Harry Harrison: The Technicolor Time Machine

“Give that to the Prof,” Barney said as the page went past, then couldn’t resist one last dig. “And stop horsing around and finish the picture, will you?”

He followed the page in and let the door swing behind him without a backward glance. He knew, without the slightest trace of doubt, that it would not open, and enjoyed the sensation of being positively certain of something for the first time in his life. This sureness carried him past Miss Zucker, who was standing and trying to tell him something about men from the bank; he brushed her aside and opened the inner door for the page. A very pale L.M. looked up at him and six gray-haired, frozen-faced men turned to see what the interruption was about.

“I’m very sorry to be late, gentlemen,” Barney said with calm assurance. “But I’m sure that Mr. Greenspan has explained everything. We were out of the country and I have just arrived with the print of the film he has been telling you about. A multimillion dollar asset, gentlemen, that will usher in a new era of cinematic art and profit for this studio.”

The cans of film rattled together as the page straightened up the handcart, and Sam, from the darkest comer of the room, uttered a small and almost inaudible sigh.

“You will excuse me if I don’t rise,” Jens Lyn said. “The doctor is very strict about rest in the afternoon.”

“Sure,” Barney said. “Forget it. Does it still give you trouble?”

Jens was lying on a lounge chair in the garden of his home, and looked a good deal thinner and paler than Barney remembered.

“Not really,” Jens said. “It’s just a matter of healing. I can get around fine, in fact I was at the opening last night. I am forced to admit that, in most ways, I rather enjoyed the film.”

“You should be writing for the papers. One of the critics accused us of making a poor attempt at realism in the torn-shirt-and-dirt Russian style and failing miserably. He claims that the crowds are obviously good American extras and he even recognized the piece of the California coast where the scenes were shot.”

“I can understand his feelings. Even though I was there when the filming was done I experienced very little sense of reality while watching it. I suppose that we are so used to the marvels of the film and the strange places that it all looks the same to us. But, this negative attitude of the critics, does that mean the film will not be a success?”

“Never! The critics always pan the big moneymakers. We’ve already got our costs back ten times over and it is still rolling in. The experiment was a noble success and we are having a meeting today to talk about the next film. I just wanted to come by and see you, and well—hope that you weren’t feeling…”

“Anger? No, Barney, that’s over. I should apologize for losing my temper like that. I see things in a totally different perspective now.”

Barney smiled broadly. “That’s the best news yet. I admit you had me bugged a good bit, Jens. I even brought a peace offering, though Dallas is the one who got it and asked me to bring it to you.”

“My goodness,” Jens said, opening the package and taking out the length of notch-edged, flattened wood. “What is it?”

“A bullroarer, Cape Dorset brand. They were spinning them when they attacked Ottar’s camp.”

“Of course, that’s what it is.” Jens took a thick book from the table near his head. “How very nice of you to think of me, and you must extend my thanks to Dallas when you see him. You know, a few of the people from the company have dropped in on me, and I’ve heard a good deal about everything that happened after I left. In fact I have been reading about it as well.” He pointed to the book and Barney looked puzzled.

“These are the Icelandic Sagas, in the original Old Norse in which they were written. Of course most of them were just verbal history for about two hundred years, before they were transcribed, but it is amazing how accurate they can be. If I might read you a bit from the ‘Thorfinn Karlsefni Saga’ and ‘The Greenlanders Story.’ Here… ‘At the end of this time a great multitude of skraelling was discovered coming from the south like a river of boats… They had staves waving counter-sunwise and were all uttering loud cries.’ The staves must have been the bullroarers such as this one.”

“Do you mean that Ottar—Thorfinn—and everything that happened to him is in these sagas?”

“Everything. Of course parts are missing and it is a bit confused, but two hundred years of word of mouth is a long time. But his voyage, the building of the settlement, the attack of the skraelling— even the ice cream and the bull that frightened them on the first visit—it’s all in here.”

“Does it say what—finally happened to him?”

“Well it is obvious from the fact that the reports were recorded that he lived to return to Iceland or to pass on the story of his adventures to other Norse who came that way. There are different versions of his later life, but all agree on his prosperity and long and happy life.”

“Good for Ottar, he deserves it. Did you know that Slithey went back to him?”

“The Gudrid of the sagas, of course. I read an item in the paper about it.”

“Yes, it was obvious her press agent didn’t write it. Something about retiring from films to be with the only man I love and the sweetest baby in the world, on his ranch, which, while the plumbing isn’t very good, is very nice and friendly, with plenty of fresh air.”

“That was it.’”

“Poor Slithey. I wonder if she has any idea where—or when—that ranch is?”

Jens smiled. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“You’re right about that.”

Jens took a Xerox copy from the back of the book. “I’ve been saving this for you, in case you came by. One of my students ran across it and thought it might amuse me. It’s a copy of an item from the New York Times, 1935 I believe.”

“Disturbance upsets meeting,” Barney read. “Congress of the Archeological Society disrupted when two attendees scuffled in the anteroom… Threats of suit for slander… claims that Dr. Perkins attempted a hoax by presenting the fragment of a glass bottle, claiming that be found it in a Norse middenheap in Newfoundland. Declared a fraud because this particular form has never been associated with any of the northern cultures, it appears to be too well made and in fact resembles the shape of container used by a well-known proprietary brand of American bourbon whiskey.…”

Barney smiled and handed the paper back. “Looks like Ottar has had some trouble getting rid of his empties.” He rose. “I hate to run off like this, but I’m already late for the meeting.”

“Just one more item before you go. In these sagas a name keeps cropping up, a man who seems to have had an influencing factor on the Vinland settlements. He appears in all the sagas, is supposed to have been on one or more voyages and even to have sold the boat to Thorfinn that he used to make his journey to Vinland.”

“I know, that must be—what’s his name—Thorvald Eriksson—the guy Ottar got his boat from.”

“No that’s not his name. It’s Bjarni Herjolfsson.”

“That’s very interesting, Jens, but I really do have to run now.”

Barney was out in the street before he realized what Barney Hendrickson might sound like after the Vikings had passed it on by word of mouth for two hundred years.

“They even wrote a part in for me!” he gasped.

“Go right in, Mr. Hendrickson,” Miss Zucker said and she even smiled slightly. She was the perfect barometer and Barney knew that his stock was soaring in Climactic.