The Technicolor Time Machine

14

“I don’t feel so good this morning,” Slithey said, loosening the large gilt buckle on her belt. “It must be the air here or the climate or something.”

“Something like that,” Barney said with complete lack of sympathy. “The air. Of course it couldn’t be that Viking barbecue on the beach last night with roasted clams and blue mussels over a driftwood fire and six cases of beer gone through.”

She didn’t answer him, but there was a deepening of the green tinge to her peaches and cream skin. He shook another two pills into the rattling handful he already had and held them out to her.

“Here, take these, and I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“So many,” she said weakly. “I don’t think I can get them down.”

“You better, we have a day’s shooting ahead of us. This is Dr. Hendrickson’s guaranteed morning-after and hangover cure. Aspirin for the headache, Dramamine for the nausea, bicarbonate for the heartburn, Benzedrine for the depression and two glasses of water for the dehydration. It never fails.”

While Slithey was choking over the pills Barney’s secretary knocked on the trailer door and he shouted for her to come in.

“You look very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this mom-ing,” he said.

“I’m allergic to mussels so I went to bed early.” She held up the day’s call sheet. “I’ve got a query for you.” She ran her finger down the list. “Artists, okay… stand-ins, okay… camera department, okay… props. They want to know if you want blood with the collapsible dagger?”

“Of course I do—we’re not shooting this film for the kiddy matinee.” He stood and pulled his jacket on. “Let’s go, Slithey.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said in a faint voice.

“Ten minutes, no more, you’re in the first scene.”

It was a clear day and the sun had already cleared the ridge behind them and was casting long shadows from the sod huts and birch-bark-roofed lean-tos in the meadow below. The Norse settlers were already busy and a thread of blue smoke rose straight up from the hole in the ridge of the largest building.

“I hope Ottar is in better shape than his leading lady,” Barney said, squinting across the water of the bay. “Are those rocks there, just to the left of the island, Betty—or is it a boat?”

“I don’t have my glasses with me.”

“It could be the motorboat—see it’s closer. And it’s about time they decided to come back.”

Betty had to run to keep up with his long strides down the slope toward the shore, skirting a huddle of cud-chewing cows. The boat was clearly visible now and they could hear the faint pop-pop of its motor across the water. Most of the company was waiting on the shore near the knorr and Gino was setting up the camera.

“Looks like the explorers are coming home,” he called out to Barney, and pointed at the boat.

“I can see them and I can take care of it myself, so everyone else can stay on camera. We’re going to shoot this scene as soon as I’ve talked to them.”

Barney waited, almost at the water’s edge as the boat came in. Tex was in the stem steering the outboard and Jens Lyn sat in front of him. Both men had good growths of beard and a decidedly scruffy look.

“Well?” Barney asked, even before the boat touched shore. “What news?”

Lyn shook his head with unconcealed Scandinavian gloom. “Nothing,” he said, “anywhere along the coast. We went as far as we could with the gasoline we had, but found no one.”

“Impossible. I saw those Indians with my own eyes—and Ottar killed a couple more. They have to be around somewhere.”

Jens climbed ashore and stretched. “I would like to find them as much as you would. This is a unique opportunity for research. The construction of their boats and the carving of the spear leads me to suspect that they are members of the almost unknown Cape Dorset culture. We know comparatively little about these people, just some facts gleaned from digging on archeological sites, and a few hints from the sagas. As far as we can ascertain the last of them seem to have vanished about the end of this century, the eleventh century…”

“I’m not interested in your unique opportunity for research but in my unique opportunity to finish this picture. We need Indians in it—where are they? You must have seen some signs of them?”

“We did discover some camps on the shore, but they were deserted. The Cape Dorset are a migratory people, following the seal herds for the most part, and the schools of cod. I feel that, at this time of year, they may have moved farther north.”

Tex heaved the motorboat’s bow up on the beach, then sat down on it. “I don’t want to tell the Doc here his business, but well…”

“Superstition!” Lyn snorted. Tex cleared his throat and spat into the water. This was obviously a difference of opinion they had had before.

“What is it? Out with it,” Barney ordered.

Tex scratched the dark stubble on his jaw and spoke, not without reluctance.

“Look, the Doc is right. We didn’t see anything or anybody except some old campsites and piles of seal bones. But, well, I think they’re out there somewhere, close by, and they been watching us all the time. It wouldn’t be hard to do. You can hear this lawnmower engine five miles away. If they’re seal hunters, like the Doc says, they could lay low when they heard us coming and we’d never see a thing. I think they’re out there.”

“Do you have any evidence to support this theory?” Barney asked.

Tex writhed unhappily and scowled. “I don’t want to hear no laughing or anything,” he said pugnaciously.

Barney remembered his record as an instructor in unarmed combat. “One thing I’m never going to do, Tex, is laugh at you,” he said sincerely.

“Well… it’s like this. We used to feel it in the jungle, like someone was looking at you. Half the time someone was. Bang, a sniper. I know the feeling. And I been getting it all the time we been out. They’re out there, somewhere close, so help me they are.”

Barney considered the information, and cracked his knuckles. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I don’t see how it’s going to help us. We’ll talk about it during lunch, see if we can figure something out. We need those Indians.”

Nothing went right with the scene, which was probably Barney’s fault. His mind wasn’t on it. It should have been simple enough to shoot, since it was mostly action. Orlyg, played by Val de Carlo, is Thor’s best friend and right-hand man, but he has secretly fallen in love with Gudrid, who is afraid to tell Thor because of the trouble it will cause. His passion becomes too great however, and, since Gudrid has told him she can love no other man while Thor is alive, he resolves in a moment of love-inflamed madness to slay Thor. He hides behind the ship and attacks Thor when he passes. Thor at first cannot believe it, however he does believe it when Orlyg stabs him in the arm. Then, with only one arm and barehanded, Thor goes on to win the battle and kill Orlyg.

“All right,” Barney called out, his temper worn thin. “We’re going to try it again and this time I’d be very obliged if you could manage to get it right and remember your lines and everything, because we’re running out of blood and clean shirts. Positions. Orlyg, behind the boat, Thor start down the beach toward him, camera, action.”

Ottar stamped heavily through the sand and managed to look faintly surprised when de Carlo jumped out at him.

“Ho, Orlyg,” he said woodenly. “What are you doing here, what does this mean… Mikli Odinn![20] Look at that!”

“Cut!” Barney shouted. “That’s not your line, you know better than that…” He shut up abruptly as he looked out into the bay where Ottar was pointing.

One after another, small, dark boats were coming into sight from behind the island and soundlessly paddling toward the shore.

“Axir, sverd!”[21] Ottar ordered, and looked around for a weapon.

“Hold it,” Barney ordered. “No weapons and no fighting. We want to keep this friendly if we can, find something to trade with them. Those are potential extras out there and I don’t want them frightened off. Tex, keep your gun handy—but out of sight. If they start any trouble you finish it…”

“A pleasure.”

“But don’t start any yourself, and that’s an order. Gino, are you catching them?”

“In the bag. If you’ll clear the twentieth-century types off the set I’ll shoot the whole arrival, the landing, the works.”

“You heard him, move. Off camera. Lyn—get into Viking rig quick so you can get down there and translate.”

“How can I? Not a single word of their language is known.”

“You’ll pick it up. You’re translator—so translate. We need a white flag or something to show them we’re friendly.”

“We got a white shield here,” one of the propmen said.

“That’ll do, give it to Ottar.”

The little boats slowed as they neared the beach, nine of them in all, with two or three men in each boat. They were wary, most of them gripping spears and short bows, but they did not look as though they were going to attack. Some of the Norse women came down to the beach to see what was happening and their presence seemed to reassure the men in the boats, because they came closer. Jens Lyn hurried up, lacing on his leather jacket.

“Talk to them,” Barney said, “but stay behind Ottar so it looks like he’s doing all the work.”

The Cape Dorset came close, rocking up and down in the swell, and there was a good deal of loud shouting back and forth.

“Using up a lot of film on this,” Gino said.

“Keep it going, we can cut out what we don’t need. Move along the shore for a better angle when they come in. If they come in. We got to find something to attract them, something to trade with them.”

“Guns and firewater,” de Carlo said. “That’s what they always trade to the Indians in the Westerns.”

“No weapons! These jokers probably do well enough with what they got.” He looked around for inspiration and saw a comer of the commissary trailer sticking out from behind Ottar’s house, the largest of the sod buildings. “That’s an idea,” he said, and went over to it. Clyde Rawlston was leaning on it scribbling on a piece of paper.

“I thought you were doing additional dialogue with Charley?” Barney said.

“I find working on the script interferes with my poetry, so I went back to cooking.”

“A dedicated artist. What do you have in this thing?”

“Coffee, tea, doughnuts, cheese sandwiches, the usual stuff.”

“I don’t see the redskins getting excited over that. Anything else?”

“Ice cream.”

“That should do it. Dish it out into some of those Viking crockery pots and I’ll send someone up for it. I’ll bet those guys got a sweet tooth just like anyone else.”

It did work. Slithey carried a gallon of vanilla down to the shore where some of the aborigines were standing in the surf by now, still too wary to come onto the beach, and ladled it into their hands after eating some herself. Either the ice cream, or Slithey’s hormones, turned the trick, because within a few minutes the skin boats were beached and the dark-haired strangers, were mixing with the northmen. Barney stopped just outside of camera range and studied them.

“They look more like Eskimos than Indians,” he said to himself. “But a few feathers and some war paint will fix that.”

Though they had the flat faces and typical Asiatic features of the Eskimo, they were bigger men, erect and powerful-looking, almost as tall as the Vikings. Their clothing was made of stitched sealskin, thrown open now in the heat of the spring day to show their bronze skin. They talked rapidly among themselves in high-pitched voices, and now that they had landed safely they seemed to have forgotten their earlier fear and examined all the novelties with great interest. The knorr fascinated them the most; it was obviously a sailing vessel, but infinitely bigger than anything they had ever seen or imagined before. Barney caught Jens Lyn’s eye and waved him over.

“How are you coming? Will they do some work for us?”

“Are you mad? I think—I’m not sure mind you—that I have mastered two words of their language. Unn-nah appears to mean yes, and henne signifies no.”

“Keep working. We’ll need all these guys and more for the Indian attack scenes.”

There seemed to be a general mixing along the shore now, as some of the northmen investigated the bundles in the boats and the Dorset opened them to display their sealskins. The more curious of the newcomers had wandered in among the houses, peering closely at everything and talking excitedly to each other with their piping voices. One of them, still clutching a stone-headed spear, noticed Gino behind the camera and went over and looked into the lens in the front, providing a detailed close-up. He turned around quickly when he heard a bellow followed by shrill screams.

A cow had wandered across the boggy meadow that bordered the woods and the bull had followed her. Though small, the bull was a mean and surly beast, with a cast in one eye that gave it an even more evil appearance. It was allowed to roam freely and had been chased from the movie encampment more than once. It shook its head and bellowed again.

“Ottar,” Barney shouted. “Get that beast out of here before it upsets the Indians.”

It hadn’t upset the Cape Dorset—it had frightened them witless. They had never seen a roaring and snorting beast like this before and were rigid with fear. Ottar grabbed up a length of pole from the shore and ran, shouting, at the bull. It scraped at the ground with a hoof, lowered its head and charged Ottar. He stepped aside, called it a short and foul Old Norse name, then banged it across the flanks with the pole.

This did not have the desired effect. Instead of wheeling to get at its tormenter, the animal bellowed and charged toward the Cape Dorset, linking their dark and unfamiliar shapes with the present disturbance. The newcomers shrieked and ran.

The panic was catching and someone shouted that the skraelling were attacking and the northmen looked for their weapons. Two of the terrified Dorset were trapped in among the buldings and they ran to Ottar’s house and tried to force their way in, but the door was bolted. Ottar rushed to defend his home and when one of the men turned, with his spear raised, Ottar brought the pole down on his head, cracking the pole in two and crushing the man’s skull at the same time.

Within sixty seconds the scuffle was over. The bull, the cause of it all, had splashed through the brook and was calmly eating grass in the meadow on the other side. Driven by furiously wielded paddles the skin boats were heading toward the open sea, while many of the packs of sealskins had been left behind on the beach. One of the housecarls had an arrow through his hand. Two of the Cape Dorset, induing the one Ottar had hit, were dead.

“Madonna mia,” Gino said, straightening up from behind the camera and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “What tempers these people got. Worse than Siciliani.”

“It is nothing but a stupid waste,” Jens said. He was sitting on the ground holding his stomach with both hands. “They were all frightened, just like children, the emotions of children and the bodies of men. So they kill each other. The waste of it all.”

“But it makes good film,” Barney said. “And we’re not here to interfere with the local customs. What happened to you—get kicked in the stomach during the stampede?”

“Not interfere with the local customs, very humorous. You disrupt these people’s lives completely for your cinematic drivel, then you avoid the consequences of your actions…” He grimaced suddenly, with his teeth clamped tightly together. Barney looked down and gaped at the spreading red patch between Lyn’s fingers.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said, unbelievingly, then spun about. “Tex—the first-aid box, quick!”

“Why the concern about me? I saw you looking at that housecarl with the wounded hand—and that did not seem to bother you. The Norse were reputed to sew up their wounds with carpenter’s thread after a battle. Why don’t you get me some thread?”

“Take it easy, Jens, you’ve been hurt. We’ll take care of you.”

Tex ran up with the first-aid box and put it on the ground next to Jens, kneeling at the wounded man’s side.

“What happened?” he asked in a quiet, surprisingly gentle voice.

“It was a spear,” Jens said. “So quickly, I never realized. I was between the man and the boats. He was panicked. I raised my hands, tried to talk to him, then there was just this stab of pain and he was past and gone.”

“Let me look at it. I’ve seen plenty before, bayonet wounds in New Guinea.” His voice was professional and calm, and when he pulled at Jens’ hands they loosened and came away; with a quick slash of his knife he cut open the bloodstained clothing.

“Not bad,” he said, eyeing the red wound. “Nice clean puncture into the guts. Below the stomach and it doesn’t look deep enough to have got at anything else. Hospital case. They’ll sew up the holes, put in some abdominal drains and fill you full of antibiotics. Try and treat it in the field and you’ll be dead of peritonitis in a couple of days.”

“You are being damn frank,” Lyn said, but he smiled.

“Always,” Tex said, taking out a morphine Syrette and cracking it open. “A guy knows what’s going on he don’t complain about the treatment. Helps him, helps everyone else.” He gave the injection with practiced swiftness.

“Are you sure the nurse cannot treat it here? I don’t wish to return yet…”

“Full salary and bonus,” Barney said cheeringly. “And a private room in the hospital—don’t worry about a thing.”

“It is not money I am concerned with, Mr. Hendrickson. Contrary to your beliefs, there are other things in the world beside a buck. It is what I am learning here that counts. One page of my notes is worth more than every reel of your celluloid monstrosity.”

Barney smiled, trying to change the subject. “They don’t make film out of celluloid any more, Doc. Safety film, can’t burn.”

Tex shook sulpha powder onto the wound and applied a pressure bandage.

“You must ask the doctor to come here,” Lyn said, anxiously. “Have his opinion about my leaving. Once I go the film will be finished and I will never return here, never.”

Almost eagerly, as if to remember everything, he looked around at the bay and the houses and the people. Tex caught Barney’s eye, gave a quick, negative shake of the head, and jerked his thumb toward the company camp. “I’m going for the truck, and I’ll pass the word to the Prof to warm up the platform. Someone ought to bandage that Viking’s hand and give him a bottle of penicillin pills.”

“Bring the nurse back with you,” Barney said. “I’ll stay here with Jens.”

“Let me tell you what I have found out, just by chance,” Jens said, laying his hand on Barney’s arm. “I heard Ottar talking to one of his men about the compass repeater on the ship, and they pronounced it their own way, so that it sounded like usas-notra. It shocked me. There is a word in the Icelandic sagas, mentioned more than once, about a navigation instrument that has never been identified. It is called the húsasnotra. Do you understand? It is possible that the word ‘compass repeater’ has entered the language as húsasnotra. If so, then the impact of our arrival in the eleventh century is greater than any of us imagined. All the possibilities of this must be studied. I cannot return now.”

“That’s interesting, what you say, Jens.” Barney looked toward the camp but the truck wasn’t in sight yet. “You ought to write that up, a scientific paper, that sort of thing.”

“Fool! You have no idea what I am talking about. For you the vremeatron exists only as a device to be prostituted to make a trashy film—”

“Don’t be so free with the insults,” Barney said, trying not to lose his temper with the wounded man. “No one was rushing to help Hewett until we gave him the money. If it hadn’t been for this picture you would still have your nose in the books at U.C.L.A. and wouldn’t have a single one of the facts and figures that you think are so important. I don’t run your job down—don’t run down mine. I’ve heard this prostitution thing before, and it doesn’t wash. Wars prostitute scientists, but all the big inventions seem to get made when there’s a war to pay for them.”

“Wars don’t pay for basic research, and that is where the real developments are made.”

“Begging your pardon, but wars keep the enemy and the bombs far enough away so that the basic researchers have the time and the freedom to do their research.”

“A glib answer, but not a satisfactory one. No matter what you say, time travel is being used to produce a cheap picture, and any historical nuggets of truth will be found only by accident.”

“Not quite right,” Barney said, sighing inwardly as he finally heard the truck’s engine. “We haven’t interfered with your research, if anything we’ve helped it. You’ve had a pretty free hand. And in making this picture we have invested in the vremeatron so that it is now a working proposition. With the stuff you already have you should be able to talk any foundation into financing another time platform and letting you research to your heart’s content.”

“I’ll do just that.”

“But not for a while, yet.” The truck braked to a stop nearby. “We have the professor tied up exclusively for a couple of years, just until we get our investment back of course.”

“Of course,” Jens said bitterly, watching them unload a stretcher from the truck. “Profits first and culture be damned.”

“That’s the name of the game,” Barney said, watching as the philologist was carefully slid into the truck. “You can’t stop the world and get off, so you just have to learn to live on it.”