Time Travel Omnibus, page 235
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. Personally, I think he was preoccupied and inadvertently wandered into another time track. But there are literally hundreds of similar cases.”
Howard stopped pacing and pulled at his lower lip. “Maybe so, doctor. I’m too upset to consider the matter. Look here—it’s one o’clock. Oughtn’t she be back by now?”
“I’m afraid so, son.”
“You mean she’s not coming back?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
The younger man gave a broken cry and collapsed on the sofa. His shoulders heaved convulsively. Presently he calmed down a little. Frost saw his lips move and suspected that he was praying. Then he showed a drawn face to the doctor.
“Isn’t “there anything we can do?” Frost waited before replying. “That’s hard to answer, Howard. We don’t know where she’s gone; all we do know is that she left here under hypnotic suggestion to cross over into some other loop of the past or future.”
“Can’t we go after her the same way and trace her?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had any experience with such a job.”
“I’ve got to do something or I’ll go nuts.”
“Take it easy, son. I’m as anxious to help as you are. Let me think about it.” He smoked in silence while Howard relentlessly controlled an impulse to commit some wild action—scream, break furniture, anything!
Frost knocked the ash off his cigar and placed it carefully in a tray. “I can think of one chance. It’s a remote one.”
“Anything!”
“I’m going to listen to the record Estelle heard, while concentrating on her. Perhaps I can establish some rapport, some extra-sensory connection, that will serve to guide me to her.”
Frost went immediately about his preparations as he spoke. “I want you to remain in the room when I go, so that you will really believe it can be done.”
Howard watched him don the headphones in silence. The professor stood still, eyes closed. He remained so for nearly fifteen minutes, then took a short step forward. The earphones clattered onto the floor. He was gone.
FROST felt himself drift into the timeless limbo which precedes transition. He noticed again that it was exactly like the floating sensation that ushers in normal sleep, and wondered idly, for the hundredth time, whether or not the dreams of sleep were real experiences. He was inclined to think so. Then he recalled his mission with a guilty start and concentrated hard on Estelle.
He was walking along a road, white in the sunshine. Before him were the gates of a city. The gateman stared at his odd attire, but let him pass. He hurried down the broad tree-lined avenue which—he knew—led from the space port to Capitol Hill. He turned aside into the Way of the Gods and continued until he reached the Grove of Priestesses. There he found the house which he sought, its marble walls pink in the sun, its fountains tinkling in the morning breeze. He turned in.
The ancient janitor, nodding in the warmth, admitted him to the house. The slender maidservant, hardly nubile, ushered him into the inner chamber’, where her mistress raised herself on one elbow and regarded her visitor through languid eyes. Frost addressed her:
“It is time to return, Estelle.” Her eyebrows showed her surprise. “You speak a strange and barbarous tongue, old man, and yet, here is a mystery, for I know it. What do you wish of me?”
Frost spoke impatiently. “Estelle, I say it is time to return!”
“Return? What idle talk is this? Return where? And my name is Star Light, not Ess Tell. Who are you, and from where do you come?” She searched his face, then pointed a slender finger at him. “I know you now! You are out of my dreams. You were a master and instructed me in the ancient wisdom.”
“Estelle, do you remember a youth in those dreams?”
“That odd name again! Yes, there was a youth. He was sweet—sweet and straight and tall, like a pine on a mountain. I have dreamed of him often.” She swung about with a flash of long white limbs. “What of this youth?”
“He waits for you. It is time to return.”
“Return! There is no return to the place of dreams!”
“I can lead you there.”
“What blasphemy is this? Are you a priest, that you should practice magic?”
“There is no magic to it. He is heartsick at your loss. I will lead you back to him.”
She hesitated, doubt in her eyes, then she replied, “Suppose you could; why should I forsake my vows for the cold nothingness of that dream?”
He answered her gently, “What does your heart tell you, Estelle?” She stared at him, eyes wide, and seemed about to burst into tears. Then she flung herself across the couch and showed him her back. A muffled voice answered him.
“Be off with you! There is no youth except in my dreams. I’ll seek him there!”
She made no further reply to his importunities. Presently he ceased trying and left with a heavy heart.
HOWARD seized him by the arm as he returned. “Well, professor? Well? Did you find her?”
Frost dropped wearily into his easy-chair. “Yes, I found her.”
“Was she all right? Why didn’t she come back with you?”
“She was perfectly well, but I couldn’t persuade her to return.” Howard looked as if he had been slapped across the mouth. “Didn’t you tell her I wanted her to come back?”
“I did, but she didn’t believe me.”
“Not believe you?”
“You see, she’s forgotten most of this life, Howard. She thinks you are simply a dream.”
“But that’s not possible!”
Frost looked more weary than ever. “Don’t you think it is about time you stopped using that term, son?”
Instead of replying, he said, “Doctor, you must take me to her!”
Frost looked dubious.
“Can’t you do it?” Howard persisted.
“Perhaps I could, if you have gotten over your disbelief in the process used, but still—”
“Disbelief! I’ve been forced to believe. Let’s get busy.”
But Frost did not move. “I’m not sure that I agree to it. You see, Howard, conditions are quite different where Estelle has gone. It suits her, but I am not sure that it would be a kindness to take you through to her.”
“Why not? Doesn’t she want to see me?”
“Yes—I think she does. I’m sure she would welcome you, but conditions are very different.”
“I don’t give a damn what the conditions are. Let’s go.”
Frost got up. “Very well, then. It shall be as you wish.”
He seated Jenkins in the easy-chair and held the young man’s eye with his gaze. He gripped Jenkins’ left wrist and spoke slowly in calm, modulated tones.
FROST assisted Howard to his feet and brushed him off. Howard laughed and wiped the white dust of the road from his hands.
“Quite a tumble, master. I feel as if some lout had pulled a stool from under me.”
“I shouldn’t have had you sit down.”
“I guess not.” He pulled a large multiflanged pistol from his belt and examined it. “Lucky the safety catch was set on my blaster, or we might have been picking ourselves out of the stratosphere. Shall we be on our way?”
Frost looked his companion over; helmet, short military kilt, short sword and accouterments slapping at his thighs. He blinked and answered, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
As they swung into the city gates, Frost inquired, “Do you know where you are headed?”
“Yes, certainly. To Star Light’s villa in the Grove.”
“And you know what to expect there?”
“Oh, you mean our discussion. I know the customs here, master, and am quite undismayed, I assure you.
“Star Light and I understand each other. She’s one of these ‘out of sight, out of mind’ girls. Now that I’m back from Ultima Thule, she’ll give up the priesthood and we’ll settle down and raise a lot of fat babies.”
“Ultima Thule? Do you remember my study?”
“Of course I do—and Robert and Helen and all the rest.”
“Is that what you mean by Ultima Thule?”
“Not exactly. I can’t explain it, master. I’m a practical military man. I’ll leave such things to you priests and teachers.”
They paused in front of Estelle’s house. “Coming in, master?”
“No, I think not. I must be getting back.”
“You know best.” Howard clapped him on the shoulder. “You have been a true friend, master. Our first brat shall be named for you.”
“Thank you, Howard. Good-by, and good luck to both of you.”
“And to you.” He entered the house with an easy, confident stride.
Frost walked slowly back toward the gates, his mind preoccupied with a myriad thoughts. There seemed to be no end to the permutations and combinations, either of matter or of mind. Robert, Helen—now Howard and Estelle. It should be possible to derive a theory that would cover them all—
As he mused, his heel caught on a loose paving block and he stumbled across his easy-chair.
THE ABSENCE of the four students was going to be hard to explain, Frost knew—so he said nothing to anyone. The week end passed before anyone took the absences seriously. On Monday a policeman came to his house, asking questions.
His answers were not illuminating, for he had reasonably refrained from trying to tell the true story. The district attorney smelled a serious crime—kidnaping, perhaps, or a mass murder.
He caused a warrant to be issued Tuesday morning; Sergeant Izowski was sent to pick him up.
The professor came quietly enough and entered the station wagon without protest. “Look, doc,” said the sergeant, encouraged by the docile manner of his prisoner, “why don’t you tell us where you hid ’em? You know we’re bound to dig them up in time.”
Frost turned, looked him straight in the eyes, and smiled. “Time,” he said softly. “Ah, time—yes, you could dig them up in time.” He then went on into the wagon and sat down quietly, closed his eyes and placed his mind in the necessary calm receptive condition.
The sergeant placed one foot on the tailboard, braced his broad bulk in the only door, and drew out his notebook. When he finished writing he looked up, preparatory to locking the door.
Professor Frost was gone.
FROST had intended to look up Howard and Estelle. Inadvertently he let his mind dwell on Helen and Robert at the crucial moment. When he “landed,” it was not in the world of the future he had visited twice before. He did not know where he was—on Earth, apparently, somewhere and somewhen.
It was wooded rolling country, like the hills of southern Missouri, or New Jersey. Frost had not sufficient knowledge of botany to be able to tell whether the species of trees he saw around him were familiar or not. But he was given no time to study the matter.
He heard a shout, an answering shout. Human figures came bursting out of the trees in a ragged line.
He thought that they were attacking him, looked wildly around for shelter, and found none. But they kept on past him, ignoring him, except that the one who passed closest to him checked his flight, glanced at him hastily, and shouted something. Then he, too, was gone.
Frost was left standing, bewildered, in the small natural clearing in which he had landed.
Before he had had time to integrate these events in his mind one of the fleeing figures reappeared from the direction in which the group had vanished and yelled to him, accompanying the words with a gesture unmistakable—he was to come along.
Frost hesitated in complying. The figure ran toward and hit him with a clean tackle. The next few seconds were very confused to Frost, but he pulled himself together sufficiently to realize that he was seeing the world upside down; the stranger was carrying him at a strong dogtrot, thrown over one shoulder.
Bushes whipped at his face, then the way led downward for several yards, and he was dumped casually to the ground. He sat up and rubbed himself.
He found himself in a tunnel which ran upward to daylight and downward the Lord knew where. Figures milled around him but ignored him. Two of them were setting up some sort of apparatus between the group and the mouth of the tunnel. They worked with extreme urgency, completing what they were doing in a few seconds, and stepped back. Frost heard a soft, gentle hum.
The mouth of the tunnel seemed to become slightly cloudy. He soon saw why—the apparatus, like some giant spider, was spinning a web from wall to wall, blocking the exit to the surface. The web became less tenuous, translucent, opaque. The hum persisted for many minutes thereafter, and the strange machine continued to weave and thicken the web. One of the figures glanced at its belt, spoke one word in the tones of command, and the bumming ceased.
Frost could feel relief spreading over the group like a warm glow. He felt it himself and relaxed, knowing intuitively that some acute danger had been averted.
The member of the group who had given the order to shut off the machine turned around, happened to see Frost, and approached him, asking some question in a sweet but peremptory soprano. Frost was suddenly aware of three things: The leader was a woman, it was the leader who had rescued him, and the costume and general appearance of these people matched that of the transformed Robert Monroe.
A smile spread over his face. Everything was going to be all right!
THE QUESTION was repeated with marked impatience. Frost felt that some sort of an answer was required, though he did not understand the language and was sure that she could not possibly know English. Nevertheless—
“Madame,” finally he said in English, getting to his feet and giving her a courtly bow, “I do not know your language and do not understand your question, but I suspect that you have saved my life. I am grateful.”
She seemed puzzled and somewhat annoyed at his answer and demanded something else—at least Frost thought it was a different question; he could not be sure. This was getting nowhere fast. The language difficulty was almost insuperable, he realized. It might take days, weeks, months to overcome it. In the meantime, these people were busy with a war, and would be in no frame of mind to bother with a useless incoherent stranger.
He did not want to be turned out on the surface.
How annoying, he thought, how stupidly annoying! Probably Monroe and Helen were somewhere around, but he could die of old age and never find them. They might be anywhere on the planet. How would an American, dumped down in Tibet, make himself understood if his only possible interpreter were in South America? Or whereabouts unknown? How would he make the Tibetans understand that there even was an interpreter? Botheration!
Still, he must make some sort of a try. What was it Monroe had said his name was here? Egan—no, Igor. That was it—Igor.
“Igor,” he said.
The leader cocked her head. “Igor?” she said.
Frost nodded vigorously. “Igor.”
She turned and called out, “Igor!” giving it the same marked guttural, the same liquid “r” that Monroe had given it. A man pushed through the circle that had gathered around the leader and Frost. The professor looked eagerly at him, but he was a stranger, like the rest. The leader pointed to the man and stated.
This is growing complicated, thought Frost; apparently Igor is a common name here—too common. Then he had a sudden idea:
If Monroe and Helen got through, their badly needed chattels might have made them prominent. “Igor,” he said, “Helen Fisher.”
The leader was attentive at once, her face alive. “ ’Elen Feesher?” she repeated.
“Yes, yes—Helen Fisher.”
She stood quiet for a moment, thinking. It was plain that the words meant something to her. She clapped her hands together and spoke commandingly. Two men stepped forward. She addressed them rapidly for several minutes.
The two men stepped up to Frost, each taking an arm. They started to lead him away. Frost held back for a moment and said over his shoulder, “Helen Fisher?”
“ ’Elen Feesher,” the leader assured him. He had to be content with that.
TWO HOURS later, more or less, Frost was not so sure. He had not been mistreated, and the room in which they had placed him was comfortable enough, but it was a cell—at least, the door was fastened. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing, perhaps those syllables meant something quite different here from a simple proper name.
The room in which he found himself was bare, and lighted only by a dim glow from the walls, as had been all of this underground world which he had seen so far. He was growing quite tired of the place and was wondering whether or not it would do any good to set up a commotion when he heard someone at the door.
The door slid back; he saw the leader, a smile on her rather grim, middle-aged features. She spoke in her own tongue, then added, “Igor—Ellenfeesher.”
He followed her.
Glowing passageways, busy squares where he was subjected to curious stares, an elevator which startled him by dropping suddenly when he was not aware that it was an elevator, and finally a capsulelike vehicle in which they were sealed air-tight, and which went somewhere very fast indeed, to judge by the sudden surge of weight when it started and again when it stopped—through them all he followed his guide, not understanding and lacking means of inquiring. He tried to let his mind relax and to enjoy the passing moment, as his companion seemed to bear him no ill will, though her manner was brusque—that of a person accustomed to giving orders and not in the habit of encouraging casual intimacy.
They arrived at a door which she opened and strode in. Frost followed and was almost knocked off his feet by a figure which charged into him and grasped him with both arms. “Doctor! Dr. Frost!”
It was Helen Fisher, dressed in the costume worn by both sexes here. Behind her stood Robert—or Igor—his gnomelike face widened with a grin.
