The Technicolor Time Machine

11

“One thing I really like about the eleventh century,” Barney said, spearing a large chunk of white meat with his fork, “is the sea food. What’s the reason for that, Professor? Lack of pollution or what?”

“It is probably because what you are eating is not sea food from the eleventh century.”

“Don’t try to sell me that. This isn’t any of that frozen TV dinner stuff we brought along. Look, the clouds are breaking up, if it stays like this we can shoot the rest of the homecoming today.”

The front of the mess tent was rolled up, which gave a clear view across the fields, with a bit of ocean visible beyond. Professor Hewett pointed to it.

“The fish in the ocean here are identical with those of the twentieth century, to all practical purposes. But the trilobite on your plate is of a totally different order and era, brought back by the weekend parties from Old Catalina.”

“That’s what all the dripping boxes were about.” He looked suspiciously at the meat on his plate. “Just a minute—this thing I’m eating—it has nothing to do with Charley Chang’s eyes and teeth, does it?”

“No,” the professor said. “You must remember we changed periods when it was decided that members of the company should spend two days a week in a different time, so that work here would be continuous. Santa Catalina is a perfect holiday spot, Mr. Chang verified that, but he was slightly put out by the local life. That was my mistake. I left him in the Devonian period, when amphibian life was beginning to emerge from the sea, totally harmless creatures such as the lung fish for the most part. But there were things in the water…”

“Eyes and teeth. We heard.”

“So I considered the Cambrian a wiser choice for our weekenders. Nothing in the ocean to bother the bathers that is larger than the harmless trilobite.”

“So you’ve used the word again. What is it?”

“An extinct arthropod. A form of life generally classed somewhere between the crustaceans and the arachnidans, some specimens of which are quite small, but the one you’re eating is the largest. A sort of two-foot long, seagoing wood louse.”

Barney dropped his fork and took a long swallow of coffee. “That was a delicious lunch,” he said. “Now if you don’t mind, could we talk about the colony in Vinland. Have you found it yet?”

“My news isn’t too good.”

“After the trilobite anything is good. Tell me.”

“You must understand that my detailed knowledge of the period is limited. But Dr. Lyn is well versed on the history and he has all the records in the original sagas about the Vinland discoveries and settlements, and I have been following his instructions. It was difficult at times to find a suitable arrival location, the coasts of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia are irregular to say the least, but we have been successful at this. The motorboat has been used extensively, so that I can assure you that the search has been carried out as thoroughly as was possible.”

“What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s the sort of news I like to hear,” Barney said, pushing his plate of french-fried trilobite farther away. “Get the Doc over here, if you don’t mind. I want to hear more about this.”

“It is true,” Jens Lyn said in his gloomiest. North Baltic manner. “There are no Norse settlements in North America. It is most disturbing. We have searched all the possible sites from the tenth to the thirteenth century and have found nothing.”

“What made you think that there was anyting to find?”

Lyn’s nostrils flared. “May I remind you that, since the discovery of the Vinland Map, there has been little doubt that the Norse did explore and settle in North America. It is recorded that in 1121 Bishop Eirik Gnuppsson went on a mission to Vinland. The sagas describe the many journeys there and the settlements that were made. Only the exact location of the settlements is still in doubt, and discovering the location was the purpose of our recent explorations. In theory we had thousands of miles of coast to explore, since the authorities differ widely as to the locations of Helluland and Markland mentioned in the sagas. Gathorne-Hardy identifies the Straumsfjord as Long Island Sound, and places Hóp in the estuary of the Hudson River. But other authorities think the landings took place farther north, Storm and Babcock think favorable of Labrador and Newfoundland, and Mowat has actually pinpointed the location of Hóp—”

“Stop,” Barney said. “I do not care about the theories. Did you or did you not just get through telling me that you had found no settlements or evidence of any kind?”

“I did, but…”

“Then all of the authorities are completely wrong?”

“Well… yes,” Lyn said, sitting down and looking very unhappy.

“Don’t let it bother you, Doc,” Barney said, holding his cup out so the waitress could pour more coffee into it. “You can write a book about it, then you’ll be the new authority. What is more important is—where do we go from here? May I remind those of you who have not read the script lately that it is titled Viking Columbus and is the saga of the discovery of North America and the founding of the first settlement there. So what do we do? We had planned to move the company over to the Viking settlements and shoot the last part of the picture there. But no settlements. What comes next?”

Jens Lyn chewed his knuckles a moment, then looked up. “We could go to the west coast of Norway. There are Norse settlements there, and it looks not unlike the Newfoundland coast at places.”

“Do they have many Indians we can hire for the big battle scenes?” Barney asked.

“None at all.”

“Then that’s out. Maybe we better ask our local man.” He looked around the tent and spotted Ottar working his way through a steaming heap of trilobites in the far comer. “Go over and disturb his lunch, Jens, tell him he can have seconds and thirds later.”

“You want Ottar?” the Viking asked, stamping over and dropping onto the bench.

“What do you know about Vinland?” Barney said to him.

“Nothing.”

“You mean you’ve never heard of it?”

“Sure I heard the skald make poems about it, and I talked to Leif Eriksson about his trip. I’ve never seen it, don’t know anything. One year I go to Iceland then go to Vinland, get very rich.”

“With what? Gold? Silver?”

“Wood,” Ottar said, with contempt for anyone who did not know such an obvious thing.

“For the Greenland settlements,” Jens Lyn explained. “They are always terribly short of wood of any kind, and in particular the hardwoods needed for shipbuilding. A load of hardwood delivered in Greenland would be worth a fortune.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Barney said, rising. “As soon as we finish shooting here we pay off Ottar and he sails to Vinland. We jump ahead in time and meet him. We film the departure, some ocean shots to do for the trip, then his arrival. They throw up a few shacks for a settlement, we pay some wampum to the local tribe to bum them down and the picture is finished.”

“Good idea. Plenty wood in Vinland,” Ottar said.

Jens Lyn started to protest, then shrugged. “Who am I to complain. If he is fool enough to do it, to enable you to make a picture—who am I to quibble. There is no known saga about a visit of someone named Ottar to Vinland, but since there seems to be no evidence as to the veracity of the other sagas I do not think I can complain.”

“Finish lunch now,” Ottar said.

Barney went out and found his secretary waiting for him with an armful of folders.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were eating,” she said.

“Why not? After what I just ate my digestion will never be the same again. Do you know what tribolites are?”

“Sure. Big squiggly things that we net on Old Catalina. It’s a lot of fun. You catch them at night with a flashlight then have a barbecue with beer. You should—”

“No I shouldn’t. What did you want to see me about?”

“It’s the time cards and the records, the weekends in particular. You see everyone here has been taking their weekend time, what would be their Saturdays and their Sundays, on Old Catalina—everyone except you, that is. You haven’t had a day off in the five weeks we’ve been here.”

“Don’t suffer for me, Betty darling. I’m not going to relax until this picture is in the can. What’s the problem?”

“Some of the skin divers would like to stay more than two days at a time. They have asked for four and said they will give up next weekend and work right through. My records are loused up as it is and this will wreck merry hell with them. What can I do?”

“Walk with me over to Ottar’s house, I can use the exercise. We’ll go along the beach.” Barney thought in silence for a minute as they came down to the shore. “Here’s what. Forget all the days of the week jazz and work it by number alone. Anyone who works five days in a row gets the following two off. If they want four days together then they have to work ten days straight, then have days eleven through fourteen off. Their day records will be in your books and on the time cards, since they’re punching in here and in Catalina both. Since two days or four days away means only a five-minute ride on the time platform, everyone is here all the time and working every day as far as I’m concerned—and that is all that counts. You do your record-keeping like that, and I’ll straighten it out with L.M. and the payroll department when we get back.”

They were almost to the headland that bounded the cove near Ottar’s house when the jeep bounced down the track to the beach behind them, its horn blaring steadily.

“Now what?” Barney asked. “Trouble, it has to be trouble. No one ever rushes up to give me good news.” He stood, looking unhappy, while they waited for the jeep to arrive. Dallas was driving, and he braked to a stop without kicking too many rocks around.

“Some kind of ship coming into the bay,” Dallas said. “They passed on the word and everyone is looking for you.”

“Well you found me. What is it, more Viking raiders like the last time?”

“All I know I told,” Dallas said, complacently chewing on a wooden matchstick.

“I was right about the trouble,” Barney said, climbing into the jeep. “You get back to the camp, Betty, in case there is any roughhouse.”

They saw the ship as soon as they came around the headland, a large vessel with a broad sail, coming in briskly before the following wind. The film company people were on the hill behind the house, staying together, but all of the locals had run down to the beach, where they were waving their arms and shouting.

“More murder,” Barney said. “And there’s my paparazzo cameraman on the spot ready to capture all the gore in technicolor. Get down there and let’s see if we can stop it this time.”

Gino had set his camera up on the beach where he could shoot both the welcoming committee and the arriving ship. That things were better than Barney had thought was obvious when they got closer, because all the northmen were laughing and waving, and their hands were empty of weapons. Ottar, who must have rushed there as soon as he had heard of the arrival, was knee-deep in the water, shouting loudly. As the ship neared the shore the big sail was lowered, but the vessel had enough way to beach itself, scraping up the gravel and shuddering to a halt. A tall man with an immense red beard, who had been at the steering oar, ran forward and leaped into the surf near Ottar. They shouted greetings and embraced each other strongly.

“Zoom in on the bear-hugging,” Barney called out to Gino. “And I won’t have to get a release or pay a cent to any of them,” he muttered happily to himself as he watched the busy scene.

The film people were drifting down to the shore now that it was obvious there would be no violence. Kegs of ale were being rolled out by the housecarls. Barney walked over and joined Jens Lyn, who was watching Ottar and the newcomer smite each other on the biceps, with shouts of glee.

“What’s it all about?” Barney asked.

“They are old friends and they are telling one another how glad they are to meet again.”

“That’s obvious enough. Who’s Redbeard?”

“Ottar called him Thorhall, so it may be Thorhall Gamlisson from Iceland. He and Ottar used to go viking together and Ottar always talked about him in a very friendly manner.”

“What’s all the shouting about now?”

“Thorhall is saying how glad he is that Ottar wanted to buy his ship because he, Thorhall, is looking forward to going back to Norway and he can use Ottar’s longship for that. He’s asking now for the other half of the money.”

Ottar spat out a single, loud, sharp-edged word.

“I know that one,” Barney said. “We’ve been here long enough to pick up at least that much of the language.”

The shouting was louder and was beginning to get a nasty tone to it. “Ottar is suggesting that Thorhall has evil spirits—illar vættir[13]—in his head because he never bought any ship. Thorhall says that Ottar was singing in a different manner three months ago when he came and accepted hospitality and bought the ship. Ottar is sure now that Thorhall is possessed because he hasn’t been off this island for over a year, and he suggests that a hole be made in Thorhall’s head to let some of the bad spirits out. Thorhall now suggests that as soon as he gets his ax he’ll show which head to open…”

Something clicked in Barney’s mind and he roused himself from the spectator attitude that had possessed him while he watched the two heavyweights square off and prepare for a murderous slugging match.

“Stop!” he shouted, but they ignored him completely. He tried again in Old Norse, “Nemit stadar!”[14] with the same result. “Fire a couple of shots into the air,” he called over to Dallas. “Break this thing up before it gets started.”

Tex fired at the gravel so that the mashed bullets ricocheted, screaming out over the water. The two Vikings turned, their personal differences forgotten for the moment. Barney hurried over.

“Ottar, listen to me, I think I know what this is all about.”

“I know what’s it about,” Ottar rumbled, clenching one sledgehammer-sized fist. “Nobody calls Ottar a—”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds—just a difference of opinion.” He tugged at Ottar’s arm without budging him a fraction of an inch. “Doc, take Thorhall up to the house and buy him a couple of beers while I talk to Ottar.”

Dallas fired a few more shots to keep the conversation going and eventually the two men were separated and Thorhall hurried off for a drink. “Could you sail to Vinland in your own ship?” Barney asked.

Ottar, still angry, had to blink and shake his head for a few seconds before he knew what Barney was talking about.

“Ship? What about my ship?” he finally said.

Barney patiently repeated the question and Ottar shook his head in a very positive no.

“Stupid question,” he said. “Longships for raiding, up rivers, along the shore. No good in big seas. For going across the ocean you must have a knorr. This is knorr.”

The differences were obvious now that Barney was looking for them. Where the dragon-prowed Viking ship was long and narrow, this knorr was wide and stood high out of the water—and was at least a hundred feet long. It appeared a sound vessel in every aspect.

“Could you go to Vinland in this ship?” Barney asked.

“Sure,” Ottar said, glancing up toward Thorhall and clenching his fists.

“Then why don’t you buy it from Thorhall?”

“You too!” Ottar roared at Barney.

“Wait—hold on, just listen. If I kick in part of the money, can you afford to buy this thing?”

“Cost a lot of marks.”

“Yachting is an expensive hobby. Can you buy it?”

“Could be.”

“That’s agreed then. If he says you bought it a couple of months ago then you must have—don’t hit me! I’ll give you the money and the Prof will take you back to Iceland to make the deal and things will be all okay.”

“What you talking about?”

Barney turned to Jens Lyn, who had listened to the entire conversation. “You’re following me, aren’t you, Jens? We agreed this morning that Ottar was to sail to Vinland. He tells me now he needs a different ship for the job. Thorhall says he came and bought this one two months ago. So he must have done it. So let’s arrange quick for him to do it—before this thing gets any more complicated. Take Dallas along for protection and explain the whole thing to Hewett. You better use the motorboat. Go with the whole bunch to Iceland—to Iceland a couple of months ago, buy the ship, arrange for it to get here today, then get right back. Shouldn’t take you more than a half an hour. Pick up some marks from the cashier to buy the ship with. And don’t forget to talk to Thorhall before you go and find out how much Ottar paid so you can bring the right amount.”

“What you are saying is a paradox,” Jens said. “I don’t believe this is possible—”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. You’re on salary. Just do it. I’ll oil Thorhall up so he’ll be in a better mood when you get back.”

The jeep pulled away and Barney went to liven up the dispirited drinking party. The northmen stayed carefully in two groups, the newcomers behind their leader, and there were many black looks and very little drinking. Gino came up with a bottle he had pulled out of his lens bag.

“Like a slug of this, Barney?” he asked. “Real grappa from the old country. I can’t drink the local brew.”

“Your stuff is almost as bad,” Barney told him. “But try Thorhall, he’ll probably like it.”

Gino pulled out the corncob cork and took a long drag, then held it out to Thorhall. “Drekkit!” he said in passable Old Norse, “ok verid velkomnir til Orkneyja.”[15]

The red-bearded Viking accepted the hospitality, took a drink, coughed, looked closely at the bottle then drank again.

The jeep returned in less than the half an hour Barney had estimated, but there had still been enough time to get the party rolling, the ale flowing and most of the grappa finished. There was a marked pause in the joviality when Ottar strode over to them. Thorhall stood up quickly and put his back to the wall, but Ottar was beaming with pleasure. He pounded Thorhall on the shoulder and in a moment the difficulty was over, everyone relaxed and the party really got rolling.

“How did it go?” Barney asked Jens Lyn, who climbed from the jeep with much more care than Ottar had shown. In the few minutes he had been away he had grown a three-day beard and developed great black pouches under his bloodshot eyes.

“We found Thorhall easily enough,” he said hoarsely, “and received an enthusiastic reception and had no difficulty purchasing the ship. But we could not leave without a celebration, it went on day and night, and it was more than two days before Ottar fell asleep at the table and we could carry him out and bring him back. Look at bun, still drinking, how does he do it?” Jens shuddered.

“Clean living and plenty of fresh air,” Barney said.

The shouting and happy northern oaths were growing louder and Ottar showed no signs of weakening under the renewed partying pleasures. “It looks like our male lead and all the extras aren’t going to be working today, so we might as well call a meeting and lay our plans for the fuming in Vinland and aboard this ship—what did you call it?”

“A knorr. Nominative, hér er knorrur, accusative, um knorr—”

“Stop! Remember, I don’t tell you how to make movies. I want to take a look at the knorr, she appears steady enough for a camera, and see how many scenes we can use it in. Then we’ll have to make plans for meeting in Vinland, keeping track of the ship somehow. There’s plenty of work to do. We’re over the hump and on the downgrade now—if nothing else goes wrong.”

A gull screamed loudly and Barney quickly reached out and knocked on the stained wood of the knorr’s hull.