The Technicolor Time Machine

17

The stone-headed spear had gone right through the side of the motorboat and was stuck into the flooring.

“I left it there to plug the hole,” Tex said. “A few more came close but we was already leaving.”

“They must have been surprised or something,” Barney said. “Maybe the sound of the motor frightened them.”

“We were paddling.”

“There had to have been a reason. The Cape Dorset are a peaceful people, you saw the way they behaved when they came here.”

“Maybe they didn’t like the idea of their relatives being chopped down when they acted friendly the first time,” Dallas broke in. “We didn’t go looking for trouble now, they gave it free without asking. If the motor hadn’t started first pull we would have had a burial at sea or gone into their cooking pot or something. Tex and I talked it over on the way back, and we figured that we should get combat pay for this mission…”

“Make a note of it on your voucher, I’ll see what can be done—but just don’t bug me about it now.” Barney pulled on the spear but it wouldn’t come free. “I’ve got a few more important tilings to worry about. This picture is just about finished, except for the absolutely vital and very important Indian battle. We have to have it, and it is going to be a little difficult to have an Indian battle without Indians. There are a couple of thousand of them offshore there on the ice, and I send you out with the wampum and the beads to hire a couple and what do I get? Excuses.”

The stunt men were unimpressed by this argument and Dallas pointed coldly to the spear. A brassy wail split the air.

“Do they have to do that here?” Barney snapped.

“As I remember, it was your order,” Tex told him. “The only place they wouldn’t bother people with their playing was on the beach.”

The black-robed procession filed down onto the shore, with the drummer beating time and Spiderman leading the way. They carried folding chairs, as well as their instruments, and were wrapped in an exotic collection of scarves, deerskins and caribou robes.

“Pull the boat up on the beach and let’s get out of here,” Barney said.

“I second that,” Dallas grunted. “These rehearsal sessions are but murder.”

Spiderman tottered across the sand toward them, clutching his tube to his chest, his red nose standing out starkly against the pallor of his skin.

“We gotta get a rehearsal hall, Barney,” he pleaded. “All this fresh air will kill us for cert. Some of these cats haven’t been outdoors in years.”

“It’ll clean their lungs out.”

“They like ’em dirty.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange—”

“Enemy in sight!” Tex shouted. “Look at that task force.”

It was an astonishing sight. From behind the islands that stood in the mouth of the bay came boatload after boatload of Cape Dorset, more and more until the water was dark with them. As they came closer a flickering could be seen in the air above each boat and a deep humming filled the air.

“This ain’t no social call,” Tex said.

“They might be friendly,” Barney said with very little enthusiasm.

“How much you wanta bet?” Dallas said scornfully.

“All right—so we take, what do you call it, a defensive position. What do you suggest?”

Tex pointed his thumb at Dallas and said, “He has the seniority, so he issues the orders.”

“Right then,” Dallas snapped. “We get the civilians off the beach, we pass the word to Ottar to lock up his fort, we pull back to the camp. We form the vehicles into a circle with the house trailers inside, and pass out weapons to all the guys who have seen service. Then we sit tight. Tex, start the civilians back to the camp.”

“It sounds all right,” Barney agreed. “But aren’t you forgetting that we still have a movie to make? I want Gino and his camera on the hill there, overlooking the whole thing. And I should have another camera, hand held maybe, inside the stockade to film them when they come up.” He ran through the possible second cameramen and arrived at the inevitable, though depressing, conclusion that he was the only qualified one available. “I guess I’ll have to go in with Ottar and his crowd.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Dallas said, and watched thoughtfully for a moment while the musicians fled back the way they had come. “Gino and his camera go in the back of the truck. The truck will be on the hill and it will have a driver. Since the truck is between the beach and the camp, Tex can ride shotgun on it—and he’s in charge. When he says pull back, they pull back. I’ll come with you into the stockade.”

“Good, it sounds good, let’s go.”

The forward movement of the boats slowed as more and more of them appeared, as though they were massing for an attack. Whatever the reason, it gave the people onshore time to set up their defenses. Once the movie people were organized to Dallas’s satisfaction, he and Barney climbed into the six-by and bumped down the hill to the Viking camp. Dallas wore his pistol, had a submachine gun and bandoleers of ammunition slung over his shoulders, and unloaded some heavy and sinister metal boxes. They were the last ones inside the walls, and the big double gate, with the long wooden bar to lock it, was closed behind them. From the firing step Barney could see the truck back into position on the crest of the hill above.

“What makes the noise?” Ottar asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Barney told him. “Here they come!”

There was a ripple of motion that spread across the bay as the skin boats started in.

Barney rested the 35-mm camera against the top of the log stockade and panned across the line of advancing boats. Sunlight slashed down through an opening in the clouds and glinted from the spray and the chopping blades of the countless paddles. It was a grim, steady advance, and the blackness of the boats and the clothing of the men gave them the uniform of an army of darkness. The outlandish and frightening noise grew louder as the boats approached, and Barney clutched the camera and kept shooting, glad of the task that kept him busy. He had the feeling that if it hadn’t been for that he would have turned tail and run.

“I’ve heard that noise before,” Dallas said. “The same kind of humming whistle, only not so loud.”

“Do you remember where?” Barney asked, zooming the lens in for a close-up of one of the leading boats. It was very close.

“Sure, Australia. They have these natives there, what they call Abos, and a witch doctor was spinning this stick around his head on the end of a piece of string so it made the noise.”

“A bullroarer, of course. A lot of primitive tribes use them and they are supposed to have magical qualities. I’m beginning to see why, with a sound like that. There must be an Indian in each boat who is spinning one.”

“I have magic here to fix their magic,” Ottar said, whirling his ax over his head.

“Don’t look for trouble,” Barney said. “We have to avoid a fight if we can.”

“What?” Ottar shouted, shocked to the bottom of his Viking spirit. “They want fight—we fight. No cowards here.” He glared at Barney, daring him to answer.

“They’re landing,” Dallas said, stepping between the two men.

Any doubt about the peaceful nature of the visit had now vanished. As each boat landed the occupants dragged it up onto the shore and took out spears, bows, and soft quivers of stubby, stone-headed arrows. Barney concentrated on close-ups, Gino would be filming the entire action, and he could see the details of the weaponry in entirely too much detail.

“Ottar,” Dallas said, “tell your people to get under cover and keep their heads down.”

Ottar grumbled but issued the order. The Viking personality did not adjust easily to the concept of defense, but it was not completely suicidal. The defenders inside the walls were outnumbered at least twenty to one and even the combative northmen were forced to respect the odds. The first arrows hummed by and a spear thudded into the wood just below the camera. Barney dropped down and pushed the lens through a chink between two logs. It limited his field of vision—but was a good deal healthier.

“Coward weapons,” Ottar muttered. “Cowards. No way to fight.” He rattled his ax angrily against his shield. The Vikings scorned the use of the bow and arrow and believed only in the value of shock tactics and hand-to-hand fighting.

An impasse was reached when all the boats had unloaded and the Cape Dorset men surged around the log palisade looking for a way in. Some of them tried to climb the wall, but instant decapitation or dismemberment by the flashing Viking axes quickly halted this. The attackers waved their weapons and shrieked in their high-pitched voices, while the humming whistle of the bullroarers rose above all the other sounds. There was a small knot of men, to the rear of the others, that Dallas pointed out.

“Looks like the chiefs or whatever there. Dressed different, some kind of fur outfits with fox tails hanging off them.”

“Medicine men, more likely,” Barney said. “I wonder what they’re up to?”

There was a concerted stir of action that appeared to be organized by the men in fur-fringed outfits. Under their direction some of the attackers were running to the nearby forest and returning laden with branches.

“Are they going to try and break the wall down?” Barney said.

“Worse than that, maybe,” Dallas said. “These Dorsets, do they know anything about fire?”

“They must. Jens told me that fire pits and ashes were found in the ruins of their houses.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Dallas said gloomily, and pointed to the base of the wall where a mound of brushwood was being piled up.

All of the Viking spear poking and sword and ax waving was to no avail; the pile mounted higher. A minute later a man burst from the group of leaders in the rear, running through the shouting mob carrying a flaming torch. Viking spears rained down around him, but as soon as he was close enough he whirled the torch so it flared up and threw it in a high arc into the mound of brushwood. The dry wood crackled and flamed and smoke billowed out.

“I can put a stop to this whole thing right now,” Dallas said, bending to open the steel boxes before him.

“No,” Ottar said, putting out a restraining hand. “They want fight, we fight. We take care of that fire.”

“Maybe—but you’ll get butchered doing it.”

“Butcher some too,” Ottar said with a wicked grin as he started down from the wall. “And Barney wants good pictures of fighting Indians.”

Barney hesitated, but it was impossible to ignore the meaning in Dallas’s level, expressionless stare. “Sure I want a movie,” he burst out. “But not at the expense of anyone’s life. Let Dallas handle them.”

“No,” Ottar said, “we’ll give you a good fight for your movie.” He roared with laughter. “Do not look so sad, my gamli vinr,[22] we fight for ourself too. You will go soon and when we are alone we want these skraelling to remember what northmen are like in battle.” Then he was gone.

“He’s right,” Dallas said. “But if he gets into trouble we oughta be ready to get him out.” He opened the largest box and took out a weatherproof loudspeaker and a coil of insulated wire. “I’m going to put this up as far along the wall as the wire will reach.”

“What is it?”

“The speaker for this curdler unit. Let’s see how the natives act when they get a blast of this.”

Ottar had massed all of his righting men inside the gates, leaving just the women and the bigger children to man the walls. Two women stood ready to swing the gates open and, Barney saw with a shock, one of them was Slithey. He had thought her safe back in the camp. He shouted to her at the same moment Ottar raised his ax and his words were lost in the roar of Viking voices as the gates swung wide and the northmen rushed out.

This was the kind of fighting the Vikings did the best—and enjoyed the most. In a howling, compact mass they burst forth and crashed into the Cape Dorset. The superior numbers of the Dorset made no difference, for there was little or nothing they could do to fight these northern butchers, impregnable behind their shields and metal helms. Butchers is what they were, and their short swords and axes chopped and hewed through Dorset weapons and flesh.

The Cape Dorset broke and ran, they could do nothing else. They fled before the unstoppable advance of the blood-drenched killers. But, as the two groups separated, a space opened between them and the character of the battle changed. Swift spears plunged into the mob of Vikings, while arrows rattled against their shields. One man fell, with a spear through his leg, then another. The Cape Dorset began to realize what had happened and stayed clear, letting their weapons speak for them. The Vikings could not get to grips with the enemy—and close contact was the only way they could fight. In a few moments the tide would turn. They would be surrounded and picked off and killed, one by one.

“If you can do anything,” Barney said, “now’s the time, Dallas.”

“Roger. I got the only set of ear plugs so if I was you I would put my fingers in my ears.”

Barney started to answer him as Dallas threw the switch, and his voice and all the other sounds were instantly obliterated. As the wailing, sense-destroying thunder of the curdler exploded out there, there was nothing else he could do except jam his fingers into his ears and clutch at his head. Dallas nodded with satisfaction and dug smoke and tear-gas grenades out of the other box. With a professional, straight-armed pitch, he began lobbing them over the wall.

With his hands clamped tightly to his head, Barney turned painfully and looked down. In those few seconds the scene had changed completely. The curdler and the bombs were as strange to the Vikings as to the attackers, but their reaction had been their natural one of drawing into an even tighter defensive knot. But not so with the Cape Dorset. They were overwhelmed by panic. The fearful noise tore at their ears. Pillars of choking smoke sprang up all around them and they could not breathe and they could not see. Without conscious thought or decision, they broke and ran for the boats. Where, a minute before, there had been an attacking army, there was now only a mob of fleeing, struggling figures and a scattering of motionless dark bodies on the ground. It was all over. The mob on the beach struggled for possession of the boats and a few last figures stumbled through the clouds of tear gas after them.

Ottar’s men stood together, facing outward and ready to take on all enemies, human or supernatural. The ones who had been blinded by the tear gas were just as ready to fight as the others. Their courage was magnificent.

When Dallas switched off the curdler the silence seemed to beat in waves and Barney’s ears were numb and still filled with that incredible and sense-destroying sound. He slowly let his arms fall and straightened up. The Cape Dorset were vanquished and fleeing, there was no doubt of that: the Viking warriors had lowered their shields as they realized this and were waving their weapons victoriously. Dallas’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, through many layers of cotton batting, as he pointed toward the truck still stationed on the hill above.

“They never bothered the truck or the camp, so Gino must have been grinding away all the time.” He looked down at the laughing northmen, who were tearing the burning wood away from the wall. “There’s your Indian battle, so it looks like there’s your film.”

Barney turned away from the dead and wounded and began to climb shakily down.