Harry Harrison Rebel in Time

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trying to do. Have you worked it out?'
'I have. A very simple idea. I am going to write up a report and seal it into
a bottle. Really seal it, even try to get a glass blower to melt the neck of
the bottle shut. I'll put that in a solid box and bury it about six feet deep
in a spot where you will be easily able to find it.'
'Where?'
'Right there.' Troy pointed to the granite rock before them. 'Down on the
north side. All you have to do is dig-'
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'Great!' Kleiman said. 'Of course it will also mean moving all of the
equipment out of the lab, then tearing up the concrete floor. I can hardly
wait. We'll get onto it right away.'
'Well, at least wait until I have gone!'
They were silent then, all of them, staring at the grey rock where it
projected up from the scuffed laboratory floor. Down there, under the
foundations, under the ground, was the message. If Troy had indeed left that
message in the past, then it must be buried there right now. It had been lying
in that spot for well for over a century. Buried safely beside the rock, when
this had been only farmland, before they had been born, before this laboratory
was even built. It was an unnerving thought.
'We'll wait,' Roxanne said. 'This is important enough and new enough for us
not to get involved with time paradoxes at this stage. We will have to think
about them some time. But not just now.'
'Amen,' said the admiral.
'Seconded,' Kleiman said. 'Time paradoxes have to be avoided at any stage. You
must beware of doing or saying anything that might affect events. We have no
way of visualizing the consequences.'
Troy nodded and seized up the well-worn saddlebags. 'It's time to go,' he
said.
'A good idea,' Kleiman agreed, pointing to the metal brackets fixed to the
stone surface. 'I'm putting a wooden platform there. It will raise you about
an inch above the surface of the stone. So you should drop that amount when
you arrive better bend your knees. I would rather have you above the stone
than, well, inside it by a fraction of an inch. That is another matter that
needs investigating. So here we go-'
Troy helped him fix the platform into place, then clambered up onto it. The
admiral handed him the saddlebags and they were ready. There didn't seem to be
much to say. The admiral looked grim;
Kleiman and Roxanne were busy at the controls.
'All ready,' Kleiman said, his hand poised over the red actuator button.
'Count of three, okay?'
'Okay. Let's go. Geronimo.'
'One.'
Troy flexed his knees.
'Two.'
There was a frozen silence. Troy saw that Kleiman's hand was shaking, his lips
working in silence.
'Do it, man, do it now
.' Troy said.
'Three.'
Darkness.
Emptiness.
A sensation of nothing. Or a sensation of lack of sensation? It lasted an
instant or perhaps an eternity.
Troy couldn't tell, it was too different. It could have been over even as it
began, or it could have continued for an unmeasurable time. As he tried to
think about it, even as he began, it ended.
Heavy, warm rain beat down upon his shoulders and something hard smacked
against the soles of his boots, rough stone, tripping him. He tried to regain
his balance in the rain-filled darkness but couldn't. He slipped and fell,
slithering down the rock face into the mud, the breath half-knocked out of
him. He had a moment of panic as he groped in the darkness for the saddlebags.
They were there, it was all right.
Sudden lightning cut through the night, the bolt striking so close by that the
rumble of thunder arrived right on top of the flash. The lightning flared and
was gone, but for an instant there he had been able to see through the thick
rain.
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The black form of the projecting rock was clear, as well as the outline of
trees against the sky. But the laboratory was gone as though it had never
existed. Of course, it didn't exist, not here, not at this time. It still had
to be built, its existence was still a probability in the distant future.
He had arrived. Fairfax County, Virginia. A few miles north of the nation's
capital.
The summer of the year 1859.
Clutching the saddlebags he climbed to his feet and stood with his back
against the rock, rubbing the rain from his eyes. He had done it. 1859. But it
meant nothing to him. He felt numb, the truth of the situation just couldn't
penetrate. Only the rain had any reality.
What should the next step be? Sitting put, that was obvious. When it was
daylight he had to chart the location of this particular ridge of stone, the
exact spot where he had arrived so he could be sure of finding it again. When
the time came he would bury the message here. It was important, not only to
those yet unborn who would someday dig for it in the distant future, but was
vitally important to him as well. It was a link, no matter how tenuous, with
the world that he had left forever. He settled down against the rock to wait.
The rain slackened and Troy was surprised to see that the eastern horizon was
already growing light. He had to remember to make a note of that for the
others. Calibration was important, that's what Kleiman always said. Still, a
few hours difference over the immense span of the years, that wasn't too bad.
He would have to check the date too, just in case.
The rain died down to a steady drizzle, then stopped. The air was close and
heavy; it was going to be a hot day. As the sky brightened the mist lifted and
a grassy field began to emerge from the darkness, running down from the ridge
of granite to the woods beyond. A track, a cowpath really, cut close by. He
heard a distant mooing and the clanking of a cowbell; there was a farm not too
distant. Nor should this spot be hard to find again. The ridge of rock, shaped
somewhat like a ship, rose from the summit of a small hill, and it was the
only bit of rock in sight. The cowbells sounded closer now, and the sound of
heavy, slow footsteps.
They came out of the woods one behind the other, a file of small brown cattle.
The leader rolled her eyes at him as she approached, then moved out around
him. Troy watched her pass then turned back.
The boy was standing at the edge of the trees, looking at him.
Troy did not move when the boy started forward again. He was about twelve
years old, dressed in patched trousers and shirt. He carried a length of green
willow to use on the cows. His hair was blond and thick. His skin spattered
with freckles. His bare toes squelched through the mud as he walked up and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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