Time of the Great Freeze

by Robert Silverberg

  "Won't the underground cities be drowned when the ice melts?" Carl asked.

  Dave shook his head. "The cities are sealed. Besides, the water won't stay on the continental areas. It'll rush off down the slope to the ocean. And there'll be evaporation. Don't get the idea that everything will turn into a gigantic lake when the ice goes. It'll be gradual-a slow retreat."

  Jim tried to picture a mile-thick glacier melting, and the water running off into the ocean. It defeated his imagination. It was hard for him even to imagine what an ocean could look like. Something like this frozen sea of ice, he figured, only wet, and moving with waves and currents…

  * * *

  When they had covered eleven and a half miles, they stopped to recharge the accumulators. It was impossible to recognize any landmarks; so far as Jim could tell, they were right where they had started, in the middle of an endless plateau of ice. But the sextant said they had traveled. And the sun was high overhead, now.

  A few moments after they had halted, the first difference between this stopping place and the last became evident: they were not alone here.

  There were shapes on the horizon. Dark, bulky figures were drawing near.

  Ted Callison saw them first. He squinted into the blaze of light bouncing from the ice, and then grabbed hastily for the binoculars in Jim's knapsack.

  "What do you see?" Jim asked.

  "Things," Ted murmured. "Big ugly things."

  "People?"

  "No," he said. "Animals. Gigantic animals!"

  By this time, nearly everyone had his field glasses out. Jim wrenched his own back from Ted, who fumbled in his knapsack for his rightful pair.

  Jim gazed at the advancing creatures with amazement and mounting incredulity. It was hard to judge their size, since there were no trees or rocks to gauge them against, but they were big, at least half as high again as a man. There were a dozen of them, shambling, hairy, four-legged creatures with sinister drooping snouts and a nest of complex bony-looking stuff sprouting from their heads.

  Jims pulse throbbed. In the underground city, there was neither room nor food for animals of any sort, not even dogs or cats. He had seen pictures of animals, just as he had seen pictures of trees and mountains, but the whole concept of living creatures who were not human left him a bit mystified. Yet here they came, moving slowly over the ice, stooping now and then to lick the ground.

  "What on earth are they?" Jim whispered.

  "Could they be horses?" Dave Ellis asked. "Horses have four legs, I think."

  "No," Chet Farrington said. "Horses don't have antlers-the things on their heads. These are some kind of moose. Or caribou, or elk. I don't remember the exact differences, but that's what these are."

  "Dangerous?" Roy Veeder asked.

  Chet shrugged. "I suppose they could be if we get them angry. Looks mostly like they're grazing on the ice. They aren't flesh-eaters."

  "Grazing?" Jim asked. "On what?"

  "Algae," Chet explained. "You studied hydroponics. You ought to know about algae."

  "Sure," Jim said. "Microscopic plants. But living on the ice?"

  "They're adapted to the cold. The moose lick them up. It's probably a full day's work for a moose to lick up enough algae to keep himself alive."

  The creatures were grotesque, Jim thought. They were inhabitants of another world, the world of the glacier. He gripped the binoculars tightly, fascinated and repelled at the same time by the thick wooly fur, by the spindly legs with the wicked-looking hoofs, by the intricate convolutions sprouting from their heads. What was the word Chet had used? Antlers?

  His nostrils, sensitive in the pure air, brought the smell of the beasts to him: rank, sickening.

  "The wind's blowing toward us," Chet said. "They don't smell us yet, and I guess they can't see us. But we'd better get our power torches ready. If they panic and run toward us, we might get trampled."

  Ted Callison, who had been scanning the horizon, pointed suddenly toward the south.

  "Here come some more of them!" he cried.

  Everyone swung around to look. Jim saw only a dark line against the snow at first, but then the image resolved itself into…

  "Those aren't animals coming now," Dr. Barnes said. "They're men. Hunters!"

  5

  NOMADS OF THE ICE WORLD

  There were at least two dozen of them, stalking the animals. They were still half a mile or more away, but coming on steadily, a straggling line of club-wielding men.

  "Savages," Dr. Barnes said quietly. "Nomads of the ice."

  "Will they make trouble for us, Dad?"

  "I don't know," the older man said. "Keep the power torches handy, just in case."

  The advancing hunters, though, showed no interest yet in the eight strangers to their territory. All their attention was concentrated on the roaming band of grazing beasts. Jim stared through his field glasses until his eyes throbbed with pain.

  They were close enough to be seen in detail now. The hunters were short, brutish-looking men, squat and bulky, clad in animal skins and high leather leggings. Unkempt black hair tumbled to their shoulders. Some carried thick clubs, which Jim saw were fashioned not of wood but of the bones of some huge animal; others were armed with bows and arrows.

  Keeping downwind of the grazers, the nomads began to fan out into a wide half-circle, surrounding them. Now and then one of the savages threw a curious look at the newcomers, but they kept their heads turned toward the animals.

  The biggest, most majestic of the moose lifted his ponderous head. He had scented something! He pawed uneasily at the ice with his hoofs, took a few steps, turned to peer out of obviously shortsighted eyes at the attackers slowly creeping up on his band. The nomads were less than a hundred yards away now, and Jim was able at last to judge the true size of the beasts. They were enormous, seven and eight feet high at the shoulders.

  One of the hunters was nocking an arrow. Thick muscles rippled and bulged as the string was drawn back. He let the arrow fly!

  Straight on target it went, embedding itself in the throat of the lead moose! The superb creature reared and whirled, hurt but apparently not seriously crippled by the flimsy-looking shaft. The other animals began to mill, to grunt in distress as the circle of hunters closed in.

  Suddenly the air was thick with arrows.

  The moose were panicky, stampeding. Jim gasped as three of them burst through the circle, trampling down two hunters as though they were dolls. The two little men went sprawling. A rivulet of blood spread across the ice as the three beasts made good their escape.

  The remaining moose, though, were still trapped in the now tight circle of hunters. Their hairy bodies bristled with the arrows lodged in them. One animal had fallen, an arrow in its eye, and lay writhing on the ice while two of the club-wielders pounded mercilessly at it. A second, battered to its knees, growled defiance and butted with its antlers at its assailants. A third, bleeding in a dozen places, still stood erect, trumpeting ear-splitting calls of anger over the ice.

  The hunters closed upon them for the kill. Forgotten now were the other six animals, who were allowed to break through the circle and flee, despite their wounds. All three trapped moose were down, now, and clubs were flailing. The sight horrified Jim, but he forced himself to watch. He had never seen violent death before.

  It was all over in a few minutes. Three great creatures lay dead on the ice. A dozen of the hunters went efficiently to work with bone knives, skinning the beasts, peeling off huge chunks of fat and meat and wrapping them in the animal hides for easy transportation.

  Now, and only now, did the hunters deign to notice the eight strangers in their midst.

  Three of the hunters strode over. They were short, Jim saw, no more than five feet tall, but their bodies were thick and hard-muscled, and they showed no sign of distress over the exposure of their arms and faces to the cold. One was gray-haired and stubble-bearded, apparently the leader of the band. The other two were much younger. None of them looked a
t all friendly.

  The old one said something. He spoke in short, sharp monosyllables, harsh grunting sounds that emerged as though each one cost him dearly.

  Dr. Barnes replied, speaking clearly and loudly: "We come in peace. Peace."

  Again the monosyllabic grunts. The two younger hunters conferred in brusque whispers. The old chief stared malevolently at Dr. Barnes.

  "Take this," Dr. Barnes said, and handed the power torch he was holding to Jim. He held out his hand, fingers upraised. "Peace," he repeated. "I carry no weapons. Peace! Friendship!"

  Back came more incomprehensible words-higher in pitch now, more excited-sounding.

  Dr. Barnes glanced at Dom Hannon. "Dom, does that language of theirs make any sense to you?"

  The philologist shrugged. "It sounds as though it may have been English once. But the language has rotted away. There's nothing left of it but a few grunts. I can't pick up the sense of it."

  Several other hunters detached themselves from the group dressing the kill, and strolled over. The scene began to look ugly. The hunters were sinister-looking little men, brutish and suspicious, and their bodies had the acrid smell of people among whom bathing is unknown.

  "They must think we're trespassing on their hunting territory," Roy Veeder said. "He's probably warning us to get back to our own neighborhood."

  "If they try anything," Ted Callison muttered, "we'll let them have it with the torches!"

  "No," Jim said. "They belong here and we don't. We've got no right to kill them!"

  "Only in self-defense," Roy said. "Looks to me as if they're going to attack."

  And, for a moment, it did appear that trouble was brewing. The parley was getting nowhere. Dr. Barnes and the nomad chief had given up the attempt to communicate through language, and were pantomiming, but even that was not creating much mutual understanding. The old chief had his knife out and was waving it through the air in a belligerent fashion, while Dr. Barnes smiled, spoke mildly, showed his empty hands, and pointed to himself and then onward toward the sea to indicate he was only passing through, not staying to compete for hunting rights.

  Meanwhile, the younger hunters were carrying on an independent-and heated-discussion of their own. It looked to Jim as if one of them were arguing for an immediate attack, the other one counseling patience.

  All but five of the hunters had gathered around the parleyers now. The five were still busy with the kill. No one seemed at all interested in the two dead or dying men who had been trampled by the escaping animals.

  Two of the youngest hunters were gripping their knives in an obviously menacing way. It seemed that in another moment violence might erupt between the two groups. Dr. Barnes was grimly acting out every kind of charade that he thought might pacify the hunters, but he clearly did not appear to be getting through.

  Suddenly he turned. "Carl, do you have police medic training?"

  "Yes, sir. First aid, at least."

  "All right. Get your medic kit and come on with me. You too, Jim. Keep that power torch handy, just in case they misunderstand."

  Jim and Carl followed Dr. Barnes across the ice to where the fallen hunters lay. A stir ran through the band of nomads, but they remained gathered together, muttering to one another.

  Dr. Barnes knelt by the side of one hunter. The fallen man wasn't a pretty sight. Flying hoofs had crashed into him and knocked him down, other hoofs had trampled across his skull. His face was nothing but a bloody smear. His chest was caved in.

  "Nothing we can do for him, poor devil," Dr. Barnes muttered. "Let's see about the other one."

  The second man was still alive. His fur jacket was half ripped off, and Jim could see the ugly gouge in his chest where a passing moose had kicked him. The hairy, dirty skin was purple and swollen around the wound. He had been kicked in several other places, too, and the skin had been broken, but he did not seem really badly hurt.

  Carl opened the medic kit and took out retractors and a sterilizer. He worked briskly and efficiently; he was no doctor, but medical equipment had been refined to the point where anyone with a little first-aid training could take care of even serious injuries. Dr. Barnes moved the wounded man into position while Carl drew back the edges of the big gash with the retractors and passed the sterilizer the length of the cut. A quick hum, a flash of light, and the danger of infection was past.

  Carl took a flesh-sealer from the little medic kit. Tiny metals claws seized the ragged edges of the wound, drew them together.

  "He's going to have a pretty ugly scar," Carl said apologetically. "I'm not very good at matching the tissues yet, I'm afraid."

  "Don't let it worry you," Dr. Barnes said. "They were going to leave him for dead."

  "They're coming over to have a look," Jim said uneasily. "The whole bunch of them. They look ugly."

  "Just go on working, Carl," Dr. Barnes said quietly. He glanced up at Jim. "Let them come within about six feet of us, but no closer. And stay cool."

  Jim nodded. He watched the nomads crowd round, and held the power torch in readiness, though without aiming it. The nomads seemed awed by the instruments Carl was using, and they kept their distance, their mood changing from one of menace to one of uncertainty and fear.

  Carl worked methodically, closing the wound, sealing it with the heat-and-pressure device that had replaced surgical stitches centuries before. When he was finished, a ragged red line ran down the man's chest-but the wound was closed.

  "Go on," Dr. Barnes said. "Let's get the other cuts now."

  In a matter of minutes, the injured hunter's wounds were rendered aseptic and sealed. The man stirred. His eyes opened, and he looked at his saviors in dull incomprehension. He lifted a shaky hand, touched it to the rough patch of sterile plastispray covering the wound on his chest. Then he looked at his companions and said something to them. They answered with hoots of amazement. The injured man tried to get to his feet, rose as far as his knees, halted there, dizzy, swaying. Two of the hunters started forward to help him, then hesitated until Carl and Dr. Barnes stepped back.

  The injured man rose, leaning against them, and took a few hobbling steps. A moment later, every hunter had his knife drawn!

  Jim leveled the power torch, ready to wipe out the whole band if he had to. But he relaxed as he saw what the nomads were doing.

  They were tossing their knives down at Carl's feet!

  Carl grinned in amazement and surprise as each of the hunters, in turn, added his bone knife to the heap, then withdrew and sank to his knees in the snow. The last to pay homage was the grizzled old chief himself. He came forward almost grudgingly, flipped his knife onto the pile, and dropped in obeisance.

  "I think you've just become chief of the tribe, Carl," Jim said with a laugh.

  Carl turned to Dr. Barnes. "What do I do now?"

  "Pick up the chief's knife. Hand it back to him."

  Carl did so. The chief, still kneeling, stared blankly at the crude bone knife as Carl offered it, butt first. He did not seem to understand at all. Carl pressed the knife into his hand, and in sudden inspiration touched the old man's shoulder, as if giving a blessing. Then he stepped back.

  The chief rose, sheathing the knife, and for the first time broke into a broad smile, baring the stubs of worn yellow teeth.

  After that everything was simple. The gulf in communication that had existed was magically bridged. Now, Dr. Barnes's pantomiming got across, as was shown by the smiles and the excited chatter of the hunting folk. Dr. Barnes pointed to himself, to the other seven city people, and then toward the sea. The nomad chief nodded. With his knife, he drew a line in the snow, indicated their present location by tapping his chest and then the ground, and sketched out a second line running from that point to the other line. He repeated it several times.

  "What's he trying to tell us?" Jim asked.

  "I think he's saying that we can have safe conduct as far as his territory reaches," Dr. Barnes said. "Another few miles, at any rate."

  The cri
sis was past. The injured hunter, still shaky but able to move around, had rejoined his comrades. Jim watched as they cut away a slab of ice and buried their dead fellow in the glacier, heaping snow to hide his body.

  Then a new crisis developed-far less menacing than the last one, but just as perplexing. The man who had been wounded sought out Carl, carrying in his hands a raw gobbet of moose meat! He held the great bloody chunk of flesh out toward his savior.

  Carl took the meat, but held it gingerly, looking at it with barely concealed disgust.

  "What am I supposed to do with it?" he asked.

  "Eat it," Dr. Barnes said. "It's a friendship offering."

  "Eat it? Raw?"

  "He'll take offense otherwise," Dr. Barnes said.

  Carl shuddered, and Jim had to turn away, laughing at the husky ex-policeman's plight Carl took a bite of the red meat, grimaced, gulped.

  A moment later, Jim was laughing out of the other side of his mouth as a slimy hunk of meat was pressed into his hands, too. The nomads were showing their friendship in the only way they knew how, by offering food, and one at a time they were coming forward to give meat to the newcomers.

  The eight city men forced back their qualms and ate, for the sake of peace. Even Chet, with his famous appetite, looked uneasy. Jim took a bite, retched, gagged, and tensed every muscle to keep the meat down. The idea of eating flesh, raw flesh, sickened him. There were no meat animals in the underground city. Men got their protein in other ways. And to stand here, in thirty-degree weather, munching on the raw flesh of an animal that had been alive half an hour before…

  "Eat," Dr. Barnes commanded, as they hesitated after a few bites.

  Jim ate. Carl ate. They all ate, pointing at each others blood-smeared jowls, making a grim joke out of the ceremony of friendship.