John Norman

by Time Slave

  “Of course,” had cried Herjellsen, “we are fools! It is phenomenal time we are translating! It is like reaching out twice to touch a moving object and expecting to touch it a second time in the same place one did at first! The equations must be adjusted, relativized!” But this did not prove simple. Primarily it was discovered that the spatial coordinate as well as the temporal coordinate alters. It was as though the blind man were trying to touch two moving spheres, each different, and touch each at precisely the same place that he had touched them before. Yet Herjellsen and William worked, and the 1180 was modified, programmed, remodified, and reprogrammed again and again. Gradually, a pattern, though one of fantastic complexity, began to emerge. The second collection, a piece of seared shale, occurred a month after the branch. From that time on collections became more frequent, more predictable. Herjellsen could not tell to what time or place his coordinates corresponded, only that they were successful in generating collections. It was as though he printed a number, possibly meaningless, on a card, and then mailed it. If there was an answer it had been an address, somewhere; if there were no answer, then he did not know if it had been an address or not; it had perhaps been nothing; it had perhaps been an address that had not responded; Ire did not know.

  Toward the end of the first series of experiments notable results had been achieved. Collections had become statistically predictable. In one experiment a fragment of rock had been obtained; in the subsequent experiment its matching counterpart; this had indicated a refinement of considerable delicacy, the complexity of which would not have been possible without the modified 1180 device; the calculations, by hand, might have consumed years. It was as though the blind man were finally learning to touch the two spheres, in precisely the same places, on subsequent attempts. He did not know what places he touched, but he knew that whatever places they might be he could touch them at least twice. While William, aided by Herjellsen, fought to refine the mathematics of the Herjellsen conjecture, Gunther, partially working under the instruction of Herjellsen, partially improvising relays and circuitry, gave his attention to the sophistication of the amplifying mechanism. Specimens had been collected generally in a shattered, or seared condition, almost as though torn through atmospheres and exploded from one dimension into another. For reasons that were not clear to William and Gunther at the time, these effects were not found acceptable by Herjellsen. Coils to the translation cubicle were multiplied. Significantly, generator power was reduced; the distributions and focuses of power, as it turned out, were more significant than its amount. Most significant of all, of course, was the strange mind of Herjellsen. Though abetted and sharpened by the equations of William, though reinforced by the genius and electronics of Gunther, it was that mind, and that mind alone, that could reach out, that had the power to reach out and touch, for an agonizing moment, the reality. It is not known how we can move our hand, and yet we understand that it can be done, and do it; it is not clear whether Herjellsen was perhaps a mutant, or that he, of all men to his time, alone intuited his power, and understood what might be done; it is not known, so to speak, whether Herjellsen discovered a hand that other men do not possess, an instrument, a power, or that he was the first to discover what all men might, though it lie forever dormant, possess. The infant, weeping, alone, wished the bright toy, and lo, a hand, to his astonishment and pleasure, his own, reached forth, and drew it to him. He had learned to will, and grasp. He would never forget this. He would never understand it, but neither would he forget it. It was his now, this power.

  “We will succeed!” had cried Herjellsen.

  Late in the first series of experiments the success had come.

  There had appeared on the floor of the translation cubicle, in a bit of water, fresh and cold, a handful of ice moss. Herjellsen had entered the cubicle, and, on his knees, had lifted it in his hands. It was delicate and cold. Each fiber was intact, and perfect. Herjellsen had wept. William and Gunther had not understood his emotion.

  He had looked at them, from within the cubicle, the ice moss cupped gently in his hands. “We will succeed,” he had wept. “We shall succeed.”

  Herjellsen’s interests, for no reason that was clear to either William or Gunther, were narrow. Only certain categories of equations were utilized by him, and within these categories there was investigation in fantastic depth and subtlety. It was as though Herjellsen were seeking some particular reality, some destination, some special address in the vastnesses and wastes and mysteries of the reality.

  It was with a startled, and eerie feeling, that they had heard his shriek of pleasure in the experimental shack.

  In the cubicle bad lain the Herjellsen artifact, the rounded, chipped, roughly polished stone; it weighed 2.1 kilograms. It was a tool, a weapon.

  “Gentlemen,” bad said Herjellsen, “the first series of experiments is herewith concluded.”

  “I still suspect Herjellsen is a charlatan,” said William.

  “It is possible,” said Gunther.

  “Yet-the artifact,” said William. “It seems genuine.”

  Hamilton had seen the artifact many times. It was commonly kept in the computer building.

  “You believe,” asked Hamilton of William, “that there is some trick involved in all this?”

  “That certainly seems plausible,” said William, looking out the window of the Land Rover. The glass was rolled down. His face was dusty, particularly the right side. There was dust, too, on his sunglasses.

  “It takes years to make such an object,” said Hamilton, archly. “Herjellsen couldn’t have made it, could he?”

  “It does not take years to make such an object,” said Gunther. “Flint is a soft stone. It can be worked swiftly. Such an ax could be chipped by a skilled craftsman in forty minutes, and polished in an hour.”

  “How would you know?” asked William..

  “It is simply a matter of the physics of the stone,” said Gunther. “The physics of the stone makes the answer clear.”

  “I had always thought it would take a long time,” said Hamilton.

  “You are incorrect,” said Gunther.

  “Oh,” said Hamilton.

  “If such a stone can be worked quickly,” said William, “and I shall take your word for that, then it seems quite likely that the Herjellsen artifact was manufactured by our dear colleague, the amiable professor himself.”

  “I do not regard that as likely,” said Gunther.

  “You realize what you are saying,” said William, slowly.

  “Precisely,” said Gunther.

  “It could have been stolen,” suggested Hamilton.

  “The stone is fresh,” said Gunther. “It bears no signs of age.”

  “What better evidence that it is a fake?” asked William.

  “What better evidence that it is genuine?” asked Gunther.

  Hamilton shivered.

  “If the Herjellsen conjecture is correct,” said Gunther, “the stone should be as it is, fresh, clean, newly worked.”

  “That is true,” said William.

  “Herjellsen, did he not,” asked Hamilton, “once stole such a stone.” She said nothing more. Gunther, when speaking to her of Herjellsen, had told her this among other things. Hamilton did not mention that it had been stolen from a museum in Denmark. A guard had been killed in the theft.

  “He stole it to study it,” said Gunther.

  “Why should he wish to do that?” asked William.

  “I do not know,” said Gunther. “Perhaps he wished to conduct tests. Perhaps he wished only to know it thoroughly, so that he might recognize such an artifact again.”

  Hamilton stared out the dusty windshield. They were now in trackless bush country. Gunther because of the terrain had slowed the vehicle. He occasionally shifted gears, the machine lurching up slopes or pulling out of sand pits. A pack of bush pigs, grunting and snuffling, scattered into the brush. The country was hot, dusty, desolate. In the back of the Rover Gunther had two rifles.


  “Why would he wish to recognize such an artifact again?” asked William.

  “I do not know,” said Gunther. “But I suspect, that for some reason, it is important to him.”

  “He speaks often of the stars,” said Hamilton.

  “What has a piece of shaped stone, the head of a primitive ax, to do with the stars?” asked Gunther.

  “I’m sure I do not know,” laughed Hamilton.

  He looked at her, angrily.

  Hamilton was silent.

  “Do you truly believe,” asked Gunther of William, “that the Herjellsen artifact is not genuine?”

  “It is a fake,” said William. “All of this is a matter of tricks, a magician’s illusions.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” asked Gunther.

  “Of course,” said William. “I am not mad.”

  “Why do you remain in the compound? Why do you continue to work with Herjellsen?” asked Gunther.

  “Oh,” smiled William, “the pay is remarkably good, you know, free trip to the bush and all that, not bad for humoring the old fellow.”

  Gunther said nothing. He drove on, picking his way among clumps of brush. It was toward noon. The three of them were sweating. Dust, churned up by the Land Rover, like a screen of dust, drifted behind the vehicle. They did not speak for some time.

  “I do not believe the Herjellsen artifact is genuine,” said William, slowly. “It is impossible that it should be genuine.”

  Gunther laughed. “I see now,” he said, “why you stay in the bush.”

  “Yes,” said William, looking out the window. “What if it should be genuine?” He turned to look at Gunther. His lips were tight, thin, pale. “What, Gunther,” he asked, “if it should be genuine?”

  Gunther laughed. “My dear William,” he said, “that is the difference between us! I hope eagerly that it is genuine! You, on the other hand, just as eagerly hope that it is not!”

  “I do not know what I hope,” said William. “Sometimes I, too, hope that it is genuine. At other times I am terrified lest it be genuine.”

  Gunther laughed.

  “If it should be genuine,” said William, slowly, “do you realize its meaning?”

  “I think so,” said Gunther. “I think I do.” “I think I do, too,” said Hamilton.

  “Be silent,” said Gunther. Hamilton flushed.

  “Please, Gunther,” snapped William. “Be civil at least.” “She is an ignorant woman,” said Gunther.

  “I have a Ph.D. from the California Institute of Technology,” said Hamilton angrily. “I have a doctorate in mathematics.”

  “You are an ignorant girl. Be quiet,” said Gunther. “I am a colleague,” said Hamilton.

  “You understand nothing,” said Gunther.

  Hamilton looked at him angrily.

  “You were a fool to come to the bush,” said Gunther.

  “You can’t speak to me like that!” cried Hamilton.

  “Quiet, little fool,” said Gunther.

  “I’m needed!” said Hamilton.

  “Yes, little fool,” said Gunther. “You are needed. That is true.”

  “There!” cried William. “Look there!”

  Gunther, in the instant that William had spoken, had seen. In the same instant he had cut the engine to the Land Rover and stepped on the brakes.

  “Excellent,” said Gunther. “I had not hoped to have such luck.”

  “What are you looking for?” asked Hamilton.

  “An animal for the second series of experiments,” said William, “preferably a large animal, between one hundred and one hundred and fifty pounds in weight.”

  “What do you see?” asked Hamilton, peering through the dusty, insect-stained windshield.

  “There, in that tree, some ten feet from the ground,” whispered William, pointing, “on that branch.”

  Hamilton looked closely. “It’s a calf,” she said. “A native calf. But it can’t be. It’s on the branch. And it’s dead. How could it be on the branch?”

  “Look more closely,” said William.

  Hamilton looked more closely. Across the body of the dead calf, half lost in the sunlight and shadows, sleepy, gorged, peering at them, was a leopard.

  “Superb,” said Gunther.

  “They pull their kills into the branches of trees, to keep them from scavengers,” said William. “They are incredibly powerful, lithe brutes, extremely dangerous.”

  Hamilton gasped. She had never before sensed the sinuous power, its deceptive strength, the teeth, the jaws, the resilient incredible sinews of the leopard, perhaps the most agile and dangerous of the predators.

  The beast lay across the body of the calf, watching them.

  “You go there,” said Gunther to William. “Do not approach it. I shall circle to the back, and come within range. It will smell you, and see you, but it is not likely to attack you. If it seems to sense me, attract its attention. It will not wish to abandon its kill. If all goes well I shall have a clean shot.”

  “What if it darts into the brush?” asked William.

  “Then,” said Gunther, “we will have lost it.” He smiled. “I have no intention of following it into the brush.”

  “Are you going to kill it?” asked Hamilton.

  “You take the hunting rifle,” said Gunther to William. It was a medium-caliber, bolt-action piece, with a five-shot box magazine, with telescopic sight, of German design.

  “Yes,” said William. He looked relieved.

  “I’ll take the tranquilizer rifle,” said Gunther. It was a powerful, compressed-air gun, custom-made, of British manufacture, designed for the discharge of anesthetic darts.

  William looked at Hamilton. “Herjellsen wants the bloody animal alive,” he said.

  Gunther handed William five bullets. He himself, from the glove compartment of the Rover, removed four plastic-packaged darts. He broke two open. Both men wore side weapons, William, a revolver, Gunther, an automatic, a Luger, 9 mm., the classical 08 model.

  Gunther looked at the leopard in the tree.

  “Be careful,” said Hamilton to the men.

  Gunther looked at Hamilton, and then he drew the keys out of the ignition, and slipped them in his pocket.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Hamilton.

  Gunther did not answer her. Then, to Hamilton’s astonishment, Gunther drew forth from a leather pouch at his belt a pair of steel handcuffs.

  “Give me your left wrist,” he said to Hamilton.

  Hamilton felt her left wrist taken in the strong hand of Gunther. She could not believe her eyes, nor her feelings. As though it might be happening to someone else, she saw, and felt, the steel of one of the cuffs close about her left wrist, snugly, and lock. In an instant the other cuff was locked about the steering wheel. She was handcuffed to the steering wheel.

  “What are you doing!” she demanded.

  William and Gunther were getting out of the car.

  Hamilton jerked against the handcuff locked on her wrist. She was perfectly secured.

  “Release me!” she cried. “Let me go!”

  She looked at them, wildly.

  “I’ll scream!” she cried. “I’ll scream!”

  William smiled at her, the inanity of her threat. Hamilton flushed.

  Gunther was serious. He glanced to the large cat in the tree, some one hundred and fifty yards away. He did not want the cat disturbed, the hunt interfered with. He glanced at William, and nodded. William, too, nodded.

  “Release me,” whispered Hamilton.

  William climbed back into the seat beside her, and then, quickly, to her consternation, put his left hand over her mouth, and held her right hand with his. She could utter only muffled noises. Her eyes were wild over his hand. Gunther was now reaching toward her, he had something in his hand. She felt her shirt on her right side pulled out of her slacks, and shoved up, exposing her right side, over and a bit forward of the hip.

  She tried to shake her head no.

  Then sh
e felt Gunther’s hand and the needle, slap and press forcibly against her flesh. She felt the needle thrust better than a half inch into her body, and the hand of Gunther holding it into her, patiently, waiting for it to take effect. She felt dizzy. Everything began to go black. She tried to shake her head, no, again. And then she lost consciousness. She had been tranquilized.

  4

  Dr. Brenda Hamilton awakened in her own quarters. She stared at the ceiling. The half light of late afternoon, golden, hazy, filtering, dimly illuminated the room.