The Time Trap

by John Russell Fearn

  Nick looked startled, and then incredulous.

  “Surely, sir,” Dawlish finished, “you have now and again been convinced of somebody passing, or standing right beside you? A black shadow at the corner of your eye, gone the moment you try to look straight at it.”

  “Good heavens! I always put that down to liver!”

  “By no means! Science tells us that at one time we were capable of actually seeing an extra dimension, so there must be a hangover left in our visual apparatus even yet. Science assumes that the red, fleshy piece in the corner of the eye is the vestigial remains of the more complex eye we once had.”

  Nick gazed about him. “If we are in the midst of people and buildings it’s the best camouflage I’ve ever seen!”

  “True, but remember nothing exists to the eye unless light produces it. Change the order of light, as it is changed here, and normal law no longer operates.”

  The subject was dropped—and a dimness that could only be interpreted as approaching night was coming over the face of things when the party finally reached the large wood perched high on the summit of the cliffs. The trees were of no species known in the normal world, possessing almost square leaves of gigantic size, and branches as rigid as pokers. There were, amongst the smaller varieties, huge clusters of objects like hypertrophied grapes. Bernice eyed them enviously in the dying light.

  “Think they’re poisonous, Dawlish?” she asked, turning.

  “Only way we can find out, miss, is to try for ourselves in a very small quantity, and see what happens.”

  “Damned dangerous!” Harley Brand objected.

  “But inevitable, sir. However, since we can survive for the moment without food I thought we might select a site for our home. We can begin by hacking through these branches with the poor tools at our disposal—picnic knives and, if either of you gentlemen possess them—penknives.”

  Only he himself had a penknife, it appeared, so with this and the picnic knives a start was made. By the time night had come three massive branches, to form the main supports of the intended home, had been cut down. The site selected for the “bungalow” was just beyond the wood, on the head­land, commanding a view of ocean and beach to the front, and the endless grassy wastes to the rear. And whilst the men worked on the trees the women used the plastic picnic plates to scoop out foundations.

  Darkness brought a stop to activity. A meal of fish re­mains and a drink of water was the only nourishment at the end of it. Harley and Nick divided the last cigarette and smoked the halves morosely. Bernice pulled her fur coat up around her and started to doze. The silence became deathly. That was the one intolerable thing about this plane—the awesome quiet.

  And so, gradually, each one in the party fell asleep, and throughout the night there was not a ghost of a sound to disturb them.

  Dawlish was astir the moment the first grayness came over the tranquil scene. Since, as leader of the party, he felt it his duty not to ask anybody to do something he could not do himself, he experimented with some of the giant grapes, eating the tiniest section and then going about the business of preparing breakfast whilst he waited for digestive reaction.

  In fifteen minutes he had warmed up the last remains of tea in the vacuum flask and given it to the dully-stirring womenfolk. The men had to be content with water.

  “With your help, gentlemen,” Dawlish said, “we will have fish for breakfast. Come with me, please.”

  Nick and Harley struggled to their feet, yawned, felt at their stubbly faces, then followed the likewise unshaven Dawlish down the cliff slope to the beach.

  “The water is warm,” Dawlish announced, putting his hand in the gently lapping waves. “We can wash and catch fish at the same time. We can leave our clothes on. In this dry air it will not be possible to catch cold.”

  Nick and Harley nodded, none too eagerly, and pulled off their creased evening jackets. Then they waded out into the millpond calmness and finally took to swimming. It was not easy with the weight of clothes, but at least, it was refreshing. As for fish, they were in abundance and made no effort to escape, which was proof in itself they had no reason to fear a foe in their domain.

  As the men emerged, dripping, with fish in their hands, they caught sight of the womenfolk further up the beach, likewise sporting themselves in the water. Finally, it was a bedraggled-looking party in still damp clothes that squatted down to the fish breakfast, the fire of dry vegetation crackling brightly.

  “Y’know,” Betty Danvers said slowly, picking a fish-bone, “there’s something queer about this place.”

  “You don’t say!” Bernice exclaimed, astonished.

  “I didn’t mean it in that sense, Berny. I mean that there is something uplifting about it. I can’t quite explain it, but when I woke up this morning it was with the feeling that I have never felt better in all my life. Sort of full-of-the-joys-of-spring feeling.”

  “Maybe something in it,” Lucy Brand mused. “Perhaps because we slept in the open air. Makes a great difference.”

  “The explanation’s simple,” Dawlish said. “There are no vast crowds of people using up oxygen, no chemicals being ejected from industrial areas. I think all of us will find that the more we breathe it the better we’ll feel. All the im­purities will be cleansed out of us.”

  “Including tobacco juice and alcohol,” Nick sighed.

  There was silence for a while as the meal continued, then Dawlish said, “You’ll find the giant grapes are harmless.”

  “Sure?” Harley asked, doubtful.

  “Certain. I sampled part of one and suffered no ill effect.” The others looked surprised, then Betty Danvers gave an admiring smile.

  “That took courage, Dawlish, and I think all of us should acknowledge the fact.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Danvers. Somebody had to make a test.” The imperturbable way in which Dawlish referred to his gamble with poison had a sobering effect for a while and the meal was finished in silence—with grapes. Then Dawlish began moving. “We can make rapid progress with our bungalow today.”

  There were nods of assent, then Bernice stooped and tore a good six inches of costly material from the bottom of her evening gown.

  “That’s better,” she said, kicking her feet. “I can’t pos­sibly work with all this stuff around me. You others should do the same.”

  Betty and Lucy did, finishing up looking like schoolgirls. The men glanced at one another. The surprising thing was that any of the girls—and Bernice in particular—should really want to work. Usually they did their best to avoid it.

  And work it certainly was as the invisible sun rose higher in the cloudless sky. Its beating heat-waves enveloped the six as they toiled back and forth in and out of the wood, carrying the necessary branches and gigantic square leaves with which it was proposed to thatch the roof. By approxi­mately noon the four corner posts and floor were in place and the grimy party broke up for a meal.

  Then, once again, each one of them was secretly astonished at how much they could accomplish without feeling tired. Dawlish, though, was a sensible leader and did not allow work to proceed beyond the tea period. When the meal of cold fish and water was over he spoke thoughtfully.

  “Gradually we are dropping into a kind of timetable, and we don’t feel exhausted because of the wonderful air. How­ever, in future we’ll take the evenings to ourselves, to do as we wish—walk, swim, laze, or whatever it may be; and the day we’ll divide into work and foraging for food. We can combine business with pleasure by taking walks and looking for good sources of food at the same time. We shall also need another source of water as our present supply is running out. I’ll have a look for some this evening.”

  “I’ll help you, if I may?” Betty volunteered.

  “Delighted,” Dawlish smiled.

  “I’m going to look for something to work as a razor,” Nick decided. “This blasted beard tickles.”

  “And I’m going to find a weed as a substitute for tobacco,” Harley said. “I’
m half dead without nicotine.”

  “With you men out of the way we girls can fix our clothes to look more in keeping with this desert island set-up,” Ber­nice said, glancing at Lucy Brand.

  “Okay,” Dawlish responded. “We’ll be on our way, then.”

  He turned, Betty at his side, and for a time they walked in silence. Then the girl laughed slightly.

  “I could do with sharing your amusement, Miss Danvers,” Dawlish said, glancing down at her.

  “Any reason why you can’t use my first name?”

  “Every reason. Our social stations are different. You are the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and I am a chauffeur.”

  “You mean that you were, and I was. Values have changed completely, Dawlish. You are the commander of our little band, and the rest of us put together haven’t a quarter of your brains.”

  “I’d hardly say that, miss.”

  “Oh, call me Betty, for heaven’s sake.” She gave a half reproachful glance of her blue eyes—and for perhaps the first time Dawlish noticed that they were not the customary pale blue which matches red hair, but brightest sapphire.

  “Betty, then,” he responded. “Since values have gone overboard you might as well know I answer to ‘Horace’.”

  “I’ll call you ‘Daw’ for short,” Betty smiled. “As to my laughter just now, I was thinking what sights we both look. What would they say in Mayfair or Park Lane?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very interested as to—ah, this looks like a good spot to find water,” Dawlish broke off.

  Betty promptly went down on her knees beside him and began to scoop at the dusty, sandy earth. Just here the dry, withered grass had thinned out, which made the task of burrowing down considerably easier.

  At the end of fifteen minutes of rough digging the first sign of water appeared. Dawlish unslung the billycan from his back and, by degrees, filled it. Then he hauled it back onto his shoulder and stood up.

  “We know where to come in future,” he said. “This spot is easily distinguishable by the bare earth, to say nothing of the hole we’ve made. Which seems to finish our tour.”

  “Still daylight,” Betty reminded him. “And we might have a look if any small animals exist.”

  “True. Come along, then.”

  Whether or not Betty stumbled deliberately Dawlish did not know, but when he held out his hand to save her she kept it there, imprisoned against her waist by her arm.

  “I’m a girl who says what she thinks, Daw,” she remarked, as they strolled onwards in the warm, sunless evening.

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “I’ve a great admiration for you. That isn’t just flattery: it’s the considered opinion of a girl of twenty-five.”

  “Thank you,” Dawlish murmured, looking out to sea—and then suddenly he stopped, staring at the distant horizon. For a long time he remained gazing at a remote speck. Betty could see it too now, but it made her vision dance to try and hold it in focus. It seemed so far away.

  “A ship!” Dawlish breathed. “Just drifting on the current—and headed this way! I’ll swear it’s getting larger.”

  He moved forward urgently and Betty clung onto his arm. They settled down in the grass perhaps a quarter of a mile from the edge of the cliffs and fixed their gaze on the growing speck. The tide was apparently flowing and was carrying the vessel towards the shore.

  “Not a very big one,” Dawlish said presently. “Looks like an old tramp steamer, or something.”

  “Do we go back and tell the others?” Betty questioned. “It seems to be heading more to the left than here, which ought to bring it to the shore not far from our base.”

  Dawlish got to his feet quickly and helped her up. They went back to the base camp at a run, to discover that the others had already seen the vessel and were standing on the beach, watching it and waving.

  “Waving to that ship is rather a waste of time,” Dawlish remarked to Betty. “Obviously nobody is aboard or they’d stop themselves drifting.”

  “I—I’ve just discovered something!” Betty exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Despite that run we made I’m breathing more or less normally.”

  “Is that so remarkable?”

  “It is for me, with a wonky heart.”

  “Evidently, the pure air and exercise have done you good. Now let’s inform these good people their war dance is use­less.”

  Dawlish led the way down to the beach with Betty coming up in the rear. There was time to notice that Bernice and Lucy Brand had altered their evening gowns so that they now resembled sarongs, that Nick had mysteriously shaved him­self, and that Harley was smoking something in a roughly fashioned pipe. The odor it gave off was reminiscent of pineapples, or amyl acetate.

  “That ship is unmanned,” Dawlish announced, and the four turned in surprise. Then they all began to speak at once.

  “We saw it from the hinterland,” Betty explained. “But Daw doesn’t think it’s going to be much use to us, and he ought to know.”

  “Why set the man up as a paragon?” Harley demanded, with uncommon viciousness. “I’m getting sick of all this kow-towing to Dawlish!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Dawlish said, surprised. “On the whole I thought my leadership was satisfactory.”

  “We’re not a bunch of damned children!” Harley objected. “As for that ship, if it can be manned, what’s stopping us doing it? Maybe we can sail out of this hell-hole to some­where sane.”

  There was a strained silence; then Lucy spoke up.

  “I know you’ve a rotten temper, Harley, but you can at least keep it to yourself. We’ve got to be civil with each other if we’re to maintain any kind of peace.”

  “If you can keep calm under these conditions, Lucy, you are either crazy or hypocritical! It just can’t be done! The silence! Seaweed for food! Water to drink! I can’t stand any more of it—”

  Harley swung round, intending to depart, evidently no longer interested in the approaching ship and thinking only of the base camp—but Dawlish stopped him.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Brand. What’s that you’re smoking?”

  “What’s that to do with you? You’re a non-smoker!”

  Dawlish was unmoved by the glare in Harley’s curiously glazed eyes.

  “I happen to be interested, sir, non-smoker or otherwise.”

  “It’s filthy stuff,” Nick put in. “I tried some and I felt as though my head had blown off. It’s some kind of weed Harley dug up out of the wood undergrowth.”

  “And poisonous,” Dawlish said deliberately.

  Harley took the pipe from his teeth and looked at it. For a moment he seemed startled, and then he scowled.

  “Keep your blasted opinions to yourself, Dawlish!”

  “Whilst I’m the leader of this party, sir, I can’t allow you to poison yourself. You are smoking an acetate of some kind, and from the smell of it amyl is mixed up in it. The fumes, directly inhaled, are poisonous. Throw that pipe away.”

  “What!” Harley exploded. “By what damned right do you—”

  In one stride Dawlish reached him, snatched the pipe, and hurled it into the oncoming tide. Harley breathed heavily, his face darkly tinged with color; then he suddenly lashed out his right fist. Before it could land he received a blow under the jaw that flattened him on his back in the sand.

  Harley scrambled to his feet, intending to hit back, but instead he gripped his middle, profound anguish on his face. Immediately Lucy was at his side.

  “Harley, what’s wrong?” She put an arm about his shoulders. “Can’t I help?”

  “Yes. Get me back to the camp. I’ve got to lie down. I’ve the devil’s own stomach ache.”

  He turned, doubled up, and shuffled along the sand with his wife at his side. Dawlish raised an eyebrow and there was a hard smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “He’s going to be deathly sick,” he commented, as Nick, Bernice, and Betty looked at him questioningly.

  “Can’t we do something f
or him?” Bernice asked.

  “Unfortunately we have no medical kit. He’ll be all right, but let that be a lesson to all of you. Don’t eat, drink, or smoke anything unusual until you’ve asked me. If I can’t give an opinion I’ll try myself first.”

  “I never thought I’d give up smoking the hard way,” Nick growled. “Better than that horrible stuff, though—”

  “Look how near that ship is!” Betty broke in excitedly.

  The others turned. The light was beginning to fade, but it was still sufficient to show that the tempest-battered tramp steamer was now no more than a mile away and drifting steadily inshore.

  “We could swim out to it,” Bernice said. “That’s why Lucy and I fixed our dresses like this—so we can go in and out of the water any time we want without extra weight.”

  “We’ll wait for it to come to us,” Dawlish decided. “It won’t be very long.”

  His guess was right. Just as the darkness was descending the ship’s keel grounded in the sand and the vessel became motionless, on its side, the water lapping against its bar­nacled plates.

  None of the quartet wasted any time. Led by Dawlish they climbed up the ropes dangling from the vessel’s listing side and so gained the deck. It was weatherworn and battered and had obviously not been cleaned for an unimaginable time. Some of the planks indeed were rotten with age, which, added to the steep slant of the vessel, made movement diffi­cult.

  Whilst Dawlish examined the empty wheel-house and found only maps faded with age, the others scoured the desk, noting that only one lifeboat, in fair repair, remained in the davits. By the time this investigation was complete the dark­ness had descended and the rod-like stars were smeared over­head.

  “No use looking below without lights,” Nick said, as they decided what to do next.

  “Might be oil in the lamps,” Dawlish replied,

  They found their way to the nearest companionway and descended into the depths. They felt their way along a narrow passage and so came to a door. It opened stiffly under Dawlish’s pressure and there was black void beyond—or at least almost black. The more the four stood peer­ing into it the more their eyes became accustomed, and presently they could discern the blurred gray circle of a port­hole and, beyond it, a dim view of the starlit beach.