“He threw the water on purpose,” Ottar said angrily.
“Of course he did. You’re at sea, miles from land, in the middle of a storm, the storm blows the spray into your face. That must happen to you all the time at sea. You don’t get angry every time it happens and call the ocean bad names, now do you?”
“Not at sea. On dry land in front of my house.”
There was no point in explaining again about how they were making a picture, and how the picture was supposed to be real, and how the actors must think of it as being real. He had been over that ground about forty times too often. Movies meant nothing to this chunk of Viking virility. What did mean anything to him? Eating, drinking and the simpler pleasures. And pride.
“I’m surprised that you let a little thing like some water bother you,” Barney said, then turned to the propman. “Give me a full bucket, will you Eddie, right in the kisser.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Hendrickson.”
Eddie took a long-arm swing and hurled the contents of the bucket into the air stream from the wind machine, which blew the solid spray into Barney’s face.
“Great,” he said, trying to keep his jaw from shaking. “Very refreshing. I don’t mind water in my face.” His smile had a ghastly set to it because he was half frozen to death. The September evenings in the Orkneys were cool enough without the drenching, and now the rushing air cut through his wet clothes like a knife.
“Throw water on me!” Ottar ordered. “I’ll show you about water.”
“Coming up—and don’t forget your lines.” Barney stepped back out of camera range and the projectionist called over to him:
“Reel is almost empty on the back projection, Mr. Hendrickson.”
“Rewind it then, hurry up or we’ll be here all night.”
The heaving, storm-tossed sea vanished from the back-projection screen and the company relaxed. The propmen, their platform next to the knorr, switched on the electric pump to fill their barrel with more sea water. Ottar stood alone, at the steering oar of the beached ship, and frowned angrily at the world. The big spotlights made a brilliantly lit stage of the knorr and the bit of beach beside it; the rest of the world was in darkness.
“Give me a cigarette,” Barney said to his secretary, “mine are soaked.”
“Ready to go now, Mr. Hendrickson,” the projectionist shouted.
“Great. Positions everyone, camera.” The two propmen threw their weight onto the long levers so that the bit of false decking that Ottar stood on pitched and tossed, “Action.”
With jaws clamped, Ottar stared into the teeth of the gale, fighting the steering oar that a man out of sight below was trying to pull out of his hands. “Stay away from the sail!” he shouted. “By Thor I’ll kill any man that touches the sail.” The water sprayed over him and he laughed coldly. “I don’t mind the water—I like water! Full sail—I can smell land. Keep hope!”
“Cut,” Barney ordered.
“He’s a great ad libber,” Charley Chang said. “That wasn’t quite the way I wrote it.”
“We’ll leave it in, Charley. Any time he gets that close I call it a bull’s-eye.” Barney raised his voice. “All right, that wraps it up for today. Morning call at seven-thirty so we can get the early light. Jens, Amory—I want to see you up here before you go.”
They stood in the waist of the ship, near the big mast, and Barney kicked the deck with his heel.
“Can this thing really make it to North America?” he asked.
“There is no doubt of it,” Jens Lyn said. “These Norse knorr were better ocean-going vessels—and faster ones—than the ones Columbus had, or the Spanish and British ships that sailed to the new world five hundred years later. The history of these ships is well recorded in the sagas.”
“Remember, we’ve come to doubt some of the sagas of late?”
“There is other evidence. In 1932 a replica of one of these craft, just sixty feet long, made the westward passage along one of the routes Columbus used—and improved on Columbus’ best time by over 30 per cent. There are many misconceptions about these vessels, for instance it is believed that they could only run before the wind with their large, square sail. Yet they could—they can—sail within five points of the wind. In fact, most interesting, the point of sailing is called beita, from which we derive the modem term of ‘beating’ up to windward.”
“I’ll take your word for it. What’s that stench?”
“The cargo,” Jens said, pointing to the large mounds with tight-lashed coverings that stood along the deck. “These ships do not have holds, so all the cargo is carried on deck.”
“What’s the cargo—Limburger cheese?”
“No, mostly food, cattle feed, ale, that sort of thing. The odor comes from the hide tarpaulins that are waterproofed with seal-oil tar and butter.”
“Very ingenious.” Barney pointed into the dark mouth of the open well behind the mast. “What happened to the hand pump you were going to install here? This ship has to get to Vinland or we have no picture. I want every precaution taken to make sure of that. Amory said a pump would be an improvement—so where is it?”
“Ottar refused to have it,” Jens said. “He was very suspicious of it and was afraid it would break and he wouldn’t know how to fix it. You can say one thing for the system they use, one man standing in the well and filling a bucket and another throwing it overboard with this wooden arm, it may be crude but it always works.”
“As long as they have buckets and men, which I’m sure they’ll have enough of. All right, I’ll buy that. I don’t want to teach Ottar his business—I just want to make sure he gets there. Where is this navigation thing you rigged, Amory?”
“It’s sealed inside the hull where it can’t be tampered with, and there’s just a simple dial topside for the steersman to look at.”
“Will it work?”
“I don’t see why not. These northmen are very good navigators in their own right. Their sea passages are usually very short so they set their course and sail from a landmark astern to one ahead. They know how the ocean currents run and the habits of the sea birds so they can follow them to land. In addition to which they can estimate their latitude very closely by the height of the North Star above the horizon. Any assistance we give them should fit within the system they already use, so it can be an additional help—but one that wouldn’t cause a tragedy if it failed. The most obvious aid would seem to be a simple magnetic compass, but that would be too foreign to them, and a compass is particularly difficult to use this far north where there are so many magnetic anomalies and where the difference between true north and magnetic north is so marked.”
“That was what you didn’t do. So what did you do?”
“Sealed a gyrocompass into the stem up against the hull here, along with a load of new long-life nicad batteries. We’ll turn it on when they leave and it should run at least a month before the batteries poop out. The gyrocompass is one of the new microminiaturized, no-tumble, no-precession things developed for rockets. Then right here, set into the rail by the steersman, is the compass repeater.”
Barney looked in through the thick glass covering at the white arrow clearly visible against the black dial. The dial was completely blank except for a single large white spot. “I hope this means more to Ottar than it does to me,” he said.
“He likes it a great deal,” Amory said. “In fact he is quite enthusiastic. Maybe if I draw a sketch it would be clearer.” He took a felt-tipped pen and a notepad from his pocket and quickly made a simple drawing.
“The dotted line represents sixty degrees north latitude, and you will notice that this parallel is the one Ottar would normally sail to reach Cape Farewell here on the tip of Greenland, sailing due west and estimating the height of the North Star to keep him on the latitude. What we will do is set the gyrocompass so that it always points to Cape Farewell. When the pointer on the repeater dial touches the spot—and they both are luminescent and glow at night—the ship is h
eaded in the right direction. They will be guided right to the tip of Greenland.”
“Where they are going to spend the winter with some of Ottar’s relatives. Fine so far—but what happens in the spring when they have to go on? This sixty-degree course will take them right into Hudson Bay.”
“We will have to reset the compass,” Amory said. “Ottar will wait for us and we’ll put in new batteries and point the compass at the Straight of Belle Isle, right here. He should have enough faith in the instrument by then to follow it—even though his course won’t run along a parallel. However, the East Greenland Current does flow in the same direction and he is familiar with that. He’ll have no trouble reaching either the coast of Labrador or Newfoundland.”
“He’ll find Vinland all right,” Barney said. “But how do we find him?”
“There is a radio responder sealed in with the batteries. It will automatically send back a signal when it detects our radio signal. Then it is a simple matter of our using the radio direction finder.”
“Sounds foolproof. Let’s hope it is.” Barney looked along the low-bulwarked deck and up at the thin mast. “I wouldn’t even want to sail this thing across the bay, but then I’m no Viking. Tomorrow’s the day. We’ve done all the shooting we need to here. Launch the ship in the morning and we’ll run it in and out of the harbor a few times, shoot from the shore and from aboard ship. Then turn on your homing pigeon and let them go. And your gadget better work, Amory, or we’re all going to stay in Vinland and set up housekeeping with the Indians. If I can’t bring back this picture with me there’s just no point in going back.”
Gino popped his head up out of the bailing well like a jack-in-the-box and waved. “They can run it up now, I’m ready.”
Barney turned to Ottar, who leaned negligently on the tiller of the steer-board, and said, “Pass the word, will you.”
The tired seamen grumbled darkly as they heaved once more on the windlass. They had been running the big square sail up and down and tacking about the bay since dawn, while the shiphandling sequences were being shot. As the drum of the windlass turned, the oiled walrus-hide rope creaked through the hole in the top of the mast, hauling up the dead weight of the bulky woolen sail, made even heavier by the seal-hide strips that had been sewed on to give it shape. Gino trained the camera up the mast to film it as it rose.
“The time is late,” Ottar said. “If we sail today we better sail soon.”
“We’re just about finished,” Barney told him. “I want to get a good shot of you leaving the bay, and that can be the last one.”
“You shot that shot this morning, sailing into dawn you said.”
“That was from the shore. Now I want to get you and Slithey at the tiller as you sail from your home into the unknown…”
“No woman at no tiller on my ship.”
“She doesn’t have to steer the thing. She’ll just stand by you, maybe hold your arm, that’s not much to ask.”
Ottar shouted a flood of orders as the sail reached the top of the mast. The halyard that had pulled it up was secured to act as a backstay and unfastened from the drum of the windlass, then the anchor rope was attached in its place. With more heaving—caught on film by Gino—the anchor was hauled up and pulled aboard, a seaweed-hung kilik made from a large stone held in a framework of wooden rods. The ship was beginning to gather way as the wind filled the sail and Barney hurried the camera into position.
“Slithey,” he called out. “Onstage, and make it fast.”
It wasn’t easy to get from the fore to the rear deck of the knorr when she was fully loaded. Since there were no holds, and only two tiny sleeping cabins, not only was the cargo packed on deck, but in and around it were over forty people, six stunted cows and a lashed-down bull, a small flock of sheep, and two goats that stood high on the peak of the cargo. The bellowing, baaing and shouting made it hard to think. Slithey staggered her way through all of this and Barney helped her up onto the tiny deck. She was wearing a white gown with a low-cut kirtle, and looked very attractive with her long blond braids and her cheeks made rosy by the wind.
“Stand up there next to Ottar,” Barney told her, then moved himself out of camera range. “Camera.”
“Good shot of the back of their heads” Gino said.
“Ottar,” Barney shouted, “for Thor’s sake will you turn around, you’re facing the wrong way.”
“Facing the right way to steer,” Ottar said stubbornly, holding onto the handle of the steer-board that came across the deck from the side, and facing full astern toward the vanishing land. “When leaving land always look at it, making sure of direction. That is the way it is done.”
With a certain amount of pleading, cajoling—and bribery—Barney managed to get Ottar and Slithey to the far side of the handle where Ottar had to steer by looking over his shoulder. Slithey stood next to him, her hand resting on the wood next to his, and they got their shots of the receding shore.
“Cut,” Barney finally ordered, and Ottar relievedly went back to the correct position.
“I put you ashore around the point,” he said.
“Suits,” Barney said. “I’ll get on the radio and have one of the trucks waiting for us.”
Slinging the camera overboard was the only tricky part, and Barney stayed aboard after the others had disembarked, waiting until it was safely ashore. “See you in Vinland,” he said, putting out his hand. “Have a good trip.”
“Sure,” Ottar said, crushing Barney’s hand in his. “You find a good spot for me. Water, grass for animals, plenty hardwood trees.”
“I’ll do my best,” Barney said, shaking the blood back into his whitened fingers.
The Viking did not waste any time. As soon as Barney had jumped ashore he ordered, with relieved shouts and loud curses, that the beitass be rigged in position. This long pole fitted into a socket in the deck and the other end caught the edge of the sail so that it bellied into the wind. The ship pulled free of the land for the last time and headed for the open sea, the shouts and animal sounds fading into the distance.
“They better make it,” Barney said, half aloud. “They just had better make it.” He turned away abruptly and climbed into the truck. “Get me to the platform—and step on it” he told the driver. He could eliminate at least half of his fears at once by finding out if the ship would make a safe arrival in Iceland. The time machine did not simplify his problems, but it at least made the waiting and nail-chewing period a good deal shorter.
The camp was in a turmoil as they drove up, the tents being struck and everything loaded for the move to the new location, but Barney had no eyes for it; he tapped impatiently on the window frame. The entire operation was waste motion if anything happened to the ship. He was out of the car while it was still braking to a stop at the time platform. The jeep was already aboard and Tex and Jens Lyn were watching the professor charge the vremeatron batteries.
“Where’s Dallas?” Barney asked.
Tex pointed with his thumb. “In the can.”
“At a time like this!”
“We can go without him,” Tex said. “It doesn’t need the two of us for this job. All we have to do is deliver Ottar’s winter ration of whiskey once we know he arrived okay,”
“You’ll do what I say. I want two men along for protection, just in case. I don’t want any slip-ups. Here he comes now—get going.”
Barney stepped away from the time platform as the professor activated the field. As always—from the observer’s point of view—the voyage seemed to take no more than a fraction of a second. The platform vanished and reappeared again a few feet farther away.
It had changed though. Professor Hewett was sealed into his instrumentation shack, while the rest were in the jeep, which had its top up and side curtains attached. Almost a foot of snow blanketed everything, and a flurry of airborne snow blew out of the vremeatron’s field and coated the grass around it.
“Well?” Barney shouted. “What happened? Come out of there a
nd report.”
Dallas climbed down from the jeep and trudged over through the snow. “That Iceland,” he said. “What a climate they got there in October.”
“Save the weather report. Are Ottar and the ship all right?”
“Everything’s fine. The ship is up on the shore for the winter, and when we left Ottar and his uncle were getting smashed on the booze we brought. For a while there we worried he would never show, the Prof had to make four jumps to find him. Seems he stopped for some time in the Faeroes. Between you and me I don’t think he would ever have got to Iceland if his thirst hadn’t got the better of him. Once you get hooked on the distilled stuff, the homebrew doesn’t seem so hot.”
Barney relaxed, for the first time in a long time he realized, as the tension faded. He even managed a slight smile.
“Good. Now let’s get the company moved while we still have some daylight at this end.” He climbed aboard the time platform, walking carefully in the jeep’s tracks so he wouldn’t get his shoes full of melting snow, and opened the door of the control room.
“Got enough juice for another jump?” he asked.
“With the motor-generator going the batteries are charged at all times, a great improvement.”
“Then take us ahead in time to next spring, the year 1005, and land us at a good spot in Newfoundland, one of the sites you and Lyn searched when you were looking for the Viking settlements.”
“I know just the place,” Professor Hewett said, leafing through a notebook. “An ideal location.” He set up the coordinates on the board and activated the vremeatron.
There was the now familiar sensation of temporal displacement and the time platform settled onto a rocky shore. Waves broke, almost over them, and a smother of spray hissed down into the snow. A dark cliff loomed above, crumbling and sinister.
The Technicolor Time Machine Page 12
