 The Time Traders by Andre Norton Chapter 5 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by RJ Davis The Time Traders by Andre Norton Chapter 5 He might have said yes, but that didn't mean Ross discovered that he was to be shipped off at once to early Britain. Ashes Tomorrow proved to be several days later. The cover was that of a beaker trader, and Ross's impersonation was checked again and again by experts, making sure that the last detail was correct and that no suspicion of a tribesman, no mistake on Ross's part, would betray him. The beaker people were an excellent choice for infiltration. They were not a closely knit clan, suspicious of strangers, and alert to any deviation from the norm, as more race-conscious tribes might be. For they lived by trade, leaving to Ross's own time the mark of their far-flung empire into beakers found in graves scattered in clusters of a handful or so from the Rhineland to Spain and from the Balkans to Britain. They did not depend only upon the taboo of the trade road for their safety. For the beaker men were master bowmen. A roving people, they pushed into new territory to establish posts. Living amicably among peoples with far different customs, the Downs farmers, horse herders, shoreside feature folk. With Ash Ross passed the last inspection. Their hair had not grown long enough to require braiding, but they did have enough to hold it back from their faces with hide headbands. The kilt tunics of coarse material, duplicating samples brought from the past, were harsh to the skin and poorly fitting. But the workmanship of their Lincoln plate bronze belts, the sleek bow guards strapped to their wrists, and the bows themselves approached by an art. Ash's round cloak was the blue of a master trader, and he wore welts in a necklace of polished wiffed teeth, alternating with amber beads. Ross's more modest position in the tribe was indicated not only by his red-brown cloak, but by the fact that his personal jewelry consisted only of a copper bracelet and a cloak pin with a jet head. He had no idea how the time transition was to be made, nor how one might step from the polar regions of the western hemisphere to the island of Britain laying off the eastern. And it was a complicated business as he discovered. The transition itself was a fairly simple though disturbing process. One walked a short quarter and stood for an instant on a plate while the light centered their curled about in a solid core, shutting one off from floor and wall. Ross gasped for breath as the air was sucked out of his lungs. He experienced a moment of deadly sickness with the sensation of being lost in nothingness. Then he breathed again and looked through the dying wall of light to where Ash waited. Quick and easy as a trip through time had been, the journey to Britain was something else. There could only be one transfer point if the secret was to be preserved, but men from that point must be moved swiftly and secretly to their appointed stations. Ross, knowing the strict rules concerning the transportation of objects from one time to another, wondered how that travel could be affected. After all, they could not spend months or even years getting across continents and seas. The answer was ingenious. Three days after they had stepped through the barrier of time at the outpost, Ross and Ash balanced on the rounded back of a whale. It was a whale which would deceive anyone who did not test its hide with a harpoon. And whalers with harpoons large enough to trouble such a monster were yet well in the future. Ash slid a dugout into the water and Ross climbed into that unsteady crowd, holding it against the side of the disguised sub until his partner joined him. The day, misty and drizzling, made to shore, they aimed for a half-seen line across the water. With a shiverboard of more than cold, Ross dipped his paddle and helped Ash send her crude boat towards that half-hidden strip of land. There was no real dawn, the sky lightened somewhat, but the drizzle continued. Green patches showed among the winter and denuded trees back from the beach, but the countryside facing them gave an impression of untamed wilderness. Ross knew from his briefing that the whole of Britain was as yet only sparsely settled. The first wave of hunter-features to establish villages had been joined by other invaders who built massive tombs and had an elaborate religion. Small village forts had been linked from hill to hill by trackways. There were factories, which turned out in bulk, such fine-flint weapons and tools that a thriving industry was in full operation. Not yet having been superseded by the metal imported by the beaker merchants. Bronze was still so rare and costly that only the head man of a village could hope to own one of the long daggers. Even the arrowheads in Ross's quiver were chipped to flint. They drew the dugout well up onto the shore and ran it into a shallow depression in the bank, heaping stones and brush about for its concealment. Then Ash intently surveyed the surrounding country seeking a landmark. Inland from here. Ash used the language of the beaker men and Ross knew that from now on he must not only live as a trader but also think as one. All other memories must be buried under the false one he had learned. He must be interested in the present rate of exchange and the chance for profit. The two men were on their way to Outpost Skog where Ash's first partner, the redoubtable Sanford, was playing his role so well. The reins forced in their hide boots, made sodden strings of their cloaks, plastered their woven caps to their thick mats of hair, yet Ash wore steadily on across the land with the certainty of one following a marked trail. His self-confidence was rewarded within the first half mile when they came out upon one of the length trackways. Its beaten surface testifying to constant use. Here Ash turned eastward, stepping up the pace to a ground covering trot. The peace of the road held at least by day. By night only the most hardened and desperate outlaws would brave the harmful spirits roving in the dark. All the lore that had been pounded into him at the base began to make some sense to Ross as he followed his guide. Sniffing strange wet smells from the brush, the trees, and the damp earth, piecing together in his mind what he had been taught and what he now saw for himself until it made a tight pattern. The track they were following sloped slightly upward, and a change in the wind brought to them a sour odor. Blanking out all normal scents, Ash halted so suddenly that Ross almost plowed into him. But he was alerted by the older man's attitude. Something had been burned. Ross drew in a deep lung full of the smell and in-woost that he had not. He was wood, burned wood, and something else. Since this was not possibly normal, he was prepared for the way Ash melted into cover in the brush. They worked their way, sometimes crawling on their bellies, through the wet stands of dead grass, taking full advantage of all cover. They crouched at the top of the hill while Ash parted the prickly branches of an evergreen brush to make them a window. The black patch left by the fire which had come from a ruin above had spread downhill on the opposite side of the valley. Charred posts still stood like long teeth in a skull to mark what must have once been one of the stockade walls of a post. But all they now guarded was a desolation from which came that overpowering stench. Our post, Ross asked kind of whispered, Ash nodded. He was studying the scene with an intent absorption which Ross knew would impress every important detail upon his mind. That the place had been burned was clear from the first. But why, and by whom, was a problem vital to the two lurking in the brush? It took them almost an hour to cross the valley, an hour of hiding, casting about, searching. They had made a complete circle of the destroyed post, and Ash stood in the shadow of a corpse, rubbing cloths of mud from his hands and frowning up at the charred post. They were rushed, for if they were, the attackers carved their trail afterward, Ross ventured. The older man shook his head. Tridsmen would not have money to trail if they had won. No, this was no regular attack. There had been no signs of a war party coming or leaving. They didn't want, demanded Ross. Lightning for one thing, and it would better hope it was that. Or Ash's blue eyes were very cold and bleak, as cold and bleak as the countryside about them. Or Ross dared to prompt him. Or we have made contact with the Reds in the wrong way. Ross's hand instinctively went to the dagger at his belt. Little help a dagger would be in an unequal struggle like this. There were only two in the Thidweb of Men strung out through the centuries of time with orders to seek out that which did not fit properly into the pattern of the past. To locate the enemy wherever in history or prehistory he had gone to earth. Had the Reds been searching too? And was this first disaster their victory? The time traders had their evidence when they at last ventured into what had been the heart of Outpost Gov. Ross, in experience as he was in such matters, could not mistake the signs of the explosion. There was a crater in the crown of the hill. And Ash stood apart from it, eyeing the fragments about them, scorched wood, black and stone. The Reds. It must have been. This damage was done by explosives. It was clear why Outpost Gov could not report the disaster. The attack had destroyed their one link with the post at this time level. The concealed communicator had gone up with the blast. Eleven, Ash's finger tapped on the ornate buckle of his wide belt. We have about ten days to stick it out, he added. And it seems we may be able to use them to better advantage than just letting you learn how it feels to walk about some 4,000 years before you were born. We have to find out, if we can, what happened here and why. Ross gazed at the mess. D, he asked. Some digging is indicated. So they dug. Finally, black with charcoal smudges and sick with the evidences of death they had touched upon, they collapsed on the cleanest spots they could find. They must have hit at night, Ash said slowly. Only at that time would they find everyone here. Men don't trust a night filled with ghosts, and our ages conform to local custom as usual. All of the post people could be erased with one bomb at night. All except two of them had been through beaker traders, including women and children. No beaker trading post was large, and this one was unusually small. The attacker had wiped out some 20 people, 18 of them innocent victims. How long ago, Ross wanted to know. Maybe two days, and this attack came without any warning. Or Sandy would have sent a message. He had no suspicions at all. His last reports were all routine. Which means that if they were on to him, and they must have been, judging by the results, he was not even aware of it. What do we do now? Ash looked at him. We warse. No, he corrected himself. We don't. We go to Nodrin's village. We are frightened, restricted. We have found our kinsmen dead under strange circumstances. We ask questions of one to whom I am known as an inhabitant of this post. So, covered with dirt, they walked along the trackway towards the neighboring village. With a weariness, they did not have to counterfeit. The dog sighted, or perhaps, scented them first. It was a rough-coated beast, showing its fangs with a wolf-like ferocity, but it was smaller than a wolf, and it barked between its warning snarls. Ash brought his bow from beneath the shelter of his cloak and held it ready. Ho! One comes to speak with Nodrin, Nodrin of the hill. Only the dog snapped and snarled. Ash wrote his forearm across his face, the gesture of a weary and heart-sick man, smearing the ash and grime into an awesome mask. Who speaks to Nodrin? There was a different twist to the pronunciation of some words, but Ross was able to understand. One who has hunted with him and feasted with him. The one who gave into his hand the friendship gift of the ever-sharp night. It is Asha of the traitors. Go far from us, man of ill luck. You who are hunted by the evil spirits, the last was a shrill cry. Ash remained where he was, facing into the bushes which hid the tribesmen. Who speaks for Nodrin? Yet not with the voice of Nodrin, he demanded. This is Asha who asked. We had drunk blood together and faced a white wolf and a wild boar in their fury. Nodrin lest not others speak for him, for Nodrin is a man and a chief. And you are cursed. A stone flew through the air, striking a rain pool and splattering mud on Asha's boots. Go and take your evil with you. Is it from the hand of Nodrin or Nodrin's young men that doom came upon those of my blood? Had war arrows passed between the place of the traitors and the town of Nodrin? Is that why you hide in the shadows so that I, Asha, cannot look upon the face of one who speaks boldly and throws stones? No war arrows between us traitors. We do not provoke the spirits of the hills. No fire comes from the sky at night to eat us up with a noise of many thunders. Lurgus speaks and sits thunders. Lurgus hands mice with such fire. You had the wrath of Lurgus upon you, traitor. Keep away from us, least Lurgus' wrath fall upon us also. Lurgus was a local storm god, Ross recalled, the sound of thunder and fire coming out of the sky at night, the bomb. Perhaps the very method of attack on the post would defeat Asha's attempt to learn anything from these neighbors. The superstitions of the people would lead them to shun both the side of the post and Asha himself as cursed and taboo. If the wrath of Lurgus had struck at Asha, would Asha still live to walk upon this road? Asha prodded the ground with the tip of his bow stave. Yet Asha walks as you see him. Asha talks as you hear him. It is ridiculous to answer him with the nonsense of little children. Spirits so walk and talk to unlucky man, retorted the man in hiding. It may be the spirit of Asha who does so now. Asha made a sudden leap. There was a flurry of action behind the bush screen, and he reappeared, dragging into the gray light of the rainy day a wiggling captain, whom he bumped about ceremony onto the beaten earth of the road. The man was bearded, wearing his thick moth of black hair in a round topknot, secured with a hide-loop. He wore a skin-tubek, now inconsiderable, disarray, which was held in place with a woven, tasseled belt. Ho, so it is law of the quick-tun who speaks so loudly of spirits and the wrath of Lurgus. Asha studies his captives. Now, law, since you speak for Nadrin, which I believe will greatly surprise him, you will continue to tell me of this wrath of Lurgus from the night skies and what has happened to Sandra, who was my brother, and those others of my kin. I am Asha, and you know of the wrath of Asha and how he had ate up twist-tooth, the outlaw, when he came in with these evil men. The wrath of Lurgus is hot, but so too is the wrath of Asha. Asha contorted his face in such a way that law squirmed and looked away. When the tribesmen spoke, all his former authority and bluster had gone. Asha knows I am as his dog. Let him not turn upon me his swift-cutting big knife, nor the arrows from his lightning bow. It was the wrath of Lurgus which smoked the place on the hill. First the thunder of his first meeting with earth, then then the fire which he breathed upon those whom he would slay. And as you saw with your own eyes law, the shaggy head shook an emphatic negative. Asha knows that law is no chief who can stand and look upon the wonders of Lurgus' night, and keep his eyes on his head. Nodrin himself saw this wonder. And if Lurgus came in the night when all men keep to their homes and leave the outer world to the restless spirits, how did Nodrin see this coming? Law crouched lower to the ground, his eyes darting to the bushes and the freedom they promised. Then back to Asha's firmly planted foods. I am not a chief, Asha. How could I know in what way or for what reason Nodrin saw the coming of Lurgus? Fool, a second voice, that of a woman, spat the word from the brush which friends the roadway. Speak to Asha with a strange tongue. If he is a spirit, he will know that you do not tell him the truth. And if he has been spared by Lurgus, she shows her wonderment with a hiss of in-drawn breath. So urged, law-mumbled, so lowly. It is said that there came a message for one to witness the wrath of Lurgus, in his descent upon the outlanders, so that Nodrin and the men of Nodrin would truly know that the traitors were cursed, and should be put to the spear should they come here again. This message, how was it brought? Did the voice of Lurgus sound at Nodrin's ear alone? Or came it by the tongue of some man? Ah-hee! Law lay flat on the ground, his hands over his ears. Law is a fool and fears his own shadow as it skips before him on a sunny day. Out of the bushes stepped a young woman, obviously of some importance in her own group. Walking with a proud stride, her eyes boldly met Asha's. A shining disc hung about her neck on a foam, and another decorated the woven belt of her cloth tunic. Her hair was bound in a thread-dent fastened with jet-pinch. Our Greek Kasha, who is the first sower, there was a formal note in Asha's voice. But why should Kasha hide from Asha? There has been death on your hill, Asha, she sniffed. You smell of it now, Lurgus death. Those who come from that hill may well be some who no longer walk in their bodies. Kasha placed her fingers momentarily on Asha's outstretched palm before she nodded. No spirits are you, Asha, for all know that a spirit is solid to the eye, but not to the touch. So it would seem that you were not burned up by Luga after all. This matter of a message from Luga, he prompted. It came out of the empty air in the hearing not only of Nadrin, but also of Hangor, F.R., and Marcel. Kasha. For we stood at that time near the old place. She made a curious gesture with the fingers of her right hand. He will soon be the time of sowing, and though Lugus brings sun and rain to feed the grain, yet it is in the great mother that the seed lies. Upon her business only, women may go into the inner circle. She gestured again. But as we met to make the first sacrifice, there came music out of the air, such as we have never heard. Voices singing like birds in a strange tone. Her voice assumed an awesome expression. Afterward, a voice said that Luga was angered with the heel of the men from afar, and that in the night he would send his wrast against him, and that Nadrin must witness this thing so that he could see what Luga did to those he would punish. So it was done by Nadrin, and there was a sound in the air. What kind of sound, Asha's quietly? Nadrin said it was a home, and there was a dark shadow of Luga's bird between him and the stars. Then came the smiting of the hill with thunder and lightning, and Nadrin fled. For the wrath of Luga is a fearsome thing. Now do the people come to the great mother's place with many fine offerings that she may stand between them and that wrath? Asha thanks Kasha, who is the handmaiden of the great mother. Made the sowing prosper and the reaping be good this year. Asha said finally, ignoring law, who still groveled on the ground. You go from this place, Asha, she asked. For though I stand under the protecting hand of the mother, and so do not fear, yet there are others who will raise their spears against you for the honor of Luga. We go, and again thanks be to you, Kasha. He turned back to where they had come, and Ross fell in beside him as a woman watched them out of sight. This concludes a reading of Chapter 5. The Time Traders by Andre Norton, Chapter 6. This is a Leverbox recording. All Leverbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Leverbox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. The Time Traders by Andre Norton, Chapter 6. That bird of Luger said Ross, once they were out of sight of Kasha and Law, could it have been a plane? Sounds like it snapped his companion. The Reds have done their work efficiently, and there is no reason to suppose otherwise. Then there is no use of contacting either Dorothea's town or Mungas. The same announcement concerning the wrath of Luger was probably made there to their good purpose, not ours. Kasha didn't seem to be overly impressed with Luger's curse, not as much as a man was. She is the closest thing to a priestess such as Tribe Nose, and she serves a goddess older and more powerful than Luger, the Mother Earth, the Great Mother, goddess of fertility and growth. Nodrin's people believe that unless Kasha performs her mysteries and sows part of the first field in the spring, there won't be any harvest. Consequently, she is secure in her office and doesn't fear the wrath of Luger too much. These people are now changing from one type of worship to another, but some of Kasha's beliefs will persist clear down to our day, taking on the coating of magic and a lot of other, enabling along the way. Ash had been talking as a man talks to cover up furious thinking. Now he paused again and turned towards the sea. We have to stick it out somewhere until the sub comes to pick us up. We'll need shelter. Will the tribesmen be after us? They may well be. Let the right men get to talking up a holy extermination of those upon whom the wrath of Luger has fallen, and we could be in for plenty of trouble. Some of these men are trained hunters and trackers, and the Reds may have planted an agent to report the return of anyone to our post. Just now we're about the most important time travelers out, where we know the Reds have appeared on this line. They must have a large post here too, or they couldn't have sent a plane on that raid. We can't build a time transport large enough to take through a considerable amount of material. Everything used by us in this age has to be assembled on this side, and the use of all machines is limited to where they cannot be seen by the natives. Luckily, large areas of this world are mostly wilderness and unpopulated in the area where we operate the base post. So if the Reds have a plane, it was put together here, and that means a big post somewhere. Again, Ash was thinking aloud as he pushed ahead of Ross into the fringes of a wood. Sandy and I scouted this territory pretty well last spring. There's a cave about half a mile to the west. It was shelter us for tonight. Ash's plans would probably have been easily accomplished if the cave had been unoccupied. Without incident they came down into a hollow through which trickled a small stream. Its banks laced with a thin edging of ice. Under Ash's direction, Ross collected an armful of firewood. He was no woodman, and this prolonged exposure to the chilling drizzle made him eager for even the very rough shelter of a cave. So eager that he plunged forward carelessly. His foot came down on a slippery patch of mud, sending him sprawling on his face. There was a growl. A white bulk rushed him. The cloak, rucked up about his throat and soldiers, then saved his life. For only stout cloth was caught between those fangs. With a startled cry, Ross rolled as he might have to escape the man's attack, struggling to unseat the dagger. A white hot flash of pain scored his upper arm. The breath was driven out of him as a fight raged over his prone body. He heard grunts, snarls, and was severely plummeted. Then he was free as their bodies broke away. Shaken, he got to his knees. A short distance away, the fight was still in progress. He saw ice straddle the body of a huge white wolf. His legs clamped around the animal's haunches. His hooked arm under the beast's head forced it up and back while his dagger rose and sank twice in the under parts of the heaving body. Ross held his own weapon ready. He leaped from a half-crouch and his dagger sank cleanly home behind the short ribs. One of the blows must have reached the animal's heart. With an almost human cry, the wolf stiffened convulsively. Then it was still. Ash squatted near it, methodically driving his dagger into the moist soil to clean the blade. A red rivulet trickled down his thigh where the lower edge of his kilt tunic had been ripped up to the linked belt. He was breathing hard, but otherwise he was as composed as always. These sometimes hunted pairs at this season, he observed. Be ready with your bow. Ross strung his with the cord he had been keeping dry within the breast foals of his tunic. He pitted an arrow to the string, grateful to be a passable marksman. The slash on his arm smarted in protest as he moved, and he noted that Ash did not try to get up. A bad one, Ross indicated the blood doubt thickening into his stream along Ash's thigh. Ash pulled away the torn tunic and exposed a nasty-looking gash on the outside of his hip. He pressed his palm against a gaping wound and motioned Ross to scout ahead. Sheath the cave is clear. We can't do anything until we know that. Reluctantly, Ross followed the stream until he found the cave, a snug-looking place with an overhang to keep it dry. The unpleasant smell of a lair hung about his mouth. He chose a stone from the stream, chucked it into the dark opening and waited. The stone rattled as it struck an inner wall, but there was no other sound. A second stone from a different angle followed the first with the same result. Ross was now certain that the cave was unoccupied. Once they were inside with the fire going at the entrance, they could hope to keep it free of intruders. A little heartened, he cast about a bit upstream and then turned back to where he had left Ash. No male, the other greeted him. This was a female, and she was close to helping. He nosed a white wolf with his toe. His hands held a pad of rags against his hip, and his face was shaded with pain. Nothing in the cave anyway. Let's see about this. Ross laid aside the bow and kneel to examine Ash's thigh wound. His own slice was more of a smarting graze, but this tear was deep and ugly. Second, plate belt. Ash got the words out between set teeth, and Ross clicked open the hidden recess of the other bronze belt to bring out a small packet. Ash made a rye face as he swallowed three of the pills within. Ross smashed another pill into the bandage he prepared, and when the last cumbersome fold was secure, Ash relaxed. Let us hope that works, he commented a little bleakly. Now come here where I can get my hands on you and let me see your scratch. Animal bites can be a nasty business. Bandage in turn, with the bitterness of the antiseptopill on his tongue, Ross helped Ash slip upstream to the cave. He left the older man outside while he cleaned up the floor of the cave, and then made his companion as comfortable as he could on a bed of bracket. The fire Ross had longed for was built. They stripped off their shot in clothing and hung it to dry. Ross wrapped a bird he had shot in clay and tucked it under the hot coals to be roasted. They had surely had bad luck, he thought, but they were now undercover, had a fire and food of a sort. His arm ached, sharp pain shooting from fingers to elbow when he moved it, though Ash made no complaint. Ross gauge that the older man's discomfort was far worse than his own, and he carefully hid all signs of his own twinges. They ate the bird, saltless, with their fingers. Ross savored each greasy bite, licking his hands clean afterward while Ash laid back on the improvised bed, his face gaunt in the half light of the fire. We are about five miles from the sea here. There is no way of raising our base now that Sandy's insulation is gone. We'll have to lay up, since I can't risk any more loss of blood, and you're not too good in the woods. Ross accepted that valuation with a new humbleness. He was only too well aware that if it had not been for Ash, he and not the White Wolf would have died down in the valley. Yet a strange shyness kept him from trying to put his thanks into words. The only kind of a man he could make for the others hurt was to provide hands, feet, and strength for the man who did know what to do and how to do it. We'll have to hunt, he ventured. Dear, Ash caught him up. But the marsh at the mouth of this stream provides a better hunting ground than inland. If the wolf layered here is very long, she has already frightened away any large game. It isn't a matter of food which bothers me. It is being tied up here. Ross filled in for him with some daring. Look here. I'll take orders. This is your territory, and I'm green at the game. You tell me what to do, and I'll do it the best that I can. He glanced up to find Ash surveying him intently, but as usual there was no readable expression on the other's brown face. The first thing to do is to get the wolf's hide, Ash said bristly. Then bury the carcass. You'd better drag it up here to work on it. If her mate is hanging around, he might try to jump you. Why Ash should think it necessary to acquire the wolfskin puzzle, Ross? But he asked no questions. His skinning task took four times as long and was far from being the neat job the shock-haired man of the record tape had it's accomplished. Ross had to wash himself off in the stream before piling stones over the corpse in temporary burial. When he pulled his bloody burden back to the cave, Ash lay with his eyes closed. Ross thankfully set on his own pile of bracken and tried not to notice the throbbing ache in his arm. He must have fallen asleep, for when he roused it was to see Ash crawl over to mend the dying fire from their store of wood. Ross angry at himself, beat the other to the task. Get back, he said roughly. This is my job. I didn't mean to fail. Surprisingly, Ash settled back without a word, leaving Ross to set by the fire. A fire he was very glad to have a moment or so later when a wailing howl sounded downwind. If this was not the white wolf's mate, then it was another of her kin who prowled the upper reaches of the small valley. The next day, having provided Ash with a supply of firewood, Ross went to try his luck in the marsh. The thick drizzle which had hung over the land the day before was gone. And he faced a clear, bright morning, though the breeze had an icy stamp. But it was a good morning to be alive and out in the open, and Ross' spirits rose. He tried to put to use all the wood lore he had learned at the base. But it was one thing to learn something academically, and another to put that learning into practice. He was uncomfortably certain that Ash would not have found his showing very good. The marsh was a series of pools between ranked roasts of leafless willows and coarse tusks of grass, with hillocks of firmer soil rising like islands. Ross, approaching with caution, was glad of it, for from one of those hillocks rose a trail of white smoke, and he saw a black block which was probably a rude hut. Why one should choose to live in the midst of this country he could not guess, though it might be merely the temporary camp of some hunter. Ross also saw thousands of birds feeding greedily on the dried seed of the marsh grasses. Paddling in the pools and setting up a clamor to drive a man mad, they did not seem in the least disturbed by that distant camper. Ross had reason to be proud of his marksmanship that morning. He had in his quiver perhaps a happy dozen of the lighter shafts made for shooting birds. In place of the finely chipped and wickedly barbed flip points used for a heavier game, these were tipped with needle sharp, light bone heads. He had a string of four birds looped together by their feet within almost as many minutes. For the flocks rose in their first alarm, only to settle again to feast. Then he knocked over a hare, a fat giant of its race that stared at him brazenly from a tusk. The hare kicked into a pool in its death struggle, however, and Ross was forced to leave cover to retrieve his body. But he was alert, and he stood up. Dagger out and ready to greet the man who parted the bushes to watch him. For a long minute gray eyes stared into brown ones, and then Ross noted the other's bedraggled and tattered dress. The kilp tunic smudged with mud, scorched and charged along one edge, was styled like his own. The fellow wore his hare fashioned back with a band, unlike the topknot of the local tribesmen. Ross, his dagger still ready, groped the silence first. I am a believer in the fire and the fashioned metal, the climbing sun and the moving water. He repeated the recognition speech of the beaker men. The fire warrants by the grace of Tudin, the metal dispassion by the mystery of the smith. The sun climbs without our aid, and who can stop the water from running? The stranger's voice was hoarse. Now that Ross had time to examine him more closely, he saw the dark bruise on his exposed shoulder. The raw red mark of a burn running across the man's broad chest, he dared to test his surmise concerning the other. I am of the kin of Asha. We return to the hill. Asha? Not Asha, but Asha. Ross, though sure of that pronunciation, was still cautious. You are from the hill place, where Luga smoked with thunder and fire? The man slid his long legs across the log, which had been his shelter. The burn across his chest was not his only brand. For Ross noticed another red stripe, puffed and fiery looking, which swelled the calf of the one leg. The man studied Ross closely, and then his fingers moved in a sign which, to the uninitiated native, might have been one for the warding off of evil. But which to Ross was the thumbs up of his own age? Sanford? At that name the man shook his head. McNeil, he named himself, where is Asha? He might really be what he seemed, but on the other hand he could be a red spy. Ross had not forgotten Kurt. What happened? He parried one question with another. Bomb! The reds must have spotted us, and we didn't have a chance. We weren't expecting any trouble. I'd been down to see about a missing burden donkey, and it was about halfway back up the hill when she hit. When I came to, I was all the way down the hill with part of the fort on top of me. The rest? Well, you saw the place, didn't you? Ross nodded. What are you doing here? McNeil spread his hands in a tired little gesture. I tried to talk to a nodron, but they stoned me away. I knew that Asha was coming through and hoped to reach him when he hit the beach, but I was too late. Then I figured he would pass here to make contact with the sub, so I was waiting in out until I saw you. Where's Asha? It all sounded logical enough. Still, with Asha injured, Ross was taking no tenses. He pushed his dagger back into his sheath and picked up the hair. Stay here, he told McNeil. I'll be back. But wait, where's Asha, young fool? We have to get together. Ross went on. He was sure that the stranger was in no shape to race after him, and he would lay a muddied trail before he returned to the cave valley. If this man was a red plant, he would have to reckon with one who had already met Kurt Vogel. The lying of the muddled trail took time. It was past midday when Ross came back to Asha, who was setting up by the mouth of the cave at the fire. Using his dagger to fashion a crutch out of a length of sapling, he surveyed Ross's burden with approval, but lost interest in the promise of food as soon as the other reported his meeting in the marsh. McNeil chapped with brown hair, brown eyes. A right eyebrow which quartz upward towards his hairline when he smiles. Brown hair and eyes okay, and he didn't smile any. Chip broken off a front tooth, upper right. Ross shut his eyes to visualize the stranger. Yes, there had been a small break on his front tooth, he nodded. That's McNeil, not that you didn't do right not to bring him here without being sure. What made you so watchful, Kurt? Again, Ross nodded. And what you said about the reds planning someone here to wait for us. Ice scratched the bristles on his chin. Never underrate them. We don't dare do that. But the man you met is McNeil, and we'd better get him here. Can you bring him? I think he's able to get about in spite of that leg. From the story he's been stirring around. Ice bit absentmindedly into a piece of hair, and swore mildly when he burned his tongue. Odd that Cassia didn't tell us about him, unless she thought there was no use causing trouble by admitting they had driven him away. You going now? Ross moved around the fire. Might as well, he didn't look too comfortable. And I'll bet he's hungry. He took the direct route back to the marsh, but this time no thread of smoke spiraled into the air. Ross hesitated. That shelter on the small island was surely the place where McNeil had holed up. Should he try to work his way out to it now, or has something happened to the man while he was gone? Again, that sixth sense of impending disaster, which is perhaps bred into some men, alerted Ross. Why he turned suddenly and backed against a bushy willow, he could not have explained. However, because he did so, the loop of high rope meant for his throat hit his shoulder harmlessly. It fell to the ground, and he stamped one boot down on it. Then it was a work of seconds to grasp it, and give it a quick jerk. The surprised man, who held the other end, was brought sprawling into the open. Ross had seen that round face before, law of the town of Nodget. He found words to greet the rope man, even as his knee came up against the fellow's jaw, jarring law so that he dropped a flint knife. Ross kicked it into the willow. What do you hunt here, law? Traders. The voice was weak, but it held heat. The trident did not try to struggle against Ross's hold, and Ross, gripping him by the nape of the neck, moved through a spreen of rust to a hollow. Luckily, there was no water cuffed there. For MacNeil lay in the bottom of that dip, his hands tied tightly behind him, and his ankles laced together with no thought for the pain of his burned leg. This concludes the reading of Chapter 6. The Time Traders by Andre Norton, Chapter 7. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. The Time Traders by Andre Norton, Chapter 7. Ross whirled a rope which had been meant to bring him down around law. He laced the trident's arms tight to his body before he knelt to cut loose his fellow time traveler. Law now huddled against the far wall of the cup, fear in every line of his small body. So apparent was his fear that Ross felt no satisfaction at turning the tables on him. Instead, he felt increasingly uneasy. What is this all about, he asked MacNeil as he stripped off his bonds and helped him up. MacNeil massaged his wrist, took a step or two, and grimaced with pain. Our friend seeks to be an obedient servant of Lugra. Ross picked up his bow. The tribe is out to hunt us. Lugra has ordered, out of thin air again, that any traitors who escaped are to be brought in and introduced to him personally at the sacrifice for the enrichment of the fields. The old, old gift of blood and life at the spring sowing. Ross recalled grisly details from his crammed lessons. Any wandering stranger or enemy tribesman taken in a raid before that day would meet such a fate on unlucky years when people were not available a deer or wolf might serve. But the best sacrifice of all was a man. So Lugra had decreed from the air that traitors were his meat, what a vass! Let any hunter from the village track him down. We have to move fast, Ross told MacNeil as he took up the rope which made a leading cord perl all. Ice would want to question the tribesman about this second order from Lugra. Impatient as Ross was, he had to mend his pace to accommodate MacNeil. The man from the hill post was close to the end of his strength. He had started off bravely enough, but now he wavered. Ross set Lall ahead with a sharp push, ordering him to stay there while he went to MacNeil's aid. He was well into the afternoon before they came up the stream and saw the fire before the cave. Macna, a shaled Ross's companion with the native version of his name and Lall. But what do you hear, Lall of Nodrinstown? Miskip, Ross helped MacNeil within the cave and to the pile of brush, which was his own bed. He was hunting traitors as a present for Lurga. So, Ice turned upon the tribesman, and by whose word did you go hunting my kinsman, Lall? Was it Nodrinst as he forgotten the blood bond between us, for it was in the name of Lugra himself that that bond was made? Ah, the tribesman squatted down against the wall where Ross had shoved him. Unable to hide his head in his arms, he brought his face down upon his knees so that only his shaggy topknot of hair was exposed. Ross realized with supervision that the little man was crying like a child, his hunched shoulders rising and falling with the force of his sobs. Ah, he wailed. I aced out him a moment or two of noisy grief and then limped over to grasp his topknot and pulled up his head. Lall's eyes were screwed tightly shut, but there were tears on his cheeks and his mouth twisted in another wail. Be quiet, Ross shook him, but not too harshly. Have you yet felt the bite of my sharp knife? Has an arrow hold your skin? You are alive and you could be dead. Show that you're glad you live and continues to breathe by telling us what you know, Lall. The woman casca had displayed a measure of intelligence and ease at their meeting upon the road, but it was very plain that Lall was of different stuff. A simple man in whose head few ideas could find house room at one time. And to him the present was all black. Little by little they dragged a story out of him. Lall was poor, so poor that he had never dared dream of owning for himself some of the precious things the hill traders displayed to the wealthy of Nodrin's town. But he was also a follower of the great mothers, rather than one who made sacrifices to Lugra. Lugra was a god of four warriors and great men. He was too high to concern himself with such as Lall. So when Nodrin reported the end of the hill post under the storm fist of Lugra, Lall had been impressed only to a point. He was still convinced it was none of his concern, and instead he began thinking of the treasures which might lie hidden in the destroyed buildings. It occurred to him that Lugra's wrath had been laid upon the men who had owned them, but perhaps it would not stretch to the fine things themselves. So he had gone secretly to the hill to explore. What he had seen there had already converted him to the belief in the fury of Lugra, and he had been frightened out of his simple wits. Pleading without making the search he had intended, but Lugra had seen him there, had read his impious thoughts. At that point, Ash interrupted the stream of Lall's story. How had Lurgra seen Lall? Because Lall shuddered, beginning to cry again, and spoke to next few sentences haltingly, that very morning when he had gone out to hunt, while fouled in the marshes, Lugra had spoken to him, to Lall, who was less than a flea creeping upon a worn-out fur rug. And how had Lugra spoken? Ash's voice was softer, gentle. Out of the air, even as he had spoken to Nodrin, who was a chief, he said that he had seen Lall at the hill post, and so Lall was his meat. But not yet would he eat him, not if Lall served him in other ways. And he, Lall, had laid flat on the ground before the bodiless voice of Lugra, and had sworn that he would serve Lurgra to the end of his life. Then Lurgra had told him to hunt down one of the evil traitors who was hiding in the marshes and bind him with ropes. Then he was to call the men of the village, and together they would carry the prisoner to the hill, where Lugra had loosened his wrath, and there they would leave him. Later they might return and take what they found there and use it to bless the fields at sewing-time, and all would be well with Nodrin's village. And Lall had sworn that he would do as Lugra bade. But now he could not, so Lugra would eat him up. He was a man without hope. Yet, I said even more gently, have you not served a great mother all these years, giving to her a portion of the first fruits, even when the yield of your one field was small? Lall stared at him. His woe-begone face still smeared with tears. It took a second or two for the question to penetrate his fear-clouded mind. Then he nodded timidly. Has she not dealt with you well in return? Lall, you are a poor man, that is true. But you are not gaunt of belly, even though this is a thin season when men fast before the coming of the new harvest. The great mother watches over her own. And it is she who has brought you to us now. For this I say to you, Lall, and I, Asha of the traders, speak with a straight tongue. The Lugra who struck our post, who spoke to you from the air, means you no good. Ah, well, Lall, so do I know, Asha. He is of the blackness and the wandering spirits of the dark. Just so, thus he is no kin to the mother. For she is of the light and of good things, of the new grain and the newborn lambs for your flocks, of the maids who wed with men and bring forth sons to lift their father's fears, daughters suspended by the herds, and so the yellow grain in the furrows. Lugra's quarrel lies with us, Lall, not with Norton nor with you. And we take upon us that quarrel. He limped into the outer air for the shadows of evening were beginning to creep across the ground. Hear me, Lugra. He called into the coming night. I am Asha of the traders. And upon myself I take your hate, not upon Lall nor upon Norton, nor upon the people who live in Norton's town. Shall your wrath lie? Thus do I say it. Ross, noticing that Asha concealed from Lall a wave of his hand, was prepared for some display meant to impress the tradesmen. It came in a spectacular burst of green fire beyond the stream. Lall wailed again, but when that fire was followed by no other manifestation, he ventured to raise his head once more. You have seen how Lugra answered me, Lall. Toward me only will his wrath be turned. Now, Asha limped back and dragged out the white wolfskin, dropping it before Lall. This she will give to Kasia that she may make a curtain for the mother's home. See, it is white and so rare that the mother will be pleased with such a fine gift. And you will tell her all that has changed and how you believe in her powers over the powers of Lugra. And the mother will be well pleased with you. But you shall say nothing to the men of the village, for this quarrel is between Lugra and Asha now, and not for the meddling of others. He unfastened the rope which bound Lall's arms. Lall reached out a hand through the wolfskin, his eyes filled with wonderment. This is a fine thing you give me, Asha, and a mother will be pleased, for in many years she has not had such a curtain for her secret place. Also, I am but a little man. The quarrels of great ones are not for me. Since Lugra has accepted your words, this is none of my affair. Yet I will not go back to the village for a while with your permission, Asha. For I am a man of loose and wagging tongue, and oftentimes I speak what I do not really wish to say. So if I am asked questions, I answer. If I am not there to be asked such questions, I cannot answer. McNeil laughed, and I smiled. Well enough, Lall. Perhaps you are a wiser man than you think. But also I do not believe you should stay here. The triad's fin was already nodding. That, do I say too, Asha? You are now facing the wrath of Lugra, and with that I wish no part. Thus I shall go into the marsh for a while. There are birds and hares to hunt, and I shall work upon this fine skin so that when I take it to the mother, it shall indeed be a gift worth her smiles. Now, Asha, I would go before the night comes if it pleases you. Go with good fortune, Lall. Asha stood apart while the triad's fin ducked his head in a shy, awkward farewell to the others, pattering out into the valley. What if they picked him up, McNeil asked, really? I don't think they can, Asha turned. And what would you do? Keep him here? If we tried that, he'd scheme to escape and try to turn the tables on us. Now he'll keep away from Naudra's village and out of sight for the time being. Lall's not too bright in some ways, but he's a good hunter. If he has reason for hiding out, it'll take a better hunter to track him. At least we know now that the reds are afraid they did not make a clean sweep here. What happened, McNeil? While he was telling his story in more detail, both Asha and Ross worked on his burns, making him comfortable. Then Asha set back as Ross prepared food. How did they spot the post? Asha rubbed his chin and frowned at the fire. The only way I can guess is that they picked up our post signal and pinpointed the source. That means they must have been hunting us for some time. No strangers about lately? McNeil shook his head. Our cover wasn't broken that way. Sanford was a wonder. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn he was born one of the beaker folk. He had a network of informants running all the way from here into Brittany. Amazing how he was able to work without arousing any suspicion. I suppose his being a member of the Swiss Guild was a big help. He could pick up a lot of news from any village where there was one at work. And I tell you, McNeil propped himself up on his elbow to exclaim more vehemently. There wasn't a whisper of trouble from here clear across the channel and pretty far to the north. We were already sure the south was clean before we ever took cover as beakers, especially since their clans are thick in Spain. Asha cheated Royal's wing reflectively. Their permanent base with the transport has to be somewhere within the bounds of the territory they hold in our own time. They could plant it in Siberia and laugh at us, McNeil exploded. No hope of our getting in there. No. Asked through the strip bone into the fire and lit grease from his fingers. Then they would be faced with the old problem of distance. If what they are exploiting lay within their modern boundaries, we would never have tumble to the thing in the first place. But the reds must lie outside their 20th century holdings, a slender point in our favor. Therefore, they will plant their shift point as close to it as they can. Our transportation problem is more difficult than theirs will ever be. You know why we chose the Arctic for our base. It lies in a section of the world never populated by other than roving hunters. But I'll wager anything you want to name that their point is somewhere in Europe where they have people to contend with. If they are using a plane, they can't risk it being seen. I don't see why not. Ross broke in. These people couldn't possibly know what it was. Luger's bird, magic, I shook his head. They must have the interference with history worry as much as we have. Anything of our own time has to be hidden or disguised in such a way that the native who may stumble upon it will never know it is man-made. Our sub is a whale to all appearances. Possibly their plane is a bird, but neither can bear too close an examination. We don't know what would result from a leak of real knowledge in this or any primitive time. How it might change history. But Ross advanced what he believed to be the best argument against that reasoning. Suppose I handed Lull a gun and taught him to use it. To duplicate the weapon, the technology required lies so far beyond this age. These people couldn't reproduce such a thing. True enough, on the other hand, don't belittle the ingenuity of the smiths or the native intelligence of men in any era. These tribesmen might not be able to reproduce your gun, but it would set them thinking along new lines. We might find that they would think our time right out of being. No, we dare not play tricks with the past. This is the same situation we faced immediately after the discovery of the atom bomb. Everybody raced to produce that new weapon and then set around and shivered for fear we'd be crazy enough to use it on each other. The Reds have made new discoveries which we have to match, or we will go under, but back in time we have to be careful, both of us, and that's probably the world we do live in. What do we do now? MacNeil wanted to know. Murdock and I came here only for a trial run. It's his test. The sub is to call for us about nine days from now. So if we set tight, if we can set tight, MacNeil lay down again. They will take us out. Meanwhile, we have nine days. They spent three more days in the cave. They had to wait and impatient to leave before Ash was able to hobble well enough to travel. Though Ross and MacNeil took turns at hunting and guard duty, they saw no signs that the tribesmen were tracking him. Apparently, Lawl had done as he promised, withdrawing to the marsh and hiding there apart from his people. In the gray of pre-dawn on the fourth day, Ash awakened Ross. Their fire had been buried with earth already the case seemed bleak. They ate venison roasted the night before and went out into the chill of a fog. A little way down the valley, MacNeil joined them out of the mist from his guard post. Keeping their pace to one which favored Ash's healing wound, they made their way inland in the direction of the track linking the villages. Crossing that road, they continued northward, the land beginning to rise under them. Far away they heard the blading of sheep, the bark of a dog. In the fog, Ross stumbled in a shallow ditch beyond which lay a stubble field. Ash paused to look about him, his nostrils expanding as if he were a hound smelling out their trail. The three went on, crossing a whole series of small irregular fields. Ross was sure that the yield from any of these cleared strips must be scanty. The fog was thickening, Ash pressed to pace, using his handmade crutch carefully. He gave an audible sigh of relief when they were faced at last by two stone monoliths rising like pillars. A third stone lay across them, forming a rude arch through which they saw a narrow valley running back into the hills. Through the fog, Ash could sense the eerie strangeness of the valley beyond the massive gate. He would have said that he was not superstitious, that he had merely studied these tribal beliefs as lessons. He had not accepted them, yet now, if he had been alone, he would have avoided that place and turned aside from the valley for that which waited within was not for him. To his secret relief, Ash paused by the arch to wait. The older man gestured, the other two in the cover. Ross obeyed willingly, though the dank drops of condensing fog drift on his cloak and wet his face as he brushed against prickly leaf shrubs. Here were walls of evergreen plants and dwarfed pines, almost as if this tunnel of year-round greenery had been planted with some purpose in mind. Once his companions had concealed themselves, shrill but sweetly, with a birds rising notes. Three times he made that sound before a figure moved in the fog, the rough gray white of his long cloak melting in the wisp of mist. Down that green tunnel, out of the heart of the valley, the other came, a loop of cloak concealing the entire figure. It hauled right in back of the arch and Ash making a gesture to the others to stay where they were face to buckle stranger, hands and feet of the mother, see who sows what may be reaped. Outland stranger, who is under the wrath of Lurga, the other mocked him in the voice of Kassa, what do you want, outlander, that you dare to come where no man may enter? That which you know. For on the night when Lurga came you also saw. Ross heard the hiss of a sharply drawn breath. How knew you that, outlander? Because you serve the mother and you are jealous for her and her service. If Lurga is a mighty God, you want to see his acts with your own eyes. When she finally answered, there was anger as well as frustration in her voice. And you know of my shame then, Asha, for Lurga came on a bird he came and he did even as he said he would. So now the village will make offerings to Lurga and beg his favor and the mother will no more have those to arc into her words and offer her the first fruits. But from hence came this bird which was Lurga. Can you tell me that, see who waits upon the mother? What difference does it make from what direction Lurga came? That does not add nor take from his power. Cast a move beneath the arch. Or does it in some strange way, Asha? Perhaps it does. Only tell me. She turned slowly and pointed over her right shoulder. From that way he came, Asha. Well did I watch, knowing that I was a mother and that even Lurga's thunderbolts could not eat me up. Does knowing that make Lurga smaller in your eyes, Asha? When he has eaten up all that is yours and you're kin with it, perhaps, as repeated, I do not think Lurga will come so again. She shrugged and a heavy coat flapped. That shall be as it shall be, Asha. Now go, for it is not good that any man come hither. Cassia paced back into the heart of the green tunnel and Ross and MacNeil came out of concealment. MacNeil faced in the direction she had pointed northeast he commented thoughtfully that Baltic lies in that quarter. This concludes the reading of Chapter 7. The Time Travers by Andre Norton Chapter 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by R.J. Davis. The Time Travers by Andre Norton Chapter 8. And that is about all. Ten days later, Asha, a dressing on his leg and a few of the pain lines smoothed from his face set on a bunk in the Arctic Time Post nursing a mug of coffee in his hand and smiling. A little crookedly at Nelson Millard. Millard, Kilgarys, Dr. Webb, all the top brass of the project had not only come through the transfer point to meet the three from Britain, but were now crammed into the room nearly pushing Ross and McNeil through the wall because this was it what they had hunted for for months, years. Now they almost within their grasp. Only Millard, the director, did not seem so confident. A big man with a bushy flash graying hair and a heavy fleshy face, he did not look like a brain. Yet Ross had been on the roster long enough to know that it was Millard's thick and hairy hands that gathered together all the loose threads of Operation Retrograde and definitely wove them into a workable pattern. Now the director leaned back in a chair which was too small for his bulk chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick. So we have the first wolf of a trail, he commented without elation. A pretty strong lead Kilgarys broke in, too excited to set steel, the major stood with his back against the door as alert as if he were about to turn and face the enemy. The Reds wouldn't have moved against Gog if they did not consider it a menace to them. Their big base must be in this time sector. The big base, Millard corrected, the one we are after? No. And right now they may be switching times. Do you think they will sit here and wait for us to show up in force? But Millard's tone, intended to deflate, had no effect on the major. And just how long would it take them to dismantle a big base? That officer countered. At least a month if we shoot a team in there in a hurry, Millard folded his huge hands over his barrel shaped body and lamp, without a trace of humor. Just where do we send it, team Kilgarys? Northeast of the coastal point in Britain is a rather vague direction, to say the least. Not, he spoke to you, Ashtow, that you didn't do all you could, Asht. And you, McNeil, nothing to add? No, sir. They jumped us out of the blue when Sandy thought he had every intact, every safeguard working. I don't know how they caught on to us, unless they located our beam to this post. If so, they must have been deliberately hunting us for some time because we only used the beam as scheduled. The Reds have patients and brains, and probably some more of their surprise gadgets to help them. We have the patients and the brains, but not the gadgets. And time is against us. Get everything out of this web? Milard asked the hitherto silent third member of his ruling committee. The quiet man adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A flat-ish nose, which did not support them very well. Just another point to add to our surmises. I would say that they are located somewhere near the Baltic Sea. There are old trade routes there, and in our own time it is a territory close to us. We never did know too much about that section of Europe. Their installation may be close to the Finnish border. They could disguise their modern station under half a dozen covers. That is strange country. Milard's hand unfolded and he produced a notebook and pen from a shirt pocket. Won't hurt to stir up some of the present day agents of the MI and arrest. They might just come up with a useful hint. So you'd say the Baltic, but that is a big slice of country. Web-notted. We have one advantage, the old trade routes. In the beaker period they are pretty well marked. The major one into that sector was established for the amber trade. The country is forested, but not so heavily as it was in an earlier period. The native tribes are mostly roving hunters and fishermen along the coast. But they have had contact with traitors. He shoved his glasses back into place with a nervous gesture. The Reds may run into trouble themselves there at this time. How, Kagiri demanded, invasion of the Axe people. If they have not yet arrived they are due very soon. They formed one of the big waves of migraquory people in the country, settled there. Evolentially they came the Norse or Celtic stock. We don't know whether they stamped out the native tribes they found there or assimilated them. That might be a nice point to have settled more definitely, McNeil commented. It could mean a difference between getting your skull split and continuing to breathe. I don't think they would tangle with the traitors. Evidence found today that the beaker folk simply went on about their business in spite of a change in customers, Webb returned. Unless they were pushed into violence Axe handed his empty mug to Ross. Don't forget Luger's wrath. From now on our enemies might take a very dim view of any beaker trade post near their property. Webb shook his head slowly. A wholesale attack on beaker establishment would constitute history. The Reds won't dare that, not just on general suspicion. Remember, they are not any more eager to tinker with history than we are. No, they will watch for us. We will have to stop communication by radio. We can't snap my lard, be it Malie. We can cut it down, but I won't send the boys out without some means of quick communication. You lab boys put your brains and see what you can turn out in the way of talk boxes that they can't snoop. Time. He drummed on his knee with his thick fingers. It all comes back to a question of time. Which we do not have, as observed in his usual quiet voice. If the Reds are afraid they have been spotted, they must be dismantling their post right now, working around the clock. We'll never again have such a good chance to nail them. The Reds moved now. Malard's lids grouped almost shut. He might have been napping. Kilgari stirred restlessly by the door and Webb's round face had settled into what looked like permanent lines of disapproval. Doc Malard spoke over his shoulder to the fourth man of his following. What is your report? Ash must be under treatment for at least five days. McNeil's burns aren't too bad and Murdoch's flash is almost healed. Five days. Malard droned and then flashed a glass at the major. Personnel? We're tied down without any useful personnel. Who in processing could be switched without tangling them up entirely? No one. I can recall Janssen and Van Wick. These axe people might be good cover for them. The momentary light in Kilgari's eyes faded. No. We have no proper briefing and can't get it until the tribe does appear on the map. I won't send any men in cold. Their blunders would not only endanger them, but might menace the whole project. So that leaves us with you three Malard said. We'll recall what men we can and brief them again as fast as possible. But you know how long that will take. In the meantime, you can't pinpoint the region closer than just the Baltic. We can do this much, the other answered him slowly, and with obvious reluctance, we can send a sub-cruising offshore there for the next five days. If there's any radio activity, any communication, we should be able to trace the beams. It all depends upon whether the Reds have any parties operating from their posts. Cleansing. And they will be waiting for just such a move on our part. Webb continued deliberately. All right, so they'll be watching, the major said, about the Lucy's temper, but it is about the only move we can make to back up the boys when they do go in. He looked around the door and was gone. Webb got up slowly. I will work over the maps again, he told Ash. We haven't scouted that area, and we don't dare send a photo plane over it now. Any trip in will be a stab in the dark. When you have only one road, you take it, Ash replied. I'll be glad to see anything you could show me, Miles. If Ross had believed that his pre-trial run cramming had been a rigorous business, he was soon to laugh at that estimation. Since the burden of the next jump would rest on only three of them, Ash, McNeil and himself, they were plunged into a whirlwind of destruction until Ross dazed and too tired to sleep on the third night believed that he was more completely bewildered than indoctrinated. He said as much sourly to McNeil. Base has pulled back three other teams, McNeil replied, but the men have to go to school again, and they won't be ready to come on for maybe three, four weeks. To change runs means unlearning stuff as well as learning it. What about new men? Don't think Kilgarys is an out beating the bushes for some. Only we have to be fitted to the physical type we are supposed to represent. For instance, said a small, dark-headed pugnose among your north sea rovers, and he's going to be noticed. Maybe he remembered too well. We can't afford to take that chance. Kilgarys had to discover men who not only looked apart, but are also temporarily fitted for this job. You can't plant a fellow who thinks as a seaman, not a seaman. You understand, but one whose mind works in that pattern. Among a wandering tribe of cavalry herders, the protection for the man and the project lies in his being fitted into the right spot at the right time. Ross had never really fought a point before. Now he realized that he and Ash and McNeil were of a common mold. All about the same height, they shared brown hair and light eyes, Ash's blue, his own gray, and McNeil's hazel. And they were a similar build, small bones, lean, and quick moving. He had not seen any of the true beaker men, except on the films. But now recalling those, he could see that the three time of the same general physical type as the far roving people they used as a cover. It was on the morning of the fifth day while the three were studying a map Webb had produced that Kilgarish, followed at his own wavy pace by Millard, burst in upon them. We have it. This time we have the luck. The red slipped. Oh, how they slipped. Webb watched the major. A thin little smile pulled at his first smile. Miracles sometimes do happen, he remarked. I suppose the sub has a fix for us. Kilgarish passed over the flimsy strip of paper he had been waving as a banner of triumph. Webb read the notation on it and bent over the map, making a mark with one of those needle sharp pencils which seemed to grow in his breast pocket, ready for use. Then he made his second mark. Well, it narrows it a bit, he conceded. Ash looked in turn and left. I would like to hear your definition of narrow sometime miles. Remember, we have to cover this on foot and a difference of 20 miles can mean a lot. That mark is quite a bit in from the sea. McNeil offered his own protest when he saw the marking. We don't know that country. Webb shoved his glasses back for the hundredth time that morning. I suppose we consider this critical condition red, he said in such a dubious tone that he might have been begging someone to protest his statement. But no one did. Lord was busy with the map. I think we do miles. He looked at Ash. You'll parachute in. The packs with which you will be equipped are spatial stuff. Once you have them off, spring to them with a powder, miles will provide and in ten minutes there won't be enough of them left for anyone to identify. We haven't but a dozen of these and we can't throw them away except in a crisis. Find a base and rig up the detector. You're fixing this time will be easy but it is the other end of the line we must have. Until you locate that stick to the job. Don't communicate with us until you have it. There is a possibility, I pointed out, the Reds may have more than one intermediate post. They probably have played it smart and set up a series of them to spoil a direct trace as each would lead only to another further back in time. All right, if that proves true, just get us the next one back. Lord return, from that we can trace them along if you must send in some of the boys wearing dinosaur suits later. We have to find their primary base and if that hunt goes the hard way, well we do it the hard way. How did you get to fix McNeill ask? One of the field parties ran into trouble and yelled for help. Did they get it? The major grand, what do you think? You know the rules and the ones the Reds play by are twice as tough on their own men but kind of trouble, I just wanted to know. Some kind of local religious dispute we do our best with their code but we're not 100 percent perfect in reading it. I thought they were playing with a local god and got their fingers burned. Luger again eh, eh, smiled. Foolish, Webb said impatiently. That is a silly thing to do. You were almost over the edge of prudence yourself Gordon, with that Luger business. To use a great mother was a ticklish thing to try and you were lucky to get out of it so easily. Once was enough, I should read. Though using it may have saved our lives but I assure you I am not starting a holy war or setting up as a prophet. Ross had been taught something of map reading but mentally he could not make what she saw on paper resembled the countryside. A few landmarks. If there were any outstanding ones were all he could hope to impress upon his memory until he was actually on the ground. Landing there according to my large instructions was another experience he would not have chosen of his own accord. To jump was a matter of timing and in the dark with the measure of rain thrown in the action was anything but pleasant. Leaving the plane in a blind followed the leader fashion, Ross found a descent into darkness one of the worst trials he had yet faced but he did not make too bad at landing in a small park like Expans they had chosen for their target. Ross pulled loose his harness and shoot dragging them to what he judged to be the center of the clearing. Hearing a plaintive ray from the air he dodged as one of the two burdened assets sent to join them landed and began to kick at his trappings. The animals they had chosen were the most docile available and they had been given sedation before the jump so that now feeling Ross's hand the donkey stood quietly while Ross stripped it of its hanging straps. The sound of his beaker name called through the dark brought Ross facing in the other direction. Here I have one of the donkeys and I the other that was McNeil. Their eyes adjusted to a gloom which was not as thick as it would be in the forest and they worked fast. Then they dragged a parachute together in a heap. The rainwood Web had assured them add to the rapid destruction brought by the chemical he had provided. As shook it over the pile and there was a faint greenish glow then they moved away to the woodland and made camp for the balance of the night. So much of their whole exploit depended upon luck and this small part had been successful unless some agent had been stationed to watch for their arrival Ross believed they could not be spotted. The rest of their plan was elastic. Posing as traitors who had come to open a new station they were to stay near a river which drained a lake and then angle southward to the distant sea. They knew this section was only sparsely settled by small tribes hardly larger than family clans. These people were generations behind the civilized level of the villagers of Britain roving hunters who followed the sweep of game north or south with the seasons. Along the seashore the fishermen had established more permanent holdings which were slowly becoming towns. There were perhaps a few hearty pioneer farmers on the southern fringes of the district but the principal reason traitors came to this region was to get amber and furs. The beaker people dealt in both. Now as the three sheltered under the wide branches of a towering pine I stumbled with a pack and brought out the beaker which was part of his adopted people. He measured into it a portion of sour stimulating drink which the traders introduced wherever they went. The cup passed from hand to hand its taste unpleasant on the tongue but comfortingly warm to one's middle. They took turns keeping the watch until the gray of false dawn became the clear light of morning. After breakfasting on flat cakes of meal donkeys. Using the same knots and cross-licings which were the mark of real beaker traders their bows protected from dampness under their cloaks they set out to find the river and their path southward. Ash led. Ross towed the donkeys and McNeil brought up the rear. In the absence of a path they had to set a ragged course keeping to the edge of the clearing until they saw the end of the lake. Ash commented when they had completed two-thirds of their journey. Ross snipped and was able to smell it too nodding to Ash but McNeil oozed into nothingness between the trees with an eased Murdoch envied. As they waited for him to return Ross became conscious of another life about them. One busy with his own concerns which were in no way those of human beings except that food and perhaps shelter were to be welcomed among them. In Britain, Ross had known there were others of his kind about but this was different. Here he could have believed it if he had been told he was the first fan to walk this way. A squirrel ran out on a tree limb and surveyed the two men with curious beady eyes. Then clung head down on the tree trunks to see them better. One of the donkeys tossed his head and the squirrel was gone with a flirt although he was quiet there was a hum underneath the surface which Ross tried to analyze to identify the many small sounds which went into his making. Perhaps because he was trying so hard he noted the faint noise. His hand touch Ash's arm and a slight movement of his head indicated the direction of the sound. Then as smoothly as he had melted into the woods McNeil returned in a soft voice. What kind? Trudgeman, but wilder than any I've seen, even on the tapes. We are certainly out on the fringes now. These people look about cave level. I don't think they've ever heard of traitors. How many? Three, maybe four families. Most of the males must be out hunting but there are about ten children and six or seven women. I don't think they've had good luck lately by the look of them. Maybe their luck and hours are going to turn together. As said motioning Ross forward with the donkeys. We will circle about them to the river and then try bartering later. But I do want to establish contact. This concludes a reading of Chapter 8. The Time Traders by Andre Norton Chapter 9. This is a lever box recording. All lever box recordings are in the public domain. For the information or to volunteer please visit leverbox.org recording by R.J. Davis. The Time Traders by Andre Norton Chapter 9. Not to be too hopeful but Neil rubbed his arm across his hot face. So far so good. After kicking from his past some of the branches Ross had left from the trees they had been left to help his companion roll another small log up to a shelter which was no longer temporary. If there had been any eyes other than the woodland hunters to spy upon them they would have seen only the usual procedure of the beaker traders visually constructing one of their posts. That they were being watched by the hunters all three were certain that there might be other spies in the forest they had to assume safety. They might prowl at night but in the daytime all of the time they just kept within the bounds of the roles they were acting. Barter with the head men of the hunting clan had brought those shy people into the camp of the strangers who had such wonders to exchange for tan deer hides and better furs. The news of the traders arrival spread quickly during the short time they had been here so that two other clans had men to watch the proceedings. With the trade came news which the agents sifted and studied. Each of them had a list of questions to insert into their conversations with the tribesmen if and when that was possible. Although they did not share a common speech with the forest men signs were informative and certain nouns could be quickly learned. In the meantime Ash became friendly with the nearest and first of the clan groups they discovered. Going hunting with a man as an excuse to penetrate the unknown section they must quarter in their search for the red base. Ross drank river water and mopped his own hot face. If the reds aren't traders he mused aloud what is their cover? McNeil shrugged. A hunting tribe? Beecherman? Where would they get the women and children? The same way they get their men recruit them in our own time or in the way lots of tribes grew during periods of stress. Ross sat down the water jug. You mean kill off the men? Take over their families? This was a cold blooded dust he found sickening. Although he had always prided himself on his toughness several times during his training at the project he had been confronted by things which shook his belief in his own strong stomach and nerve. It has been done McNeil remarked bleakly hundreds of times by invaders. In this setup small family clans widely scattered that move would be very easy. They would have to pose as farmers not hunters. Ross pointed out they couldn't move a base around with them. Alright so they set up a village. Oh I see what you mean there isn't any village around here yet they are here maybe underground. Our writer guesses were they learned that night when Ash returned a deer's haunch on his shoulder. Ross knew him well enough by now to sense his preoccupation. You found something. A new set of ghosts. As replied with a strange little smile a ghost. McNeil pounced upon that. The Reds like to play the supernatural angle don't they? First the voice of Lurga and now ghost. What do these ghosts do? They inhabit a bit of mountainous territory southeast of here. A stretch strictly taboo for all hunters. We were following a bison track until the beast headed for the ghost country. It seems that the hunter who goes in there after his quarry never reappears or if he does it's in a damaged condition blown upon by ghost and burned to death. That's one point. He sat down by the fire and stretched his arms weirdly. The second is a little more disturbing for us. A beaker camp about 20 miles south of here as far as I can judge was exterminated just a week ago. The message was passed to me because I was thought to be a kinsman of the slain. McNeil sat up. Done because they were hunting us. Might well be. On the other hand the affair may have been just one of general precaution. The ghost did it. Ross wanted to know. I asked that. No. It seems that strange tribesmen overrun it at night. At night McNeil whistled. Just so. Ashes tone was dry. The tribes do not fight that way. Either someone slipped up in his briefing or the reds are overconfident and don't care about the rules. But it was the work of tribesmen or their counterfeits. There's also a nasty rumor speeding about that the ghost do not relish traitors and that they might protest intrusions of such with penalties all around like the wrath of Luga, supplied Ross. There is a certain reputation as this which suggests a lot to the suspicious mind. I should agree. I'd say no more hunting expeditions for the present, McNeil said. It is too easy to mistake a friend for a deer and weep over his grave afterwards. That is a thought which entered my mind several times this afternoon. I should agree. These people are deceptively simple on the surface but their minds do not work along the same patterns as ours. We try to outwit them but it takes only one slip to make it fatal. In the meantime, I think we'd better make this place a little more snug and it might be well to post centuries as unobtrusively as possible. How about faking some signs of a ruined camp and heading into the blue ourselves, McNeil asked. We could strike for the ghost mountains traveling by night and Ulfa's crowd would think we were finished off. An idea to keep in mind the point against it would be the missing bodies. It seems that the tribesmen who raided the beaker camp left some very distasteful evidence of what happened to the camp's personnel and those we kept produced to cover our trail. McNeil was not yet convinced that we might be able to fake something along that line, too. We may have to fake nothing, Ross cut in softly. He was standing close to the edge of the clearing where they were building their hut. His hand on one of the saplings in the palisade they had set up so laboriously that day. I asked was beside him in an isnt. What is it? Ross's hours of listening to the sounds of the wilderness are engaged now. That bird has never called from inland before. It is a blue one we've seen fishing for frogs along the river. Ash, not even glancing at the force, went for the water jug. Get your trail supplies, he ordered. Their leather pouches which held enough iron rations to keep them going were always at hand. McNeil gathered them from behind the fur curtain in his cabin. Again the bird called. His cry piercing and covering a long distance. Ross could understand why a careless man would select it for the signal. He crossed the clearing to the donkey's shelter, flashing through their nose holders. Probably the patient little beast would swiftly fall victim to some forest prowlers, but at least they would have their chance to escape. McNeil, his cloak slung about to seal the rations bags, picked up the leather bucket as if he were merely going down to the river for water, and came to join Ross. They believed that they were carrying it off well that the camp must appear normal to any lurkers in the woods. But either they had made some slip where the enemy was impatient. An arrow sped out of the night to flash across the fire and ash escaped death only because he leaned forward in the flames. His arms flung out and sent the water in the jug hissing onto the blaze as he himself rolled in the other direction. Ross plunged for the brush with McNeil. Lying flat on a half frozen ground they started to work their way to the river bank where the open area would make surprise less possible. As he whispered and felt McNeil's warm breath on his teeth as he replied, he'll make it in the other way. He's the best we have for this sort of job. They made his wounds progress twice lying with dagger in hand while they listened to a faint rustle which betrayed the passing of one of the attackers. Both times Ross was tempted to rise and try to cut off the stranger. But he fought down the impulse. He had learned a control of himself that would have been impossible for him a few months earlier. The glimmer of the river was pale through the clumps of bushes which sometimes grew into the flood. In this country winter still clung tenuously in shadowy places with cups of leftover snow. And there was a bite in the wind and water. Ross rose to his knees with an involuntary gas as a scream cut through the night. He rinsed around towards a camp only to feel McNeil's hand clamped on his forearm. That was a donkey whistled McNeil urgently. Come on. Let's go down to that board we discovered. They turned south daring now to trot half meant to the ground. The river was swollen with spring floods which were only now beginning to subside. But two days earlier they had noticed a sandbar at one spot. By crossing that shelf across the bed we might hope to put water between them and the unknown enemy tonight. It would give them a breathing space even though Ross privately shrank from the thought of plowing into the stream. He had seen good sized trees swirling around in the current only yesterday. And it made such a dash in the dark from McNeil's throat burst a startling sound which Ross had last heard in Britain the questing howl of a honey wolf. The cry was answered second later from downstream ash. They worked their way along the edge of the water with continued care until they came upon ash at last. So much a part of his background that Ross started when the lump he had taken for a boost hunched forward to join him. Together they made the river crossing and turned south again to head for the mountains. After Ross heard no bird call warning this time though he was on guard he never sensed the approach to the man who struck him down from behind. One moment he had been trailing McNeil and ash the next moment was black nothingness. He was aware of a throb of pain which carried throughout his body and then localized in his head. Forcing open his eyes the dazzle of light was like a spear point striking directly into his head intensifying his pain to agony. He brought his hand up to his face and felt stickiness there. Asha! He believed he called that aloud but he did not even hear his own voice. They were in a valley a wolf had attacked him out of the bushes. Wolf? No the wolf was dead but then it came alive again on a river bank. Ross forced his eyes open once more and during the pain of beams he recognized as sunshine. He turned his head to avoid the glare. It was hard to focus but he fought to steady himself. There was some reason why it was necessary to move to get away but away from what and where? When Ross tried to think he could only see muddled pictures of his connection. Then a moving object crossed his very narrow field of vision passing between him and a thing he knew was a tree truck a four-footed creature with a red tongue hanging from his jaws that came towards him stiff-legged rallying low in his throat and sniffed at his body before barking in short excited burst of sound. The noise heard his head so much that Ross closed his eyes then a shock of icy liquid thrown into his face aroused him to make a feeble protest and he saw hanging over him in a strange upside down way a bearded face which he knew from the past. Hands were laid on him and the roughness with which he was moved sent Ross spiraling back into the dark once again. When he aroused for the second time it was night and the pain in his head was dull. He put out his hands and discovered that he lay on a pile of fur robes and was covered by one. Asha again he tried that name but it was not Asha who came in answer to his feeble call. The woman who knelt beside him with a horn cup in her hand had neatly braided hair in which gray strands showed silver by firelight. Ross knew he had seen her before but again where and when she slipped a sturdy arm under his head and raised his while the world bowed. The edge of the horn cup was pressed to his lips and he drank bitter stuff which burned in his throat and lit a fire in his insides. Then he was left to himself once again and in spite of his pain and bewilderment he slept. How many days he lay in the camp of Ulfa tended by the chief's wife Ross found it hard to reckon. It was Frigga who had argued the tribe into caring for a man they believed almost dead when they found him and who nursed Ross back to life with knowledge acquired through half a hundred exchanges between those wise women who were the doctors and priestesses of these roaming peoples. Why Frigga had bothered with the injured stranger at all Ross learned when he was able and marshaled his bewildered thoughts into some sort of order. The matriarch of the tribe thirsted for knowledge. That same urge which had led her to certain experiments with herbs had made her consider Ross a challenge to her healing skill. When she gave that he would live she determined to learn from him all he had to give. Ulfa and the men of the tribe might have eyed the metal weapons of traders with awe and avid desire but Frigga wanted more than trade goods. She wanted the secret of the making of such cloths as a stranger's war everything she could learn of their lives and the lamps through which they had come. She plied Ross with endless questions which he answered as best he could. For he lay in an odd dreamy state where only the present had any reality. The past was dim far away and while he was now and then dimly aware that he had something to do he forgot it easily. The chief and his men prowled the half built station after the attackers had withdrawn bringing back with them a handful of loot, a bronze razor two skinning knives some fish hooks a length of cloth which Frigga appropriated Ross eyed to spoil indifferently and claim upon it. His interest in everything about him was often blanked out by headaches which kept him limp on his bed uncaring and stupid for hours or even days. He gathered that the tribe had been living in fear of an attack from the same raiders who had wiped out the trading post but at last their scouts returned with the information that the enemy had gone south. There was one change of which Ross was not aware but which might have startled both Ash and McNeil. Ross Murdock had indeed died under that blow which had left him unconscious beside the river. The young man who Frigga had drawn back to sense and in a slow recovery was Rossa of the beaker people. This same Rossa nursed a hot desire for vengeance against those who struck him down and captured his kinsmen including which the family tried who had rescued him could well understand. There was the same old urgency pushing him to try his strength now to keep to his feet even when they were unsteady. His bow was gone but Ross spent hours fashioning another and he traded his copper bracelet for the best dozen arrows in Oopa's camp. The jet pin from his cloak with all his gratitude. Now that his strength was coming back he could not rest easy in the camp. He was ready to leave even though the gashes on his head were still tender to the touch. Oopa indulgently planned a hunt southward and Rossa took the trail with the tribesmen. He broke with the clan hunters when they turned aside at the beginning of the taboo land. Their minds submerged and taken over by his beaker cover hesitated to yet he could not give up and the others left him there. His eyes on the forbidden heights unhappy and tormented by more than the headaches were still came and went with painful regularity. In the mountains lay what he saw a hidden something within his brain told him that over and over but the mountains were taboo and he should not venture into them. How long you might have hesitated there if he had not come upon the trail Ross did not know. But on the day after the hunters of Oopa's clan left a glint of sunlight striking between two trees pointed out a woodsman's blaze on a third tree trunk. The two halves of Ross's memory clicked together for an instance as he examined that cut. He knew that it marked a trace and he pushed on hunting a second cut and then a third convinced that these would lead him into the unknown territory. Ross's desire to explore overcame the grafted superstitions of his briefing. There were other signs that this was an often traveled route a spring cleared of leaves and wall was stoned a couple of steps cut in the turf on a steep slope early alert to any sound. He might not be an expert woodsman but he was learning fast perhaps the faster because his false memories now supplemented the real ones. That night he built no fire crawling instead into the heart of a rotted lobe to sleep. Awakening once to the call of a wolf and another time at the distant crash of a dead tree yielding to wind. In the morning he was about to climb back to the trail he had prudently left the night before when he saw five bearded fur clad men looking much the same as opus people. Ross hugged the earth and watched them pass out of sight before he puddled. All that day he wove an up and down trail behind a small band sometimes catching sight of them as they topped a rise well ahead or stopped to eat. It was late afternoon and he crept cautiously to the top of a ridge and gazed down into a valley. There was a town in the valley, sturdy houses of logs behind a stocked cage. He had seen towns vaguely like it before yet it had a dreamlike quality as if it were not as real as it appeared. Ross rested his chin on his arms and watched that town and the people moving in it. Some were fur clad hunters but others dressed quite differently. He started up with a little cry at the sight of one of the men who had walked so swiftly from one house to the next. Surely he was a beaker trader. His unease grew stronger with every moment he watched but it was the oddness he sensed in that town that bothered him and not any warning that he himself was in danger. He had gotten to his knees to see better when out of nowhere a rope sang the air, settling about his chest with a vicious jerk which not only drove the air from his lungs but pinging his arms tight to his body. This concludes the reading of Chapter 9.