The Dancer from Atlantis

IV

“My God! If the pilot’s dead!” Down on his knees, Reid felt across the still body. The rib cage moved, though with unhealthy rapidity and shallowness. The skin was hotter than the desert beneath.

Erissa joined him. Her face had gone utterly intent. Murmuring to herself what sounded like an invocation, she examined the dark man with unmistakable skill: peeling back a lid to study the pupil, timing his pulse against her rhythmic chant, pulling the robe around his shoulders and cutting off the form-fitting undergarment to check for broken bones or flesh injuries. The hale men waited anxiously. She rose, glanced about, pointed toward a ravine.

“Yeah, get him out of the sun,” Reid interpreted. “Us too.” He remembered he was not among English speakers. But they caught the idea. Oleg gave Erissa his ax, took the pilot, and bore him easily off. She pulled an amulet from below her tunic, a gold miniature suspended on a thong around her neck, and touched it to the weapon before carrying that with some reverence after the Russian.

Reid tried to study the cylindroid. At a distance of a few feet, where the nacreous flickering began, he was stopped. It was like walking into an invisible rubber sheet, that yielded at first but increased resistance inch by inch. Protective force field, he thought. Not an overwhelming surprise in the present context. Better stay clear—possible radiation hazard m-m, probably not, since the pilot—but how do we get in?

We don’t, without him.

Reid collected the hemispheres. Their hollow interiors were more elaborate than the exterior shells. The only comprehensible features were triads of crisscrossing bands, suggestive of helmet liner suspensions. Were these, then, communication devices to be worn on the head? He carried them along to the gulch. On the way, he noticed the Pipe that had fallen from his mouth and retrieved it. Even on doomsday, you find trivia to take care of.

Steep-sided, the ravine gave shelter from the wind and a few patches of shade. Oleg had stretched the pilot—as Reid thought of the unconscious man—in the largest of these. It was inadequate. Reid and Erissa worked together, cutting sticks and propping them erect to support an awning made of his topcoat. Oleg shed armor and pads, heaving a gigantic sigh of relief. Uldin took the harness off his horse, tethered it to a grass tuft above the gulch, and covered the beast as well as he could with the unfolded saddle blanket. He brought bag and bottle down and shared the contents. Nobody had appetite for the dried meat in the first; but sour and alcoholic though it was, the Milky liquid in the second proved a lifesaver.

Then they could do ,nothing but squat in their separate bits of shadow and endure. Erissa went often to check on the pilot. Oleg and Uldin climbed the crumbly bank by turns, peered through a full circle, and returned shaking their heads. Reid sat amidst thoughts that he never quite recalled later except for his awareness of Erissa’s eyes dwelling on him.

Whatever was happening, he could no longer pretend he’d soon awaken from it.

The sun trudged westward. Shadows in the ravine stretched and flowed together. The four who waited lifted faces streaked with dust and sweat-salt, reddened eyes and cracked gummy lips, toward the first faint balm of coolness.

The pilot stirred and called out. They ran to him.

He threshed his limbs and struggled to sit. Erissa tried to make him lie down. He would not. “mentator.” he kept gasping, and more words in a language that sounded faintly Hispanic but was softer. He retched. His nosebleed broke out afresh. Erissa stanched it with a piece torn off a handkerchief Reid had given her. She signed Oleg to uphold him in a reclining posture and herself helped him drink a little of the stuff Uldin called kumiss.

“Wait a minute.” Reid trotted back to where he had huddled and fetched the hemispheres. The pilot nodded with a weak vehemence that made Erissa frown, and reached shakily for them. When Reid hunkered to assist him, she stepped aside, clearly setting the American’s judgment above her own.

Damn if I know whether I’m doing right, he thought. This guy looks barely alive, on fire with fever, shouldn’t be put to any strain. But if he can’t get back into his machine, we may all be finished.

The pilot made fumbling adjustments to the devices. He put one on his. head. The shining metal curve turned his sunken-eyed, blood-crusted, dirt-smudged countenance doubly ghastly. He leaned back on Oleg’s breast and signed Reid to don the second helmet. The American obeyed. The pilot had barely strength to reach and press a stud on his.

It was the most prominent, directly over his brow. The hand fell into his lap; but fingers fluttered at Reid.

The architect rallied what guts he had left. Be ready for anything, he told himself, and tough it out, son, tough it out. He pushed the control.

A humming grew. The noise must be inside his skull, for none of the others heard; and somehow it didn’t feel physical, not like anything carried along the nerves. He grew dizzy and sat down. But that might be only from tension. on top of these past dreadful hours.

The pilot was in worse case. He twitched, whimpered, closed his eyes and sagged bonelessly. It was as if his machine were a vampire draining his last life. Erissa ventured to kneel by him, though not to interrupt.

After what Reid’s watch said was about five minutes, the humming faded out. The depressed studs popped up. The giddiness passed away. Presumably the helmets had finished their job. The pilot lay half conscious. When Reid took off his headpiece, Erissa removed that of her patient and laid him flat. She stayed beside him, listened to the struggling breath and watched the uncertain pulse in his throat.

Finally he opened his eyes. He whispered. Erissa brought her ear close, frowned, and waved at Reid. He didn’t know what he could do, but joined her anyway. The pilot’s dim glance fell upon him and remained there.

“Who ... are you?” rattled from the parched mouth. “Where, when ... are you from?”

American English!

“Quick,” pleaded the voice. “Haven’t ... got long. For your sake too. You know ... mentator? This device?”

“No,” Reid answered in awe. “Language teacher?”

“Right. Scan speech center. In the brain. Brain’s a data bank. The scanner ... retrieves language information ... feeds it into the receiver brain. Harmless, except it’s ... kind of stressful ... being the receiver ... seeing as how then the data patterns aren’t just scanned, they’re imposed.”

“You should have let me learn yours, then."

“No. Too confusing. You wouldn’t know how to use ... too many of the concepts. Teach that scar-faced savage over there words like ... like ‘steam engine’ ... and you still couldn’t talk to him for days, weeks, till he’d digested the idea. About steam engines, I mean. But you two could get together at once ... on horses.” The pilot paused for breath. “I haven’t got that kind of time to spare.”

In the background Oleg was crossing himself, right to left, and muttering Russian prayers. Uldin had scrambled to a distance, where he made gestures that must be against black magic. Erissa held firm by Reid, though she touched her amulet to her lips. He saw, surprised at noticing, that it had the form of a double-bitted ax.

“You’re from the future, aren’t you?” Reid asked.

A wraith of a smile passed over the pilot’s mouth. “We all are. I’m Sahir. Of the ... I don’t remember what the base date of, your calendar was. Is. Will be. I started from ... yes, Hawaii ... in the ... anakro—call it a space-time vehicle. Pass over Earth’s surface, or waters, while traveling through time. We were bound for ... prehistoric Africa. Protoman. We’re ... we were ... anthropologists, I guess, comes closest Could I have some more to drink?”

“Sure.” Reid and Erissa helped him.

“Ahh!” Sahir lay back. “I feel a little stronger. It won’t last. I’d better talk while I can. Figured you’re postindustrial, you. Makes a difference. Identify yourself?”

“Duncan Reid, American, from 1970—latter twentieth century—well, we’d lately made the first lunar landings, and we’d had atomic energy for, uh, twenty-five years—”

“So. I see. Shortly before the Age of—no, I shouldn’t say. You might get back. Will, if I can help it. You’d not like to know what’s coming. I’m terribly sorry about this mess. Who’re your friends?”

“The blond man’s early Russian, I think. The short man says he’s a Hun—I think. The woman here ... I can’t figure her out.”

“Hm. Yes. We can get—you can get—closer information after using the mental*. The helmets are set for scan and imprint. Make sure which is which.

“Listen, pick whoever’s from the most ancient period—looks like that’ll be her—make her supply your common language. Most useful one, you see? We’re only a short ways back in time and south in space from ... the point .. where the machine sucked in the last person. I’d nearly gotten it braked ... by then.

“Early model. S’posed to be insulated ... against energy effects. Takes immense energy concentration to warp the continuum. For returning home ... would’ve assembled the nuclear generator we carry ... outside the vessel, of course, because the energy release’s in the megaton range....”

Sahir plucked at his robe. His head rolled, as did his eyes within their sockets. His voice was nearly inaudible, the momentary strength running out of him like wine from a broken cup; but he whispered in pathetic haste:

“Warp fields ... s’posed to be contained, controlled, not interact with matter en route ... but defect here. Defect. Soon after we started, instruments mentated to us that we’d drawn a body along. I ordered a halt right away ... but inertia—We c’lected higher animals only, men, horse, ‘cause control, instrumentation, everything mentated.... And then we passed too close in spacetime to—to some monstrous energy release, I don’t know what, terrible catastrophe in this far past. Course was preset, y’ get me? We were s’posed to pass by—for a boost—but we were leaving the whole job to the computer.... Now, when we’d nearly stopped ... faulty insulation, did I tell you? Interaction with our warp fields. Blew out our interior power cybernets. Radiation blast—s’prised I’m still alive—partner’s dead—knocked me out for a while—I came to, figured I’d go meet you, but—”

Sahir tried to lift his hands. Reid took them. It was like holding smoldering parchment. “Listen,” Sahir susurrated desperately. “That ... blowup, crash, whatever it is ... in this part of the world. Near future. Year or less. Listen. There aren’t ... won’t be ... many time expeditions. Ever. Energy cost too great ... and ... environment couldn’t stand much of that.... But anything this big, bound t’ be observers. Understand? You find ‘em, identify yourself, get help—maybe for me too—”

“How?” Reid choked.

“First ... get me to vehicle. It’s wrecked, but ... medical supplies.... They’ll come through time, to this day, bring help, surely—” Sahir jerked as if a lightning bolt coursed through him. “Nia!” he screamed. “Faber, Teo, nia, nia!”

He crumpled. His eyeballs rolled back, his jaw dropped. Reid attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and chest massage. They were of no use.