Galactic Derelict tt-2

by Andre Norton

  “Then there was never any digging done in the ruins?”

  “A little—once.”

  “By whom?”

  Travis pushed back his hat. “Me.” His answer was short, antagonistic.

  “Oh?” Ashe produced a package of cigarettes, offered them. Travis took one without thinking.

  “You came here for a dig?” he counter-questioned.

  “In a manner of speaking.” But when Ashe glanced at the cliff house, Travis thought it was as if he saw something far more interesting behind or beyond those crumbling blocks of sun-dried brick.

  “I thought your main interest was pre-Mayan, Dr. Ashe.” Travis squatted on his heels, brought out a smoldering twig from the fire to light his smoke, and was inwardly satisfied to note that he had at last startled the archaeologist with that observation.

  “You know me!” He made a challenge of the words.

  Travis shook his head. “I know Doctor Prentiss Morgan.”

  “So that’s it! You’re one of his bright boys!”

  “No.” That was short, a bitten-off warning not to probe. And the other man must have been sensitive enough to understand at once, for he asked no other question.

  “Chow ready, Ashe?” asked the man with the com. Behind him the youngster Ashe had called “Ross” came to the fire, reached out for the frying pan. Travis stared at his hand. The flesh was seamed with scars and once before the Apache had seen healed wounds like those— from a deep and painful burn. He looked away hurriedly as the other apportioned food onto plates, and he got his own lunch from his saddlebags.

  They ate in silence, an oddly companionable silence. The tension of the first minutes of their meeting eased from the range rider. His interest in these men, his desire to know more about them and what they were doing here, dampened his annoyance at the way he had been captured. That young Ross was a slick tracker. He must have had experience at such games to trap Travis so neatly. The Apache longed for a closer look at the other’s weapon. He was certain it was not a conventional revolver. And the very fact that Ross wore it ready for use argued that he was on guard against expected attack.

  There was a difference between Ashe and Ross, and the man operating the com, which became plainer the longer Travis studied the three covertly. Ashe and Ross might be of a different breed from the third man. Their alikeness went deeper than just their heavy tans, their silent walk, their watchfulness and complete awareness of their surroundings. The more Travis watched them absorbed as they were in the very natural business of eating and then policing camp, the more sure he was that they had not come to this place to explore cliff ruins, that they were engaged in some more serious and perhaps deadly action.

  He asked no questions, content to let the others now make the first move. It was the com unit which broke the peace of the small camp. A warning cackle brought its tender on the run. He snapped on earphones and then relayed a message.

  “Procedure has to be stepped up. They’ll start bringing the stuff in tonight!”

  2

  “Well?” Ross’s glance swept over Travis, settled on Ashe.

  “Anybody know you were coming here?” the older man asked the range rider.

  “I came out to check all the springs. If I don’t return to the ranch within a reasonable time, they’ll hunt me up, yes.” Travis saw no reason to enlarge upon that with two other bits of information. One, that Whelan would not be unduly alarmed if he did not return within twenty-four hours, and the other that he was supposed to be in the brakes to the south.

  “You say that you know Prentiss Morgan—how well?” “I was in one of his classes at the U—for a while.” “Your name?” “Fox. Travis Fox.”

  The com operator cut in, again consulting his map. “The Double A belongs to a Fox—”

  “My brother. But I work for him, that’s all.”

  “Grant”—Ashe turned now to the com man—"mark this top priority and send it to Kelgarries. Ask him to check Fox-all the way.”

  “We can ship him out when the first load comes in, chief. They will store him at headquarters as long as you want,” Ross offered, as if Travis had ceased to be a person and was now only an annoying problem.

  Ashe shook his head. “Look here. Fox, we don’t want to make it hard for you. It’s pure bad luck that you trailed in here today. Frankly, we can’t afford to attract any attention to our activities at present. But if you’ll give me your word not to try and go over the hill, we’ll leave it at that for the present.”

  The last thing Travis wanted to do was leave. His curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and he had no intention of going unless they removed him bodily. And that, he promised himself silently, would take a lot of doing.

  “It’s a deal.”

  But Ashe was already on another track. “You say you did some digging over there. What did you uncover?”

  “The usual stuff—pottery, a few arrowheads. The site is probably pre-Columbian. These mountains are filled with such ruins.”

  “What did you expect, chief?” Ross asked.

  “Well, there was a slim chance,” the other returned ambiguously. “This climate preserves. We’ve Found baskets, fabrics, fragile things lasting—”

  “I’ll take the bones and baskets—in place of some other things.” Ross held his scarred hand against his chest and rubbed its seamed flesh with the other, as if soothing a wound which still ached. “Better get out the lights if the boys are going to drop in tonight.”

  The pinto continued to graze in the center of the meadow while Ross and Ashe paced out two lines and spaced small plastic canisters at intervals. Travis, watching, guessed they were marking a landing site. But it was twice the size needed by a ’copter such as the one now standing beyond. Then Ashe settled with his back against a tree, reading the leaves of a bulging notebook, while Ross brought out a roll of felt and opened it.

  What he uncovered was a set of five stone points, beautifully fashioned, too long to be arrowheads. And Travis recognized their distinctive shape, the pattern of those flaked edgesl Far better workmanship than the later productions of his own people, yet much older. He had held their like in his hands, admired the artistry of the forgotten weapon maker who had patiently chipped them into being. Folsom points! They were intended to head the throwing spears of men who went up so equipped against mammoth, giant bison, cave bear, and Alaskan lion.

  “Folsom man here?” He saw Ross glance toward him, Ashe’s attention lift from the notebook.

  Ross picked up the last point in that row, held it out to Travis. He took it carefully. The head was perfect, fine. He turned it over between his fingers and then paused—not sure of what he knew, or why.

  “Fake.”

  Yet was it? He had handled Folsom points and some, in spite of their great age, had been as perfectly preserved as this one. Only—this did not feel right. He could give no better reason for his judgment than that.

  “What makes you think so?” Ashe wanted to know.

  “That one was certified by Stefferds.” Ross took up the second point from the line. But Travis, instead of being confounded by that certification from the authority on prehistoric American remains, remained sure of his own appraisal.

  “Not the right feel to it.”

  Ashe nodded to Ross, who picked up a third stone head, offering it in exchange for the one Travis still held. The new point was, to all examination by eye, a copy of the first. Yet, as he ran a forefinger along the fine serrations of the flaked edge, Travis knew that this was the real thing, and he said so.

  “Well, well.” Ross studied his store of points. “Something new had been added,” he informed the empty space before him.

  “It’s been done before,” Ashe said. “Give him your gun.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Ross might refuse, and he frowned as he drew the weapon. The Apache, putting down the Folsom point with care, took the weapon and examined it closely. Though its general shape was that of a revolver, there were enough difference
s to make it totally new to Travis. He sighted it at a tree trunk and found that when it was held correctly for firing, the grip was not altogether comfortable, as if the hand for which it had been fashioned was not quite like his own.

  There was another difference growing in his mind the longer he held the weapon. He did not like that odd sensation.

  Travis laid the gun down beside the flint point, regarding them both with wide and astonished eyes. From them he had gained a common impression of age—a wide expanse of time separating him from the makers of those two very dissimilar weapons. For the Folsom point that feeling was correct. But why did the gun give him that same answer? He had come to rely on that queer unnamed sense of his—its apparent failure now was disconcerting.

  “How old is the gun?” asked Ashe.

  “It can’t be—” Travis protested against the verdict of his sense. “I won’t believe that it is as old—or older—than the spearhead!”

  “Brother”—Ross regarded him with an odd expression— “you can call ’em!” He reholstered the gun. “So now we have a time guesser, chief.”

  “Such a gift is not too uncommon,” Ashe commented absently. “I’ve seen it in operation before.”

  “But a gun can’t be that old!” Travis still objected. Ross’s left eyebrow raised in a sardonic arc as he gave a half-smile.

  “That’s all you know about it, brother,” he observed. “New recruit?” That was addressed to Ashe. The latter was frowning, but at Ross’s inquiry he smiled with a warmth which for a second or two made Travis uncomfortable. It so patently advertised that those two were a long-established team, shutting him outside.

  “Don’t rush things, boy.” Ashe stood up and went over to the com unit. “Any news from the front?”

  “Cackle-cackle, yacketty-yak,” snorted the operator. “Soon as I tune out one band interference, we hit another. Someday maybe they’ll make these walkie-talkies so they’ll really operate without overloading a guy’s eardrums. No, nothing for us yet.”

  Travis wanted to ask questions, a lot of them. But he was also sure that most would receive evasive answers. He tried to fit the gun into the rest of his jigsaw of surmises, hints, and guesses, and found it wouldn’t. But he forgot that when Ashe sat down once more and began to talk archaeologist’s shop. At first Travis only listened, then he realized he was being drawn more and more into answering, into giving opinions and once or twice daring to contradict the other. Apache lore, cliff ruins, Folsom man—Ashe’s conversation ranged widely. It was only after Travis had been led to talking freely with the pent-up eagerness of one who has been denied expression for too long, that he understood the other man must have been testing his knowledge in the field.

  “Sounds rugged, the way they lived then,” Ross observed at the conclusion of Travis’ story of the use of their present camp site by Apache holdouts in the old days.

  “That, from you, is good,” Grant said, laughing, and then snapped on his earphones once more as the com came to life. With one hand he steadied a pad on his knee and wrote in quick dashes.

  Travis studied the shadows on the cliffs. It wasn’t far from sundown now, and he was growing impatient. This was like being in a theater waiting for the curtain to go up—or lying in wait for trouble to come pounding around some bend when you had a rifle in hand.

  Ashe took the scribbled page from Grant, checked it against more scribbles in his notebook. Ross was chewing on a long stem of grass, relaxed, outwardly almost sleepy. Yet Travis suspected that if he were to make a wrong move, Ross would come very wide awake in an instant.

  “You know this country must have been popping once,” Ross commented lazily. “That looks like a regular apartment house over there—with maybe a hundred, two hundred people living in it. How did they live, anyway? This is a small valley.”

  “There’s another valley to the northwest with irrigation ditches still marked,” Travis replied. “And they hunted— turkey, deer, antelope, even buffalo—if they were lucky.”

  “Now if a man had some way to look back into history he could learn a lot—”

  “You mean by using an infra-red Vis-Tex?” Travis asked with careful casualness, and had the satisfaction of seeing the other’s calm crack. Then he laughed, with an edge on his humor. “We Indians don’t wear blankets or feathers in our hair any more, and some of us read and watch TV, and actually go to school. But the Vis-Tex I saw in action wasn’t too successful.” He decided on a guess. “Planning to test a new model here?”

  “In a way—yes.”

  Travis had not expected a serious answer like that. And it was Ashe who had made it, plainly to the surprise of Ross. But the possibilities opened up by that assent were startling.

  Photographing the past, beginning with a few hours past, by the infra-red waves, had succeded in experimentation as far back as twenty years previously—during the late fifties. The process had been perfected to a point where objects would appear on films exposed a week after the disappearance of those objects from a given point. And Travis had been present on one occasion when an experimental Vis-Tex had been demonstrated by Dr. Morgan. But if they did have a new model which could produce a real reach back into history—1 He drew a deep breath and stared at the cave-enclosed ruins before him. What would it mean to bring the past to visual life againl Then he grinned.

  “A lot of history will have to be rewritten in a hurry if you have one that works.”

  “Not history as we know it.” Ashe drew out cigarettes and passed them. “Son, you’re a part of this now, whether or no. We can’t afford to let you go, the situation is too critical. So— you’ll be offered a chance to enlist.”

  “In what?” countered Travis warily.

  “In Project Folsom One.” Ashe lit his cigarette. “Headquarters checked you out all along the line. I’m inclined to think that providence had a hand in your turning up here today. It all fits.”

  “Too well?” There was a frown line between Ross’s brows.

  “No,” Ashe replied. “He’s just what he said he is. Our man reported from the Double A and from Morgan. He can’t be a plant.”

  What kind of a plant? wondered Travis. Apparently he was being drafted, but he wanted to know more about why and for what. He said so with determination and then believed he wasn’t hearing correcdy when Ashe answered.

  “We’re here to see the Folsom hunters’ world.”

  “That’s a tall order, Doctor Ashe. You’ve a super Vis-Tex if you can take a peek ten thousand years back.”

  “More likely farther than that,” Ashe corrected him. “We aren’t sure yet.”

  “Why the hush-hush? A look at some roaming primitive tribe should bring out the TV and the newsmen—”

  “We’re more interested in other things than primitive tribesmen.”

  “Such as where that gun came from,” agreed Ross. He was again rubbing his scarred hand, and there was that in the bleakness of his eyes which Travis recognized from their first meeting on the rim of the canyon. It was the look of a fighter moving in to give battle.

  “You’ll have to take us on faith for a while,” Ashe cut in. “This is a queer business and a necessarily top-secret one, to use the patter of our times.”

  They ate supper and Travis moved the pinto to the narrow lower end of the canyon, well away from the improvised landing field. Dusk had hardly closed in before the first of the cargo ’copters touched down. Soon he found himself making one of a line of men passing packages and boxes from the machine back to the shelter of the small grove of trees. They worked without any waste motion at a speed which suggested that time was of the hightest importance, and Travis found that he had caught that need for haste from them. The first machine was stripped of its load, rose, and was gone only minutes before a second one came in to take its place. Again an unloading chain formed, this time for heavier boxes which required two men to handle them.

  Travis’ back ached, his hands were raw by the time the fourth ’copter was freed and
left. Four more men had joined their party, one coming in with eaoh load, but there was little talk. All were concentrating on the unloading and storing of the material. In a period of lull after the departure of the fourth machine, Ashe came up to Travis accompanied by another man.

  “Here he is.” Ashe’s hand closed on Travis’ shoulder, drawing him out to face the newcomer.

  He was taller than Dr. Ashe, and there was no mistaking the air of command, or the power of those eyes which looked straight into the Apache. But after a long moment the big man smiled briefly.

  “You’re quite a problem for us, Fox.”

  “Or the missing ingredient,” corrected Ashe. “Fox, this is Major Kelgarries, at present our commanding officer.”

  “Well have a talk later,” Kelgarries promised. “Tonight’s rather busy.”

  “Clear the field!” called someone from the flare line. “Setting down.”

  They plunged out of the path of the fifth ’copter and work started again. The Major, Travis noted, was right in line with the others when it came to tossing boxes around, nor was there any more time for talking.

  Seven or eight loads, which was it? Travis tried to count them up, wriggling stiff fingers. It was still night but the flares had been extinguished. The men who had worked together now sat around the fire drinking coffee and wolfing sandwiches which had been delivered with the last cargo. They did not talk much and Travis knew they were as tired as he was.

  “Bedtime, brother. And am I glad to hit the sack!” Ross said between yawns. “Need the makings—blankets—anything?”

  Half stupid with fatigue, Travis shook his head. “Got my bedroll with m’saddle.” And he was asleep almost before he was fully stretched out on that limited comfort.

  In the day light of morning the camp looked disorganized.

  But men were already at work sorting out the material, working as if this was a task they had often done before. Travis, helping to shift a large crate, looked up to see the Major.

  “Spare me a moment, Fox.” He led the way from the scene of activity.