Philip E. High - The Time Mercenaries

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2024-12-20 0 0 321.66KB 137 页 5.9玖币
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The Time Mercenaries
by Philip E. High
Chapter One
THE SUBMARINE crept through the water with the stealth of her kind
but without high drama. This was routine, a normal return after a normal
exercise in peacetime.
It was a late December afternoon, with the coming night forming
shadows between the wave crests and a few snow flakes drifting down
from the dark sky.
Beneath the water, Randall said, "Up periscope," and sighed, pressing
his face to the rubber covered eyepieces as the instrument rose.
Happy days! Home for Christmas! Wonderful—if you had a tolerable
home. He was pleased for the men, of course, but for his own part he
would rather have remained at sea.
Before the periscope broke surface, however, his thoughts were
interrupted. Above the normal noises of the vessel was another sound
which would have been meaningless to the inexperienced but to Randall
spelled danger. In wartime he had heard that sound too often and, on
many occasions, for far too long.
As the periscope finally broke surface, he swung the instrument
desperately, searching for the cause of the sound. The area should be
navigationally clear and kept clear on Admiralty orders but…
"Dive, dive, dive!" He heard his own voice shouting the order, felt his
palm come down on the klaxon but he was aware of a curious feeling of
detachment, as if someone else had given the order.
A destroyer! There shouldn't be a destroyer within fifty miles! He had
caught only a brief glimpse of the sharp gray bows hurling back the sea in
twin white crests but she had been pushing it close to forty-five knots.
Worse, she had been coming straight at them.
They could all hear it now—Get this blasted tub down!—faces shiny and
tense, eyes fixed and unmoving.
Sound! The express train sound of a destroyer racing through the
water.
They were not going down fast enough. Unless a miracle occurred, the
destroyer was going to ram them. The sharp gray bows would come slicing
through rivet and bulkhead with a tortured crumpling sound.
Randall was aware that he was hunched, rigid and braced for impact.
There was no escape now: the destroyer was right on the top of them and
the noise of the racing screws seemed to fill the entire vessel.
It seemed to Randall that suddenly the world exploded. Somewhere
there was an appalling crash; the vessel lurched and seemed to be flung
upward. There were a series of vivid lightnings, nausea and a descending
curtain of blackness.
He was never sure if he quite lost consciousness but the darkness
seemed to vanish almost at once and brightness was hurting his eyes.
He stared into the light and slowly vague outlines began to emerge.
Surely that was the periscope?
Everything seemed to flicker again and then he found himself staring
into the white, strained face of First Lieutenant Cooper.
Cooper's lips were drawn back, exposing his teeth, and sweat ran in
little runnels from his temples to his neck.
"She missed us!" It was almost a prayer.
"Only just." Coldness seemed to blow across Randall's damp face.
"Check the entire ship for damage, Number One."
"Yes, sir." His voice seemed to blend with, and be carried away by, the
rapidly receding sound of the destroyer's screws.
He was back within less than two minutes.
"No report of damage from any compartment, sir. A couple of circuits
in the electrical system blew out but they can be replaced from stores." He
hesitated. "Four men passed out, sir. I had them put in the sick bay and
sedated. The S.B.A. could find no broken bones or signs of internal injury,
sir."
"Good work, Number One."
"Sir." Cooper's voice was hesitant and slightly hoarse.
"It was kind of odd, wasn't it? I mean, I thought—I had the impression
that we were actually rammed." Randall met the other's eyes. "So did I."
Cooper blinked at him. "Any explanation, sir?"
"Frankly, no, but I think I can dream up something moderately
convincing." He switched on the intercom and unhooked the mike. "Now
hear this—now hear this. Captain speaking." He paused briefly. "As you
are all probably aware, we are very lucky to be alive. Only a few moments
ago we narrowly escaped being rammed by one of our own destroyers. I
may add here that this vessel had no right being in these waters and when
we get into port I shall hand in a very strongly worded report. I have no
doubt whatever that there will be a full inquiry.
"In the meantime, I am sure that many of you had the impression that
a collision actually occurred, but this is not an uncommon reaction in
times of extreme tension. On many occasions during the war, in depth
charge attacks, I was quite sure we had been holed and was amazed to
find later that we had sustained no damage whatever.
"In our own case, the illusion was heightened by the failure and
subsequent blowing-out of some of the electrical circuits. The failure of
the lighting system for a brief period and a great deal of sparking and
flashing no doubt convinced a large number of already over-tense minds
that a collision had actually occurred. As you have all observed, we
sustained no damage at all.
"Let us not be smug, however; we escaped serious damage by a miracle
and it behooves us to pause and give inward thanks for our escape."
He paused for an appropriate period and managed with some effort to
instill some slight amusement into his voice.
"I am sure, in view of the emotional strain you have all undergone, rum
all around would not pass unappreciated."
He snapped off the intercom. "Blow tanks. Up periscope."
A minute later he said, "Half ahead together," then "Think I'll take a
look around aloft."
Once in the conning tower, he leaned on the rail and drew the cold
winter air deep into his lungs. It had been a dream, hadn't it?
He looked across the dark choppy water and, slightly to port, the
warning beam from the Wendell lightship stabbed toward him like an
accusing finger and was gone.
Dead ahead, a cluster of lights pin-cushioned the horizon: Seaforth,
major port and their naval base, not far now.
Lieutenant Cooper joined him in the conning tower. "All shipshape
below, Skipper." He cleared his throat nervously. "You gave a pretty
convincing explanation, sir."
Randall looked at him sideways. "Did it convince you, Number One?"
Cooper thought about it. "I'm working on it," he said honestly.
"Factually, rationally, I go all the way, of course, but it seemed so damned
real at the time, I could have sworn on oath that we were rammed."
Randall found his pipe and thrust it unlighted between his teeth.
"Obviously we were not, but it might be interesting to compare our
experiences later. How about the Long Bar on Slade Street, preferably over
a brandy?"
This is better." Cooper sipped the brandy gratefully and stretched his
long thin legs under the small table. "Lights, people, music—it makes one
feel human again, sir."
"Quite." Randall removed his peaked cap. "Well, Number One, let's get
down to cases. I take it that you thought you heard the impact."
Cooper looked relieved. "Well, yes, sir, I'm almost ready to swear—" He
stopped.
"Something the matter?"
"I—" Cooper lifted the brandy glass and put it down again a little
unsteadily. "Must be the lights, sir, but for the moment you looked—you
still look—so damned young."
"Really, Number One! I am forty-six, graying at the temples and my
hair is thinning rapidly."
"Perhaps—perhaps you'd better take a look in the mirror behind the
bar, sir."
Randall looked puzzled. "Very well, it's my round anyway. Drink up and
I'll get these glasses back." He took them and walked toward the bar.
"Two double brandies, please." He caught a glimpse of himself in the
long, brightly lighted mirror and one of the glasses slipped through his
fingers and broke on the floor.
His hair was thick, dark and slightly wavy. His face was still lean and
brown but the flesh was firmer and a lot of wrinkles had disappeared from
around his eyes. Somehow, somewhere, at least from his appearance, he
had dropped sixteen years. He was thirty again.
He heard himself say, "Sorry, I'll pay for the glass—yes, yes, I am quite
all right, thank you. Two double brandies, please."
He returned to his table on legs which felt as if they had developed new
and treacherous joints at the knees.
"I see what you mean." He sat down, heavily.
"I'm sorry, sir, I thought you ought to know." Cooper's attempt to sound
normal was heroic but unconvincing. "It's just another thing; despite all
the rationalization I haven't felt right since—since it happened, sir."
Randall frowned at him. It was on the tip of his tongue to come back
with some sarcastic remark but the words would not come. He had not felt
right himself.
They both became aware that someone was standing by them and both
looked up together.
"Captain Randall and Lieutenant Cooper?" The questioner was well
dressed but hatless. The gray hair was parted in the center and the face
was lean, brown and hard.
"Yes, what can we do for you?" Randall managed to took both polite
and interested.
"I'm afraid I'm here for sterner purposes than amiable cooperation,
Captain." He produced a small brown folder from his pocket and held it
out for their inspection. "The name is Forsythe; as you see, I'm from Naval
Intelligence."
Forsythe conducted the two men into a small but comfortable office a
mile or so away.
"Please sit down." He sat down behind the desk and faced them. "I take
it that you have no idea why you are here?"
"None at all, sir."
"I see." He reached down and produced something from the desk
drawer. "Perhaps, first, you should look at the evening paper. Front page,
the headlines should be enough."
Randall took the paper and felt the muscles in his hands lock painfully.
DESTROYER RAMS SUBMARINE. SUBMARINE CREW FEARED
LOST
The Admiralty announced at 17.50 hours this evening that the
destroyer Mentor had collided with the submarine Euphrates at a point
approximately four miles due East of Seaforth.
Salvage and recovery vessels are being rushed to the area but little
hope is entertained for the crew of the submarine.
Naval divers report that the vessel, badly holed, is now lying on its
side at a depth of …
Not trusting himself to speak, Randall handed the paper to Cooper,
dully aware of a trickle of sweat crawling down his temple.
Cooper read the headlines, then put the paper on his lap, his hands too
unsteady to hold it in front of him.
Forsythe waited politely for him to finish, then he said, "Well?"
Randall felt his cheeks burn suddenly. "What the hell do you
mean—well?" He fought for self-control. "Sorry, sir, but I think an
explanation, if any, should come from you. What is this, some sort of
security stunt?"
"Not a stunt, Captain. Call it a transition."
Randall half rose from his chair, then lowered himself into it again.
"Are you trying to tell us we're dead and that this is some sort of afterlife,
heaven, hell or what-have-you?"
"You're off course, Captain, but close enough to accept an explanation.
Briefly, you were rammed, you sank and, because of bad weather, salvage
was not attempted for nearly two months. When the weather finally
settled, a war-scare intervened and again salvage was abandoned.
Actually, Captain Randall, you were beneath the ocean a very long time. So
long, in fact, that medical science had taken giant strides and we were
able to resuscitate you and nearly all your crew."
Cooper rose, his face flushed. "That's a biological impossibility! What
sort of fool do you take me for?"
Forsythe looked at him without expression and produced a printed
sheet of paper. "This is a report of conditions in your vessel when it was
finally salvaged, conditions which had prevailed over a considerable
period. As you will see it is written in simple terms with a minimum of
technical and chemical references." He handed it to Cooper. "Incidentally,
I am afraid that later we shall have to call upon you to reduce it to even
simpler terms for the benefit of your crew."
Cooper finished the paper and passed it to Randall. "There is still a
damn lot which doesn't fit—sir. Look, we walked through Seaforth, we had
a drink in a pub, everything was the same."
Forsythe looked at him with faint compassion. "Our psychologists
advised us that an abrupt transition from the far past to an
incomprehensible future might have dangerous mental repercussions.
Acting on their advice, therefore, we are bridging the gap from past to
future by easy stages. Seaforth—the Seaforth through which you think you
have walked and, incidentally, berthed your vessel—is an illusion created
by special techniques for your personal therapy. If this startles you, I am
afraid I must startle you even more because you are not on the planet
Earth."
Randall, who had been dividing his attention between the report and
the other's words, looked up. His face had a hard and strangely
determined look. "In my time I have been called both a cynic and a
materialist; I don't know if either description applies now, but I suspect a
catch."
"Catch?" Forsythe's eyebrows rose. "Please, I am not familiar with all
the idioms of your period. Kindly explain." Randall took out his pipe,
inspected the bowl and knocked out the ash on a convenient ash tray. "If
your story is true—and we have no evidence as yet—you want something.
What point was there in resuscitating an entire submarine crew who
would not only be completely out of touch with your culture but could
contribute nothing to it? We are here, therefore, either for purposes of
study, as specimens, or for some more devious purpose which you propose
breaking to us gently."
Forsythe straightened in his chair, some of the color gone from his face.
"You are an astute man, Captain Randall, too astute; the historical
department miscalculated your reactions badly. I was not prepared for
this."
"We have a certain native cunning," said Randall nastily. He lighted his
pipe and puffed smoke defiantly. "Suppose we get down to something
honest."
Forsythe met his eyes for a brief moment, then shrugged. "Very well,
Captain, I have no alternative but complete frankness. Some years after
your—ah—demise, certain events took place which compelled us, as a
safety precaution, to make certain psychological adjustments to our
personalities. This practice has continued for several generations. We have
now run into certain difficulties which, owing to these adjustments, we
cannot handle. Do I make myself plain?"
Randall stared him out. "I can add two and two, thank you. I can also
juggle, in a mild way, with equations. I find it significant that you should
select the fully trained crew of a fighting ship. I assume, although I may be
mistaken, you have also restored the ship as well."
Forsythe shifted uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to meet the
other's eyes, then he sighed. "You are correct. We wanted an unadjusted
nucleus as a basis for resistance. We wanted a fully equipped fighting
machine, however archaic, to give the enemy food for thought and
perhaps curb his warlike intent."
"You are desperate or an optimist."
"Both, I am afraid."
"You are being invaded?"
"The enemy already holds the northern continent of this planet. We
were compelled, despite offers of negotiation, to evacuate and, even then,
many thousands of lives were lost. The enemy is now consolidating his
gains but we expect an attack on this, the southern continent, at any
hour."
"So you propose employing us as mercenaries." Randall's face was
flushed angrily. "Throwing us at an enemy against which our assault
weapons would be about as useful as stone clubs against an armored
column."
"We will make available all the scientific facilities at our command. We
will provide robots, scientific interpreters and give you a completely free
hand as to how you conduct your defense."
Forsythe suddenly rose, his face intense. "This is a survival question,
Captain. We do not apologize for trying to save the race by any means to
hand. We have restored your lives which were cut short and, in your case,
returned to you an additional fifteen years. We can promise you, at least, a
further seven hundred years of active virile life with modern medical
techniques. On top of this, we are prepared to pay you and your men one
hundred times their original earnings in present-day currency. There will
be no overhead, no taxes, clothing or food, and the entire resources of
medical knowledge will be provided free of charge. Likewise, recreational
facilities, period entertainment, liquor and food can be laid on at your
request and when required."
He lowered himself slowly back into the chair. "I am a little vague as to
the social and moral structure of your period but a considerable number
of our women have already volunteered to make themselves available
without reservation should you require it."
Randall took the pipe out of his mouth and studied the slow curl of blue
smoke rising from the bowl. His face was no longer hard but thoughtful,
and, in truth, he was feeling vaguely chastened.
"You're desperate." It was a statement.
"We have our backs to the wall and, owing to adjustment, cannot lift a
finger in self-defense. So deep does this adjustment go that we cannot
even adapt the robots for fighting purposes. In this field you may be able
to help us after appropriate instruction."
Randall replaced the pipe between his teeth and smiled faintly. "We are
still lacking in proof as to your claims."
"That is easily confirmed. Pull back the curtain and look out of the
window."
ChapterTwo
RANDALL LOOKED around the room dubiously. It looked like a
barrack room; it even looked like a familiar barrack room. It looked like
the recreation room, Howard block, at Westcot Naval Barracks.
The barracks themselves had looked the same when he had entered.
Guards at the gates, the ancient figureheads, the statue of Admiral Culver
with the same bird droppings on the cocked hat and a chip of stone out of
the left ear.
He was compelled to remind himself and, at the same time, doubt the
illusion. This was not Howard block at Westcot Naval Barracks; this was
an illusion engineered by the future for the benefit of the past.
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