He paced around the control cabin, still hunting for a weapon. Thesymbols on the levers and buttons were meaningless to him. They made himfeel frustrated because he imagined that among that countless array weresome that might help him out of the trap if he could only guess theiruse.

  Once more he stood by the platform thinking. This was the point fromwhich the ship had been sailed--in the air or on some now frozen sea.These control boards must have given the ship's master the means notonly of propelling the vast bulk, but of unloading and loading cargo,lighting, heating, ventilation, and perhaps defense! Of course, everycontrol might be dead now, but he remembered that in the lifeboat themachines had worked successfully, fulfilled expertly the duty for whichthey had been constructed.

  The only step remaining was to try his luck. Having made his decision,Ross simply shut his eyes as he had in a very short and almost forgottenchildhood, turned around three times, and pointed. Then he looked tosee where luck had directed him.

  His finger indicated a board before which there had been three seats,and he crossed to it slowly, with a sense that once he touched thecontrols he might inaugurate a chain of events he could not stop. Thecrash of a shot underlined the fact that he had no other recourse.

  Since the symbols meant nothing, Ross concentrated on the shapes of thevarious devices and chose one which vaguely resembled the type of lightswitch he had always known. Since it was up, he pressed it down,counting to twenty slowly as he waited for a reaction. Below the switchwas an oval button marked with two wiggles and a double dot in red. Rosssnapped it level with the panel, and when it did not snap back, he feltsomehow encouraged. When the two levers flanking that button did notpush in or move up and down, Ross pulled them out without even waitingto count off.

  This time he had results! A crackling of noise with a singsong rhythm,the volume of which, low at first, arose to a drone filled the cabin.Ross, deafened by the din, twisted first one lever and then the otheruntil he had brought the sound to a less piercing howl. But he neededaction, not just noise; he moved from behind the first chair to the nextone. Here were five oval buttons, marked in the same vivid green as thatwhich trimmed his clothing--two wiggles, a dot, a double bar, a pair ofentwined circles, and a crosshatch.

  Why make a choice? Recklessness bubbled to the surface, and Ross pushedall the buttons in rapid succession. The results were, in a measure,spectacular. Out of the top of the control board rose a triangle ofscreen which steadied and stood firm while across it played a ripplingwave of color. Meanwhile the singsong became an angry squawking as if inprotest.

  Well, he had something, even if he didn't know what it was! And he hadalso proved that the ship was alive. However, Ross wanted more than asquawk of exasperation, which was exactly what the noise had become. Italmost sounded, Ross decided as he listened, as if he were beingexpertly chewed out in another language. Yes, he wanted more than aseries of squawks and a fanciful display of light waves on a screen.

  At the section of board before the third and last seat there was lesschoice--only two switches. As Ross flicked up the first the pattern onthe screen dwindled into a brown color shot with cream in which therewas a suggestion of a picture. Suppose one didn't put the switch all theway up? Ross examined the slot in which the bar moved and now noted aseries of tiny point marks along it. Selective? It would not do any harmto see. First he hurried back to the cork of chairs he had jammed intothe stairwell. The squawks were now coming only at intervals, and Rosscould hear nothing to suggest that his barrier was being forced.

  He returned to the lever and moved it back two notches, standingopen-mouthed at the immediate result. The cream-and-brown streaks weremaking a picture! Moving another notch down caused the picture toskitter back and forth on the screen. With memories of TV tuning toguide him, Ross brought the other lever down to a matching position, andthe dim and shadowy images leaped into clear and complete focus. But thecolor was still brown, not the black and white he had expected.

  Only, he was also looking into a face! Ross swallowed, his hand graspingone of the strings of chair webbing for support. Perhaps because in someways it did resemble his own, that face was more preposterouslynonhuman. The visage on the screen was sharply triangular with a small,sharply pointed chin and a jaw line running at an angle from a broadupper face. The skin was dark, covered largely with a soft and silkydown, out of which hooked a curved and shining nose set between twolarge round eyes. On top of that astonishing head the down rose to apeak not unlike a cockatoo's crest. Yet there was no mistaking theintelligence in those eyes, nor the other's amazement at sight of Ross.They might have been staring at each other through a window.

  Squawk ... squeek ... squawk.... The creature in the mirror--on thevision plate--or outside the window--moved its absurdly small mouth intime to those sounds. Ross swallowed again and automatically madeanswer.

  "Hello." His voice was a weak whistle, and perhaps it did not reach thefurry-faced one, for he continued his questions if questions they were.Meanwhile Ross, over his first stupefaction, tried to see something ofthe creature's background. Though the objects were slightly out offocus, he was sure he recognized fittings similar to those about him. Hemust be in communication with another ship of the same type and onewhich was not deserted!

  Furry-face had turned his head away to squawk rapidly over his shoulder,a shoulder which was crossed by a belt or sash with an elaboratepattern. Then he got up from his seat and stood aside to make room forthe one he had summoned.

  If Furry-face had been a startling surprise, Ross was now to haveanother. The man who now faced him on the screen was totally different.His skin registered as pale--cream-colored--and his face was far morehuman in shape, though it was hairless as was the smooth dome of hisskull. When one became accustomed to that egg slickness, the strangerwas not bad-looking, and he was wearing a suit which matched the oneRoss had taken from the lifeboat.

  This one did not attempt to say anything. Instead, he stared at Rosslong and measuringly, his eyes growing colder and less friendly withevery second of that examination. Ross had resented Kelgarries back atthe project, but the major could not match Baldy for the sheer weight ofunpleasant warning he could pack into a look. Ross might have beenstartled by Furry-face, but
now his stubborn streak arose to meet thisimplied challenge. He found himself breathing hard and glaring back withan intensity which he hoped would get across and prove to Baldy that hewould not have everything his own way if he proposed to tangle withRoss.

  His preoccupation with the stranger on the screen betrayed Ross into thehands of those from below. He heard their attack on the barricade toolate. By the time he turned around, the cork of seats was heaved up anda gun was pointing at his middle. His hands went up in small reluctantjerks as that threat held him where he was. Two of the fur-clad Redsclimbed into the control chamber.

  Ross recognized the leader as Ashe's double, the man he had followedacross time. He blinked for just an instant as he faced Ross and thenshouted an order at his companion. The other spun Murdock around,bringing his hands down behind him to clamp his wrists together. Onceagain Ross fronted the screen and saw Baldy watching the whole scenewith an expression suggesting that he had been shocked out of hiscomplacent superiority.

  "Ah...." Ross's captors were staring at the screen and the unearthly manthere. Then one flung himself at the control panel and his hands whippedback and forth, restoring to utter silence both screen and room.

  "What are you?" The man who might have been Ashe spoke slowly in theBeaker tongue, drilling Ross with his stare as if by the force of hiswill alone he could pull the truth out of his prisoner.

  "What do you think I am?" Ross countered. He was wearing the uniform ofBaldy, and he had clearly established contact with the time owners ofthis ship. Let that worry the Red!

  But they did not try to answer him. At a signal he was led to the stair.To descend that ladder with his hands behind him was almost impossible,and they had to pause at the next level to unclasp the handcuffs and lethim go free. Keeping a gun on him carefully, they hurried along, tryingto push the pace while Ross delayed all he could. He realized that inhis recognition of the power of the gun back in the control chamber, hissurrender to its threat, he had betrayed his real origin. So he mustcontinue to confuse the trail to the project in every possible way leftto him. He was sure that this time they would not leave him in the firstconvenient crevice.

  He knew he was right when they covered him with a fur parka at theentrance to the ship, once more manacling his hands and dropping a nooseleash on him.

  So, they were taking him back to their post here. Well, in the post wasthe time transporter which could return him to his own kind. It wouldbe, it must be possible to get to that! He gave his captors no moretrouble but trudged, outwardly dispirited, along the rutted way throughthe snow up the slope and out of the valley.

  He did manage to catch a good look at the globe-ship. More than half ofit, he judged, was below the surface of the ground. To be so buried itmust either have lain there a long time or, if it were an air vessel,crashed hard enough to dig itself that partial grave. Yet Ross hadestablished contact with another ship like it, and neither of thecreatures he had seen were human, at least not human in any way heknew.

  Ross chewed on that as he walked. He believed that those with him werelooting the ship of its cargo, and by its size, that cargo must be alarge one. But cargo from where? Made by what hands, what _kind_ ofhands? Enroute to what port? And how had the Reds located the ship inthe first place? There were plenty of questions and very few answers.Ross clung to the hope that somehow he had endangered the Reds' job hereby activating the communication system of the derelict and calling theattention of its probable owners to its fate.

  He also believed that the owners might take steps to regain theirproperty. Baldy had impressed him deeply during those few moments ofsilent appraisal, and he knew he would not like to be on the receivingend of any retaliation from the other. Well, now he had only one chance,to keep the Reds guessing as long as he could and hope for some turn offate which would allow him to try for the time transport. How the plateoperated he did not know, but he had been transferred here from theBeaker age and if he could return to that time, escape might bepossible. He had only to reach the river and follow it down to the seawhere the sub was to make rendezvous at intervals. The odds wereoverwhelmingly against him, and Ross knew it. But there was no reason,he decided, to lie down and roll over dead to please the Reds.

  As they approached the post Ross realized how much skill had gone intoits construction. It looked as if they were merely coming up to theouter edge of a glacier tongue. Had it not been for the track in thesnow, there would have been no reason to suspect that the ice coveredanything but a thick core of its own substance. Ross was shoved throughthe white-walled tunnel to the building beyond.

  He was hurried through the chain of rooms to a door and thrust through,his hands still fastened. It was dark in the cubby and colder than ithad been outside. Ross stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust tothe gloom. It was several moments after the door had slammed shut thathe caught a faint thud, a dull and hollow sound.

  "Who is here?" he used the Beaker speech, determining to keep to therags of his cover, which probably was a cover no longer. There was noreply, but after a pause that distant beat began again. Ross steppedcautiously forward, and by the simple method of running fullface intothe walls, discovered that he was in a bare cell. He also discoveredthat the noise lay behind the left-hand wall, and he stood with his earflat against it, listening. The sound did not have the regular rhythm ofa machine in use--there were odd pauses between some blows, others camein a quick rain. It was as if someone were digging!

  Were the Reds engaged in enlarging their icebound headquarters? Havinglistened for a considerable time, Ross doubted that, for the sound wastoo irregular. It seemed almost as if the longer pauses were used tocheck up on the result of labor--was it the extent of the excavation orthe continued preservation of secrecy?

  Ross slipped down along the wall, his shoulders still resting againstit, and rested with his head twisted so he could hear the tapping.Meanwhile he flexed his wrists inside the hoops which confined them, andfolding his hands as small as possible, tried to slip them through therings. The only result was that he chafed his skin raw to no advantage.They had not taken off his parka, and in spite of the chill about him,he was too warm. Only that part of his body covered by the suit he hadtaken from the ship was comfortable; he could almost believe that itpossessed some built-in conditioning device.

  With no hope of relief Ross rubbed his hands back and forth against thewall, scraping the hoops on his wrists. The distant pounding had ceased,and this time the pause lengthened into so long a period that Ross fellasleep, his head falling forward on his chest, his raw wrists stillpushed against the surface behind him.

  He was hungry when he awoke, and with that hunger his rebellion sparkedinto flame. Awkwardly he got to his feet and lurched along to the doorthrough which he had been thrown, where he proceeded to kick at thebarrier. The cushiony stuff forming the soles of his tights muffled mostof the force of those blows, but some noise was heard outside, for thedoor opened and Ross faced one of the guards.

  "Food! I want to eat!" He put into the Beaker language all theresentment boiling in him.

  The fellow ignoring him, reached in a long arm, and nearly tossing theprisoner off balance, dragged him out of the cell. Ross was marched intoanother room to face what appeared to be a tribunal. Two of the menthere he knew--Ashe's double and the quiet man who had questioned himback in the other time station. The third, clearly one of greaterauthority, regarded Ross bleakly.

  "Who are you?" the quiet man asked.

  "Rossa, son of Gurdi. And I would eat before I make talk with you. Ihave not done any wrong that you should treat me as a barbarian who hasstolen salt from the trading post----"

  "You are an agent," the leader corrected him dispassionately, "of whomyou will tell us in due time. But first you shall speak of the ship, ofwhat you found there, and why you meddled with the controls.... Wait amoment before you refuse, my young friend." He raised his hand from hislap, and once again Ross faced an automatic. "Ah, I see that you knowwhat I hold--odd knowledge fo
r an innocent Bronze Age trader. Andplease have no doubts about my hesitation to use this. I shall not killyou, naturally," the man continued, "but there are certain wounds whichsupply a maximum of pain and little serious damage. Remove his parka,Kirschov."

  Once more Ross was unmanacled, the fur stripped from him. His questionercarefully studied the suit he wore under it. "Now you will tell usexactly what we wish to hear."

  There was a confidence in that statement which chilled Ross; MajorKelgarries had displayed its like. Ashe had it in another degree, andcertainly it had been present in Baldy. There was no doubt that thespeaker meant exactly what he said. He had at his command methods whichwould wring from his captive the full sum of what he wanted, and therewould be no consideration for that captive during the process.

  His implied threat struck as cold as the glacial air, and Ross tried tomeet it with an outward show of uncracked defenses. He decided to pickand choose from his information, feeding them scraps to stave off theinevitable. Hope dies very hard, and Ross having been pushed intocorners long before his work at the project, had had considerabletraining in verbal fencing with hostile authority. He would volunteernothing.... Let it be pulled from him reluctant word by word! He wouldspin it out as long as he could and hope that time might fight for him.

  "You are an agent...."

  Ross accepted this statement as one he would neither affirm nor deny.

  "You came to spy under the cover of a barbarian trader," smoothly,without pause, the man changed language in mid-sentence, slipping fromthe Beaker speech into English.

  But long experience in meeting the dangerous with an expression ofcomplete lack of comprehension was Ross's weapon now. He stared somewhatstupidly at his interrogator with that bewildered, boyish look he hadso long cultivated to bemuse enemies in his past.

  Whether he could have held out long against the other's skill--for Rosspossessed no illusions concerning the type of examiner he now faced--hewas never to know. Perhaps the drastic interruption that occurred thenext moment saved for Ross a measure of self-esteem.

  There was a distant boom, hollow and thunderous. Underneath and aroundthem the floor, walls, and ceiling of the room moved as if they had beenpried from their setting of ice and were being rolled about by theexploring thumb and forefinger of some impatient giant.