Norton, Andre - Operation timesearch

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Operation Time Search

By Andre Norton

"ATLANTIS? A fairy tale!" The man by the window

half turned. "You can't be serious-" He began that

protest confidently, but that confidence ebbed when

there was no change in the expression on his companion's face.

"You saw the films of the first three runs. Did those

look like the product of someone's imagination? You

have inspected all the security measures devised to

make sure they were not. A fairy tale, you say." The

quiet gray-haired man leaned a little farther back in

his seat. "I wonder what does lie buried at the roots of

some of our traditional tales. Norse sagas, once dismissed

as fiction, have long since been proven to be chronicles

of historic voyages. Much of our folklore is distorted

clan, tribal, or national record. Dragons-now- Our

planet did have an age in which armored dragons

marched the earth-"

"But not in the memory of mankind!" Hargreaves

came away from the window, his hands resting on his

hips, his chin outthrust as if he welcomed battle, verbal at least.

"Don't you ever wonder why certain tales have

persisted, why they continue to linger over centuries,

told again and again? The man-devouring dragon-"

Hargreaves smiled. "I always heard it that the proper

dragon preferred a diet of tender young maidens-

until some doughty knight changed his mind for him

with sword or lance."

Fordham laughed. "But dragons, in spite of their

dietary habits, are firmly fixed in folklore around the

world. And their like did once roam the earth-"

"At a time, I repeat, which far antedated the arrival

of our most primitive ancestor."

"As far as we know," Fordham corrected. "What I say

is that there is a persistence of certain types of fairy

stories. When we set up this project-and you know the

reason for it---we had to have a starting point. Atlantis is

one of the most lasting of our legends. It has become so

much a part of our heritage that I think it is generally

accepted as fact-" .

"And all founded on a few sentences that were used by

Plato to hang some of his arguments on-"

"But suppose that Atlantis did once exist." Fordham picked

up a pencil, turned it end to end on the pad before him, but

made no markings. "Not in this world-"

"Where then? On Mars-? They blew themselves up, I

suppose, and left that pocking of desert craters-"

"Oddly enough, according to legend the Atlanteans did

eventually blow themselves up, or the equivalent. No, right

here on this planet. You have heard of the alternate history

theory-that from each major historical decision two

alternate worlds come into being."

"Fantastic-" Hargreaves interrupted.

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"Is it? Suppose that it is fact, that on one of those alternate

time lines Atlantis did exist, just as on another dragons

overlapped mankind."

"Even if that were so, how would we know about it?"

"True. We could be separated from those lines by whole

networks of major choices and decisions. Yet, suppose

when we were close together, there was a kind of seepage-

perhaps individuals even crossed. We have well-

authenticated stories of strange and unexplainable

disappearances from our own world, and one or two odd

people have turned up here under very peculiar

circumstances. And Atlantis is so vivid a story, has so seized

upon the imagination of generations, that we used it for our

checkpoint."

"Just how?"

"We fed-into the Ibby every known scrap of material on

the subject that is known by the modern worldfrom the

reports of geologists sounding the sea bottoms for possible

ridges of a sunken continent to `revelations' of cultists. And

Ibby gave us an equation in return."

"You mean you set up the probe-beam on that?"

"Exactly. And you have seen the resulting test films. Those

came from Ibby's calculations. And you'll admit they bear

no resemblance to the here and now."

"Yes, I'll say that much. And they were taken?"

"Right out there, over the landscape you've been viewing.

We're set today for a ten-minute run, the longest we have

dared to try. We use the mound for a checkpoint."

"Still having trouble over that?"

Fordham frowned. "We gave out the story that we are

clearing to build an addition to the labs. This Wilson who is

making all the fuss is chronically opposed to government

authority. He's built up this `Save our historic mound'

crusade mainly to get himself space in the city papers and to

harass the project. Started a rumor last year that we were

dabbling in some weird new experiment that would blow

the whole county off the map. He was warmed then by the

security people. But he believes this mound thing is safe.

However, `Save our historic mound' isn't as good for

arousing interest as `Look out, the eggheads are going to

blow us up.' His campaign is already running down.

"However, the mound makes a good checkpoint because it

is older than any other surviving man-made landmark

hereabouts."

"What if you turn up mound builders instead of

Atlanteans?"

"Well, then we'd have a better set of films than those we

already possess to rivet attention on the project, though

those we do have are more to our real purpose."

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"Yes," agreed Hargreaves. "And if this does work-if we can

get through ourselves-"

"We can tap natural resources, riches such as we cannot

imagine in this era. We've plundered and wasted and used

up most of the living treasures of our world. So now we

have to try to pillage somewhere else. Well, shall we go to

see-Atlantis?"

Hargreaves laughed. "Seeing is believing; one picture is

worth a volume of words. Give me a good film to take

back to Washington, and I may be able to up your

current appropriation. All right-show me Atlantis."

The weather for early December was surprisingly mild. Ray

Osborne opened the collar of his leather jacket. His ex-

paratrooper boots flattened ragged clumps of last season's

grass. The shadow of the Indian mound enclosed him now.

Early Sunday morning-Wilson had been right in his

suggestion about the time. The fence had had a gap just as

he had promised. There was only one building in sight, the

tower part of the hush-hush installation. And on this side of

the mound, he was safely out of sight, even if anyone was

on duty there.

What were they planning to build anyway-clearing it flat

with bulldozers? What would people do when there was no

more open country at all? Ray turned to face the mound,

readying his camera for the shots he had been sent to take.

His finger pressed

And, as if that had thumbed the red switch of final doom,

the world went mad. Ray staggered back, aware only of

intolerable pain in his head, pain associated with violet

flashes that blinded him. Silence- He rubbed at his watering

eyes. Mist faded, and he stood, swaying drunkenly, staring

about him in stunned disbelief.

The raw wound of the clearing, the distant earthmoving

machinery, and even the mound were gone! He was in the

shadow, not of mounded earth, but of a towering giant

tree, with another and another beyond!

Ray put out a shaking hand. He could feel rough bark-it was

real! Then he began to run down a moss carpeted corridor

between trees whose girth was that of monsters. "Get

back!" shouted something inside his head. "Back?" asked

another part of his dazed mind. Where was back?

Minutes later he burst from the dimness of that incredible

forest into a grass-grown plain. A withered root protruded

from the earth to send him sprawling, and he lay drawing

air into his lungs with panting gasps. Soon he became aware

that a hot sun beat down

upon him, far too warm for winter. He pulled up to his

knees to look about him.

Ahead no break in that plain, behind him the forest--nothing

he had ever seen before. Where was he? Shivering,

though the earth under him was warm, Ray forced himself

to sit quietly. He was Ray Osborne. He had gone out to the

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project on Sunday morning as a favor to Les Wilson, to

take some good shots of the mound to go with the article

Les was writing. Shots--his hands were empty! The camera?

He must have lost it back there when it happened. What had

happened?

Ray dropped his head between his hands. He fought a battle

with primitive panic and tried to think logically. But how

can one think logically about something such as this? One

minute standing in a sane, ordinary world-the next being

here. And where was here?

Slowly he got to his feet, thrusting his twitching hands into

the pockets of his jacket. Go back. He half turned to face

that silent density of forest and knew that he could not go in

there again, not yet. His heart began to thump heavily when

he thought of it. Somehow this open land seemed the lesser

of two evils. So he trudged on, to find a little later a break

in the plain. Below was a narrow gully that housed a stream,

and around that grew tall brush and saplings.

As he sought a path down the steep side, there was a

crashing in the brush below. Out of that green thicket,

straight at the almost perpendicular slope. hurtled a dark

shape. Sharp hoofs pawed frantically at the wall, bringing

down soil and stones. Then, appearing to realize there was

no climbing it, the creature, with a toss of its antlered head,

turned to face its hunters.

Ray clutched at the grass of the verge to keep from sliding

over. The hunted animal was directly below him, head low,

breathing in labored snorts. But he could not believe it was

real. Elk, if this huge monster could be an elk, did not run

wild in southern Ohio. It had an antler spread of more than

six feet and was far

taller than Ray-as out of proportion as the forest

trees.

From the brush leaped shaggy-coated wolfish beasts.

Avoiding the reaching scoop of the elk's antlers, the

first lunged for the animal's foreleg, clearly no novice

at this wicked game. They made a running fight,

dashing in to slash and then speeding away before the

larger animal could well defend itself.

Ray was roused from his absorption in the battle by a

shout. The hail drew one of the hounds momentarily

out of the fight. It answered with a sharp bark. In a

moment two-footed hunters appeared. They carried

nothing Ray could identify as a weapon, though one of

them had a short rod of metal. This he aimed at the

throat of the cornered elk, and from its tip shot a ray of

red light. Bellowing, the elk reared, to crash forward,

nearly striking one of the hounds. The dogs rushed in

to tear at the still quivering body, but the hunters

pulled them back from the kill, sending them howling

with well-aimed kicks and cuffs.

Drawing a dagger from a belt sheath, one of the men

set about butchering the fallen animal. Another fastened

leashes to the metal-studded collars of the hounds,

while the third wrapped the fire rod in cloth and

stowed it down the front of his jerkin.

All three were of medium height, but the broadness

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of their shoulders and the heaviness of their upper.

arms gave them a dwarfish look. Their coarse black

hair, shoulder length, was sleeked smooth with grease

and held by leather thongs. Their skin was between

copper and olive in shade. Broad mouths with thick

lips parting over strong yellow teeth, dark eyes, and

hooked noses comprised their features.

They wore tunics of grayish leather, tanned to the

flexibility of cloth, garments that reached from shoul-

der to mid-thigh. Over these were sleeveless metal-

enforced jerkins. High thick-soled buskins covered feet

and legs to the knees, but their arms were bare, save

for bands of metal set with dull stones. Their wide belts

supported sheathed daggers.

Ray crouched there, no longer attempting to recon-

cile anything he saw with reality. A dream-it must be

a dream. In time he was going to wake up-

Then one of the dogs discovered him. Its red eyes

found the source of the strange scent that had tickled

its nostrils. With a howl it flung itself to the limit of its

leash. The strand of hide halted its spring. In an

instant it tried again. This time the thong parted. But,

like the elk before it, it could gain no foothold on the

gully wall. It continued to paw futilely at the gravel,

giving tongue like a mad thing.

Bewildered, Ray was easy prey. With a shout one of the

hunters pointed to him. The leader whipped out the rod

and aimed. Ray had turned to him. The leader whipped

out the rod and aimed. Ray had turned to run, but he

was never to reach that safety a foot or so more of soil

might have given him. Something within him stiffened;

he could not move.

Unable to stir so much as a finger, he stood impotently

waiting the arrival of his captors. With the aid of their

single strange weapon, they blasted a series of steps up

the side of the gully. He had not died at once as had the

elk; that was all he knew.

They approached him in a body, and Ray stared

steadily back at them. The immobility of their heavy

features and the lack of readable emotion in their

opaque eyes was disquieting. Masks, Ray thought,

subtly evil masks. With an icy qualm he realized he

was confronting something alien, beyond the bounda-

ries of his old sane world.

Now they circled him warily, studying their capture.

The weapon-bearing leader broke the silence with an

interrogation in a guttural, hissing tongue. When Ray

did not reply, the man's brutal jaw thrust forward

pugnaciously.

Again he questioned, but this time in a murmur,

almost sing-song. Another language, Ray guessed. His

continued silence appeared to disconcert his captors a

little.

At last the leader snapped an order. From his belt

one of the others freed a thong of hide and stepped behind

Ray, to whip his powerless wrists together and lash them

tight. Still under the influence of the strange weapon, Ray

was forced to submit. He was shaken with a sudden

loathing at the touch of the hunter.

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Once he was bound, the leader raised the rod. No beam

from its tip followed, but Ray was up-frozen again. Without

a backward glance, the rod bearer walked away. The hunter

who had bound Ray flicked him across the shoulders with

the end of that thong, pointing after. Ray's loathing heated

into anger, not only at his captors, but also somehow at the

whole disaster that had befallen him. He might not know

where he was or why, but the feeling that he would learn

and exact payment after that learning steadied him. He

found strength in his anger, and he clung to it as a drowning

man might cling to a rock in the midst of a raging river.

They followed the lip of the gully for about half a mile

before there was a break in the steepness of the wall. Ray,

bound as he was, could not have descended their stair, and

even now he hesitated over the scramble. The guard rapped

him across the ribs with the flat of his long dagger to start

him. But at the fourth step, Ray lost his shaky balance and

tumbled forward, to slide down in a cloud of dust and

gravel, ending with a knock against the trunk of a sapling, his

skinned face lower than his long legs.

Surely, he thought grimly, if this was a dream, that ought to

have awakened him. There was a dull ache at the base of his

skull. Helpless, unable to gain his feet, he lay awaiting the

pleasure of his captors.

They were leisurely in their own descent. One of them came

to prod Ray up with a well-aimed kick. When he could not

stand in answer to that encouragement, two of them heaved

him erect. With a vicious push, which almost sent him

sprawling once more, they started him on.

Blood oozed out from gravel cuts on his lips and chin,

drawing the attention of small stinging flies he could

do nothing to dislodge, since jerking his head about made

him dizzy. When they reached the elk, he was made fast to a

tree, while the hunters continued their butchery. After

hacking portions of meat free, they fed .z some to the dogs

and packed others in green hide. Then, one, taking some

entrails, dragged them along the :° ground, leaving a red

trail.

A short distance away, he came to a black hole in the slope

with a sand mound below it. Dropping the scraps of offals

there, he broke off a twig, thrust it into the n hole, and

turned it around and around. Then he leaped away as a

wave of large ants curled up and out.

The others had freed both Ray and the snarling hounds, and

taking up the meat, they started down- _ stream. Ray

glanced back at the kill. It was buried,,, under a heaving dark

blanket.

He estimated later that they must have traveled: almost an

hour before the gully widened into a regular valley. The

brush, which had torn his unprotected skin and left red

scratches on the hunters' bare arms, be-. came thickets of

trees and patches of waist-high grass.

Ray's discomfort increased with almost every step he was

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herded into taking. His face, scraped raw, bitten, and stung,

was puffed and swollen. His eyes had, narrowed into slits in

the tortured flesh. The steady ache at the base of his skull

spread across his shoulders and down his back. He had lost

all sense of feeling in his cramped arms. Yet in a way, he

welcomed all these , torments; they kept him from his

thoughts. Where was. he? What had happened? That this was

a dream he could no longer believe, no matter how he held

despairingly to such a hope.

The end to the need to keep staggering came at last.

Abruptly the valley came to shore land, and the stream

flowed on to form a miniature delta on the lip of a rolling

sea. Sea?

Keen salt air roused Ray to something again approaching

coherent thought. Sea? In the midst of a' continent? He

looked upon the pale crescent of sand with a kind of dull

horror.

There could be no sea here. But then here was not his own

world! He was firmly caught in a nightmare.

A hail from the beach urged his captors to a swifter pace,

and they dragged him with them, one on either side to jerk

him along. Down at the edge of that incredible water,

smoke, thin and tenuous as morning mist, plumed up from

a driftwood fire, and several dark figures stood to greet the

huntsmen.

"Still say fairy tale?" Fordham did not raise his eyes from the

view screen.

When Hargreaves did not answer, he glanced around. There

was a frown drawing the other's features into a pattern of

angry belligerence. Fordham had witnessed that reaction

before. This time he welcomed the sign of doubt battered

by evidence.

"All right. I see something-trees-like those on your other

films."

"Trees?" Fordham pushed. "Do they resemble any you have

seen before?"

"No-" Hargreaves' admission came reluctantly. Fordham

continued to press.

"Trees such as those," he pointed out, "have probably not

been seen in this part of the world for several hundred

years. The early settlers are reported to have had their

problems when they cleared this land. Sometimes it took

years to remove virgin forest, stump and root."

"All right! I'll admit you have something, that we see a

section of country through that beam which certainly is not

out there now and may not have been for a long time. But

time travel-Atlantis-I have to have more proof before I

send in any recommendation-"

"You have the films to take back with you. I only spoke of

Atlantis as a possibility-I didn't promise it. You may merely

see pre-Columbian or just pre-Revolutionary Ohio but there.

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We have no way yet of proving or disproving Ibby's

equation. But you'll have to admit it is an impressive

beginning-"

"I want to see the film of what we've just watched,"

Hargreaves said. "I want to see if I can spot the change

when the beam went on."

"Take a little time to set it up-"

Hargreaves' scowl grew deeper. "I've got plenty-for this.

And I want to see what I'm taking back. There'll be a lot of

questions to answer."

"There-" Fordham settled down in the projection room.

"Here we go, Now-here's the cutting as is."

Raw earth under the weak sunlight of winter, a bulldozer to

the left throwing a shadow, the rise of the disputed mound

"I'll admit I saw a change. I only hope that the film shows

it!"

Fordham laughed. "Hypnotism? That's what you think I'm

doing? What would be the point? Unless you think I've

ridden a hobby completely out of sane bounds. This is the

first time we've held a beam so long-so we should have

more detailed evidence."

Hargreaves stared at the screen. "When can you-" he

hesitated.

"Go over the line ourselves? So far we can only look. We

don't know about the going. We'll have to build up a lot

more power-"

"That growth of timber-" Hargreaves watched the great

forest, or that portion of it the beam and film had trapped

for them. "Might be a lot of other resources to be tapped.

Looks like an empty world-"

"Yes, be practical. Suppose we can open a door into

wherever that is, draw upon the resources there. Now-what

sort of reaction do you believe you would get to a

presentation before the committee if you stress that?"

"They would want to be sure it had a fifty-fifty chance of

working. How soon before you will be able to make a real

experiment?"

"Send someone through, you mean? I don't know. It has

taken us two years to get this far."

Hargreaves shook his head. "Get your films; let me

show them. We may be able to grant you at least half of

what you asked for."

"Generous. But I suppose to be expected." Fordham's

words were not as grudging as they might have been.

He was inwardly satisfied with his half-convert.

They watched the run-through, Hargreaves well for-

ward in his chair. There was the scar of the cutting, the

mound, then a flicker, and the trees. But a sharp

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exclamation from Fordham broke the hum of the pro-

jector.

"Langston," he called to the operator, "backtrack.

Hold it slow just before the switch-"

"What--?" Hargreaves' protest stopped as he looked

at his companion. Fordham's satisfaction of moments

earlier had disappeared.

The scar about the mound again came into view.

"To the left of the mound-right there-look!"

Hargreaves looked. A figure, difficult to distinguish,

but surely a human figure, stepped within the path of

the beam. That which had shown as a flicker when the

film was run at normal speed now became a flash that

made him blink. Then there were the trees and, surely,

beside one of them still that human figure.

"Come on!" Fordham was making for the door in a

surprising burst of speed for one of his age and habits.

They were actually running as they passed down a

hallway and into a small outside parking area. Fordham

jerked at the door of his car and scrambled into the

driver's seat. And Hargreaves had just time to make it

in beside him and slam the door before they skidded

across the concrete, heading for the gate.

The guard saw them coming and must have had his

wits about him, for he threw the automatic switch just

in time. Hargreaves released his breath in a faint

whistle of relief. At least Fordham had not plowed into

that barrier as it looked he might do.

Luckily the road was deserted beyond, for they entered

it at a prohibited speed. Caution must have caught up

with Fordham somewhere along that stretch, for he

slowed to turn into the lower cutting, where they

bumped and skidded along the rough road of the earth

movers.

Then once more the director was out and running for

the mound. His fear or excitement kept him several

paces ahead of Hargreaves, but when the latter rounded

the end of the mound, he came upon Fordham at a dead

halt. The director held a camera in his hands. But of

the figure they had seen on the film, there was no sign

at all.

"He's gone!" Hargreaves stated the obvious.

Fordham looked up from the camera, his face bleak.

"He's gone, yes-out there-" He looked over his shoul-

der to where they had seen those rows of trees. And

Hargreaves shivered, knowing how that other had

gone but not where.

"WHERE?" Hargreaves heard himself putting that thought

into words.

Fordham's answer came in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"Atlantis-perhaps."

"But-you said that the forest could be pre-Columbian -or

even later," Hargreaves protested.

"Sure. It could be that-or anything. You saw it, and the film-

and you see this now-" Fordham waved the camera. "That

poor fool went in, or back, or out whichever way you want

to express it--and we sent him."

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"Can you get him back?" Hargreaves pushed aside

speculation, reaching as ever for hard fact.

"It will take at least four days, maybe more, to build up the

power in the beam again. These things have to be timed.

Why do you suppose we selected this particular date and

hour to try it this time? It isn't just a matter of pressing a

button to open a door. There has to be a careful working

from code. Four days-" He stared around him. "And we

have no way of telling how fast time passes over there. He

won't be just sitting there for four days-he has no idea that

we'll try to get him back. He may be miles away when we

are ready."

Hargreaves turned away from the mound to look out over

the raw cutting. "But it will have to be done. And the

sooner we get to work doing it-"

"Of course." But Fordham sounded as if he knew already

they faced a hopeless task. Hargreaves still gazed at the cut.

"Atlantis-no!" And there was determined refusal in his voice:

Ray stumbled, to sprawl face down in sand near a fireplace

rudely built out of rocks. Exhausted, he was content to lie

there, paying small attention to the

hunters and those others who awaited them in this camp,

but he was not left undisturbed.

Legs, slightly bowed, encased in boots of stiff hide to which

patches of thick hair still clung, moved into his restricted line

of vision. Then one of those boots was thrust under him,

and he was rolled over, face up to the sky. The newcomer

wore the same leather tunic as the hunters, but a kilt

fashioned of metal strips clashed together as he moved.

Instead of a metal-reinforced jerkin, he wore breast and

back plates cast in single pieces to fit his barrel chest and

wide shoulders snugly. His left arm from wrist to elbow

was sheathed in a metal cuff guard, but his right was bare

save for two jeweled bracelets.

He was bareheaded, and the long black strings of his hair

were whipped about his face by a rising wind. But he

carried in the crook of one arm a helmet with two bat like

wings set in a center ridge. A sword swung at his belt. Taller

than the hunters, less swarthy of skin, he seemed of a

different caste. But the same emotionless mask covered his

features.

After a long survey he barked an order, and one of the

hunters came to slit the bonds about Ray's wrists and pull

the American to his feet. The officer asked questions and the

hunter replied, with a pantomime, as well as words,

explaining the capture. When he had done, the officer

proceeded to interrogate his prisoner by gestures-a wide

sweep of hand to the west and then one word:

Mu.

Ray shook his head. And the officer seemed disturbed at his

reply. He frowned and pointed east with another question

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file:///F|/rah/Andre%20Norton/Norton,%20Andre%20-%20Operation%20Time%20S\earch.txtOperationTimeSearchByAndreNorton"ATLANTIS?Afairytale!"Themanbythewindowhalfturned."Youcan'tbeserious-"Hebeganthatprotestconfidently,butthatconfidenceebbedwhentherewasnochangeintheexpressiononhiscompanion'sface."Yousawt...

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Norton, Andre - Operation timesearch

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