The Technicolor Time Machine

by Harry Harrison

  “What do you call this?” Barney shouted above the boom of the breaking waves.

  “Wrong coordinates,” the professor called back. “A slight mistake. This is a different site.”

  “You had to tell me! Let’s go before we wash out to sea.”

  The second time jump brought them to a grassy meadow that overlooked a small bay. Tall trees marched up the bowl of the hills around them in solid ranks, and down through the meadow to the sea there twisted a clear and swift-running brook.

  “This is more like it,” Barney said as the others climbed out of the jeep. “Where are we, Jens?”

  Jens Lyn looked around, sniffed the air and smiled. “I remember this well, one of the first sites we checked. This is Epaves Bay, really an arm of Sacred Bay on the northernmost tip of Newfoundland. That is the Strait of Belle Isle out there. The reason we investigated this site—”

  “Great. Looks like just what we want. And isn’t the gadget in Ottar’s ship zeroed in on this strait?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then this is the spot for us.” Barney bent and picked up a handful of waterlogged snow from the platform and began forming it into a ball. “We’ll leave the area down by the mouth of the stream there for Ottar. Then set our camp up over there to the right, at the top of the meadow. It looks flat enough to keep the twentieth century off camera. Let’s go. Back to move camp. And I want this slush shoveled off first so we don’t have anyone breaking a leg.”

  Dallas bent over to fasten the lace on his boot and the target was too broad to resist. Barney hurled his snowball square into the middle of the taut denim.

  “Here we go. Vikings,” he said happily. “Let’s go settle Vinland.”

  13

  All the world was gray, silent, damp, pressing in on them. The fog muffled everything, soaking up sound as well as sight so that the ocean before them was an unseen presence until a low wave appeared, breaking silently into froth as it rushed up the slope of the sandy beach almost to their feet. The truck, no more than ten feet away, was only a dark shape in the mist.

  “Give it another try,” Barney said, squinting into the damp wall of blankness.

  Dallas, protected from the weather by an immense black poncho and wide-brimmed Stetson, raised the carbon dioxide pressure flask with the foghorn attached and opened the valve. The moaning blare of sound throbbed out across the water, still echoing in their ears after the valve was closed.

  “Did you hear that?” Barney asked.

  Dallas cocked his head and listened. “Nothing, just the waves.”

  “I swear I heard splashing, like someone rowing. Give it another blast, and keep it up, every minute, and listen closely in between.”

  The foghorn sounded again as Barney trudged up the slope to the canvas-shrouded army truck and looked into the back. “Any change?” he asked.

  Amory Blestead shook his head no without turning away from the radio receiver. He had earphones clamped to his head and was slowly turning the knob of the directional loop antenna on top of the set. It rotated in one direction, then in the other, and Amory looked up and tapped the pointer on the base of the loop.

  “As far as I can tell the ship hasn’t moved,” he said. “The bearing is still the same. They’re probably waiting for the fog to lift.”

  “How far away are they?”

  “Barney, be reasonable. I’ve told you a hundred times I can tell direction but not range with this setup. I can’t read anything from the signal strength of the responder, could be a mile, could be fifty. The volume has picked up since we first heard it three days ago, so they’re nearer, but that’s all I know. And I can’t work out the distance from the bearings because there are too many variables. We’ve been cutting back and forth so I can’t use the truck’s speedometer to get a baseline, and the Viking ship must have moved—”

  “You’ve convinced me. That’s what you can’t tell me—but what can you tell me?”

  “The same as before. The ship sailed from Greenland eighteen days ago. I aligned the gyrocompass with the Strait of Belle Isle, put in new batteries and turned on the responder and tested it, and we watched them leave.”

  “You and Lyn told me the crossing would take only four days,” Barney said, worrying a hangnail with his teeth.

  “We said it might take only four days, but if the weather got bad, the winds changed or anything like that, it could take a lot longer. And it has. But we have picked up a signal from the responder, which means they’ve made the crossing safely.”

  “That was two days ago—what have you done for me lately?”

  “Speaking as an old friend, Barney, this time traveling is doing absolutely nothing for your nerves. We’re supposed to be making a film, remember? All this other stuff we do is above and beyond the call of duty—not that anyone is complaining. But off with the pressure and make it easier on all of us, as well as yourself.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Barney said, which was about as close as he could ever come to an apology. “But two days—the waiting gets to you after a while.”

  “There’s really nothing to worry about. With this fog and no wind to speak of, laying off an unknown coast— they’re not going to do any moving about. There’s no point in rowing around if you don’t know where you’re going. Right now, according to the direction finder, we are as close to them as we can get on dry land and when the fog lifts we can guide them in—”

  “Hey!” Dallas shouted from the beach, “I hear something, out there in the water.”

  Barney skittered and half slid down the slope to the beach. Dallas had his hand cupped to his ear, listening intently.

  “Quiet,” he said, “and see if you can hear it. Out there in the fog. I swear I heard water splashing, like rowing, and voices talking.”

  A wave broke and receded, and for a moment there was a hushed silence—and the slapping of oars could be plainly heard.

  “You’re right!” Barney shouted, then raised his voice even louder. “Over here—this way!”

  Dallas shouted too, the foghorn forgotten for the moment as a dark shape loomed out of the fog over the sea.

  “It’s the boat,” Dallas said, “the one they had slung on deck.”

  They called and waved as a sudden rift opened in the mist, giving them a clear view of the craft and its occupants.

  The boat was made of some kind of dark skins and the three men in it were wearing fur parkas with the hoods thrown back, uncovering their long black hair.

  “They’re not Vikings,” Tex said, waving his arm so that his black poncho flapped. “Who are they?”

  When he did this the two men in the rear dug their round paddles into the water, but the man who was kneeling in the front whipped his arm forward and something flashed through the air towards Dallas.

  “They got me!” Dallas shouted and fell over on his back with a spear sticking up out of his chest. The foghorn hit the beach next to him and the valve opened and the sound blared, roaring out across the water. When it did the men in the boat reversed their paddling with vigor and within a few strokes had vanished again into the fog.

  Only a few seconds had passed from the time they appeared until the instant they vanished, and Barney stood, stunned by the impact, deafened by the wave of sound. It made thinking difficult and he had to stop it before he turned to Dallas, who still lay, unmoving, on his back, looking as dead as a kipper.

  “Pull this thing out, will you?” Dallas said in a calm voice.

  “I’ll hurt you—kill you—I can’t…”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. But make sure you pull up and don’t push down.”

  Barney gingerly tugged on the wooden handle of the spear and it came up easily enough, but it caught in Dallas’s clothing so that he finally had to brace his feet and pull hard with both hands. It came free and tore a great strip of rubberized cloth from the poncho. Dallas sat up and lifted the poncho and ripped open his jacket and shirt.

  “Look
at that,” he said, pointing to a red scratch on his ribs. “Another couple of inches to the right and it would have ventilated me. That hook was digging into me when I moved and felt a lot worse than it looks now, let me tell you.” He touched the sharp barb that projected from the ivory head of the spear.

  “What happened?” Amory called out, running down the slope from the truck. “What’s that? Wasn’t there a boat?”

  Dallas stood and tucked his shirt back in. “We have been contacted by the locals,” he said. “Looks like the Indians or the Eskimos or somebody got here before the Vikings.”

  “Are you hurt bad?”

  “Not fatal. This spearhead didn’t have my name on it.” He chuckled and looked closely at the weapon. “Nice job of carving and good balance.”

  “I don’t like this,” Barney said, groping out a damp cigarette. “Didn’t I have enough trouble as it was? I just hope they don’t find the Viking ship.”

  “I hope they do,” Dallas said with relish. “I don’t think they would give Ottar much trouble.”

  “What I wanted to tell you,” Amory said, “from up there in the truck you can see the fog breaking up, and the sun coming through in patches.”

  “And about time,” Barney said, dragging deeply on the cigarette so that it fizzled and crackled.

  Once the sun began burning away the mist it cleared quickly, helped by the west wind that blew steadily in their faces. Within a half hour it had lifted completely and there, clearly visible about a mile offshore, was Ottar’s knorr.

  Barney almost smiled. “Give them a blast on that thing,” he said. “Once they look this way they’ll see the truck.”

  Dallas kept triggering the CO2 cylinder until it finally squawked and died, and it had the desired effect. They could see the big sail narrow, then widen again as it was pushed around, and the white bone of foam appeared at the bow as the ship gathered way. There was no sign of the skin boat, which seemed to have vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

  A few yards offshore the knorr turned and hove to, sail flapping, rocking in the gentle swell. There was a great deal of arm waving and incomprehensible shouting.

  “Come on,” Barney shouted. “Come ashore. Why don’t you beach that thing?”

  “They must have their reasons,” Amory said. “The kind of shore here or something.”

  “Well how do they expect me go get out there?”

  “Swim maybe,” Dallas suggested.

  “Bright boy. Maybe you ought to dog-paddle over and give them a message.”

  “Look,” Amory pointed, “they’ve got a second boat aboard.” The knorr’s own boat, a twenty-foot-long miniature of the mother ship, was still visible on deck, but a smaller boat was being dropped over the side.

  “Something familiar about that thing,” Dallas said.

  Barney squinted at it. “You’re dead right. It looks just like the one the redskins had.”

  Two men climbed into the bobbing craft and began to row toward the shore. Ottar was in the bow, waving his paddle at them, and a few moments later he and his companions beached the skin boat and splashed ashore.

  “Welcome to Vinland,” Barney said. “How was the trip?”

  “Coast here no good, no grass for the animals, trees no good,” Ottar said. “Did you find a good place?”

  “The best, down the coast a few miles, just what you asked for. Any trouble on the crossing from Greenland?”

  “Wind the wrong way, very slow. Plenty of floating ice and seal and we saw two skrælling.[17] They were killing seals and tried to row away but we went after them, and when they threw spears we killed them. Ate their seals. Took their boat.”

  “I know what you mean, we just met some of their relatives.”

  “Where’s this good place you found?”

  “Right down the coast, around the headland and past the islands—you can’t miss it. Here, take Amory back in the ship with you, he’ll show you the place.”

  “Not me,” Amory said, raising his hands and backing away. “I just look at boats and I get green. My stomach would be turned inside out and I’d be dead three minutes after I left the shore.”

  With the regular soldier’s innate capacity to avoid an unpleasant task, Dallas was already on his way up the slope when Barney turned toward him. “I’m a truck driver,” Dallas said. “I’ll be waiting in the cab.”

  “All employees, loyal and true,” Barney said coldly. “I get the message, boys, don’t repeat it. All right, Amory, tell the truck driver to get to the camp. We’ll come in the ship as fast as we can and get Ottar’s people ashore, and maybe someday soon we can start making a movie again. Wake up Gino and tell him to get up on the hill, that spot we picked out, and shoot the ship when it comes in. And make sure those tire tracks along the beach are smoothed over.”

  “Right, Barney, just as you say. I wish I could go in your place, but me and ships…”

  “Yes, sure. Get going.”

  Barney got soaked getting into the boat, and the water was so cold it felt as though his legs had been amputated below the knees. The boat, just seal skins stretched over a bent-wood frame, was wobbly and skittered over the water like a great bug and he had to squat in the bottom and hold onto the sides for support. When they reached the knorr he couldn’t get out of the lurching craft and over the high side of the ship until strong hands reached down and hauled him up like a sack of grain.

  “Hananu! Sidustu handartökin,”[18] Ottar roared, and his men shouted back happily as they ran to swing the ship about for the last leg of her voyage. Barney retreated to the aft deck so he wouldn’t be trampled in the rush of activity. The seamen were shifting the beitass pole and the women screamed as they scattered out of the way, while the tethered sheep could only protest noisily when they were kicked aside. The crowded deck area resembled a seething farmyard, with the torn-open bundles of fodder and frightened livestock. In the middle of all the hubbub one of the women was hunkered over milking a cow into a wooden bucket. When the ship turned, the wind carried the odor of the bilges to Barney and the barnyard resemblance was even more apparent.

  Once they were under way things settled down and even the animals returned quietly to their feed. The following wind not only filled the sail but it drove most of the odors ahead of the ship and the air on the rear deck was fresh and clear. The cutwater at the bow hissed through the long Atlantic swells, churning up a rounded, foaming bow wave that rushed along the sides of the ship. Riding light as a cork over the sea, the knorr was a graceful and practical vessel, at home in her true element.

  “Land looks good,” Ottar said, steering with a light touch on the tiller bar, as he pointed with his free hand toward the shore, where large trees and patches of meadow were beginning to appear.

  “Wait until you get around the point,” Barney told him, “it’s even better there.”

  They were passing the islands that stood outside the bay and the animals caught the scent of the fresh grass and set up a clamor. The bull, hobbled and tied, pulled at its rope and bellowed and the women were shouting with joy while the men were singing. The voyage was coming to an end and the landfall was a good one. Even Barney felt the excitement as Epaves Bay opened up before them, with the tall trees rising up the hills to the blueness of the skies, and the fresh spring green of the grass meadows by the stream. Then he picked out the dark spot of his cameraman and the jeep on the slope and he remembered the film. He knelt behind the bulwark and stayed low and out of sight as he pulled himself over to a homed Viking helmet that was tied by a thong to a hole in one of the timbers. Only when this was settled clammily on his head did he raise up high enough to be seen from shore.

  Ottar was driving the ship at full speed toward the mouth of the stream and all aboard were shouting with excitement. The knorr scraped the sandy bottom, was lifted clear by a wave and carried forward, then touched bottom again and shuddered to a halt. Without bothering to lower sail, the crew and passengers were leaping into the surf and wading
ashore, laughing with joy, splashing through the stream and into the meadow beyond. Ottar tore up a great handful of the knee-high grass, smelt it, then chewed a bit of it. Some of the others were rolling on the ground, taking an animal pleasure in the solid earth after all the days aboard the ship.

  “Great!” Barney shouted, “absolutely great. The landing in Vinland after months at sea, the first settlers in the new world. A great shot, a great historical shot.” He made his way through the frenzied animals to the bow and stood up where he could be seen by the cameraman and waved his arm in a come-on motion. “That’s enough of that,” he shouted. “Get down here.”

  His voice couldn’t carry but the gesture was unmistakable. Gino stood up from behind the camera and waved back, then began to load the camera into the jeep. A few minutes later it churned along the beach and Barney jumped down from the ship and ran to meet it.

  “Hold it,” he called to Dallas, who was driving. “Swing around and get up on that bank there, directly opposite the stream. Gino, set the camera up on the top so we can get a head-on shot of the ship coming in, people running off, right into the camera, streaming by on both sides.”

  “Absolutely a tremendous picture,” Gino said, “the way they came out of the ship. Give me ten minutes.”

  “You got it. It’ll take longer than that to set the shot up again. Hold it,” he ordered Dallas, who was starting to swing the jeep around. “I want your bottle.”

  “What bottle?” Dallas asked, with open and innocent eyes.

  “The bottle you always got with you, come on. A loan, you’ll get it back later.”

  The stunt man reluctantly produced a black-labeled, one-quarter-empty bottle of whiskey from under the seat.

  “Well, well,” Barney said coldly. “Been getting into the private stock.”

  “I ran out, an accident, I’ll pay it back.”

  “And I thought I had the only key to this stuff. The things the Army taught people! Get moving.” He stuck the bottle inside his jacket and walked back to Ottar, who was kneeling by the stream and snuffling up water from his cupped hands.