John Norman - Time Slave

Hamilton stared out the dusty windshield. They were now in trackless bush country. Gunther because of the terrain had slowed the vehicle. He occasionally shifted gears, the machine lurching up slopes or pulling out of sand pits. A pack of bush pigs, grunting and snuffling, scattered into the brush. The country was hot, dusty, desolate. In the back of the Rover Gunther had two rifles.

“Why would he wish to recognize such an artifact again?” asked William.

“I do not know,” said Gunther. “But I suspect, that for some reason, it is important to him.”

“He speaks often of the stars,” said Hamilton.

“What has a piece of shaped stone, the head of a primitive ax, to do with the stars?” asked Gunther.

“I’m sure I do not know,” laughed Hamilton.

He looked at her, angrily.

Hamilton was silent.

“Do you truly believe,” asked Gunther of William, “that the Herjellsen artifact is not genuine?”

“It is a fake,” said William. “All of this is a matter of tricks, a magician’s illusions.”

“Do you truly believe that?” asked Gunther.

“Of course,” said William. “I am not mad.”

“Why do you remain in the compound? Why do you continue to work with Herjellsen?” asked Gunther.

“Oh,” smiled William, “the pay is remarkably good, you know, free trip to the bush and all that, not bad for humoring the old fellow.”

Gunther said nothing. He drove on, picking his way among clumps of brush. It was toward noon. The three of them were sweating. Dust, churned up by the Land Rover, like a screen of dust, drifted behind the vehicle. They did not speak for some time.

“I do not believe the Herjellsen artifact is genuine,” said William, slowly. “It is impossible that it should be genuine.”

Gunther laughed. “I see now,” he said, “why you stay in the bush.”

“Yes,” said William, looking out the window. “What if it should be genuine?” He turned to look at Gunther. His lips were tight, thin, pale. “What, Gunther,” he asked, “if it should be genuine?”

Gunther laughed. “My dear William,” he said, “that is the difference between us! I hope eagerly that it is genuine! You, on the other hand, just as eagerly hope that it is not!”

“I do not know what I hope,” said William. “Sometimes I, too, hope that it is genuine. At other times I am terrified lest it be genuine.”

Gunther laughed.

“If it should be genuine,” said William, slowly, “do you realize its meaning?”

“I think so,” said Gunther. “I think I do.” “I think I do, too,” said Hamilton.

“Be silent,” said Gunther. Hamilton flushed.

“Please, Gunther,” snapped William. “Be civil at least.” “She is an ignorant woman,” said Gunther.

“I have a Ph.D. from the California Institute of Technology,” said Hamilton angrily. “I have a doctorate in mathematics.”

“You are an ignorant girl. Be quiet,” said Gunther. “I am a colleague,” said Hamilton.

“You understand nothing,” said Gunther.

Hamilton looked at him angrily.

“You were a fool to come to the bush,” said Gunther.

“You can’t speak to me like that!” cried Hamilton.

“Quiet, little fool,” said Gunther.

“I’m needed!” said Hamilton.

“Yes, little fool,” said Gunther. “You are needed. That is true.”

“There!” cried William. “Look there!”

Gunther, in the instant that William had spoken, had seen. In the same instant he had cut the engine to the Land Rover and stepped on the brakes.

“Excellent,” said Gunther. “I had not hoped to have such luck.”

“What are you looking for?” asked Hamilton.

“An animal for the second series of experiments,” said William, “preferably a large animal, between one hundred and one hundred and fifty pounds in weight.”

“What do you see?” asked Hamilton, peering through the dusty, insect-stained windshield.

“There, in that tree, some ten feet from the ground,” whispered William, pointing, “on that branch.”

Hamilton looked closely. “It’s a calf,” she said. “A native calf. But it can’t be. It’s on the branch. And it’s dead. How could it be on the branch?”

“Look more closely,” said William.

Hamilton looked more closely. Across the body of the dead calf, half lost in the sunlight and shadows, sleepy, gorged, peering at them, was a leopard.

“Superb,” said Gunther.

“They pull their kills into the branches of trees, to keep them from scavengers,” said William. “They are incredibly powerful, lithe brutes, extremely dangerous.”

Hamilton gasped. She had never before sensed the sinuous power, its deceptive strength, the teeth, the jaws, the resilient incredible sinews of the leopard, perhaps the most agile and dangerous of the predators.

The beast lay across the body of the calf, watching them.

“You go there,” said Gunther to William. “Do not approach it. I shall circle to the back, and come within range. It will smell you, and see you, but it is not likely to attack you. If it seems to sense me, attract its attention. It will not wish to abandon its kill. If all goes well I shall have a clean shot.”

“What if it darts into the brush?” asked William.

“Then,” said Gunther, “we will have lost it.” He smiled. “I have no intention of following it into the brush.”

“Are you going to kill it?” asked Hamilton.

“You take the hunting rifle,” said Gunther to William. It was a medium-caliber, bolt-action piece, with a five-shot box magazine, with telescopic sight, of German design.

“Yes,” said William. He looked relieved.

“I’ll take the tranquilizer rifle,” said Gunther. It was a powerful, compressed-air gun, custom-made, of British manufacture, designed for the discharge of anesthetic darts.

William looked at Hamilton. “Herjellsen wants the bloody animal alive,” he said.

Gunther handed William five bullets. He himself, from the glove compartment of the Rover, removed four plastic-packaged darts. He broke two open. Both men wore side weapons, William, a revolver, Gunther, an automatic, a Luger, 9 mm., the classical 08 model.

Gunther looked at the leopard in the tree.

“Be careful,” said Hamilton to the men.

Gunther looked at Hamilton, and then he drew the keys out of the ignition, and slipped them in his pocket.

“Why did you do that?” asked Hamilton.

Gunther did not answer her. Then, to Hamilton’s astonishment, Gunther drew forth from a leather pouch at his belt a pair of steel handcuffs.

“Give me your left wrist,” he said to Hamilton.

Hamilton felt her left wrist taken in the strong hand of Gunther. She could not believe her eyes, nor her feelings. As though it might be happening to someone else, she saw, and felt, the steel of one of the cuffs close about her left wrist, snugly, and lock. In an instant the other cuff was locked about the steering wheel. She was handcuffed to the steering wheel.

“What are you doing!” she demanded.

William and Gunther were getting out of the car.

Hamilton jerked against the handcuff locked on her wrist. She was perfectly secured.

“Release me!” she cried. “Let me go!”

She looked at them, wildly.

“I’ll scream!” she cried. “I’ll scream!”

William smiled at her, the inanity of her threat. Hamilton flushed.

Gunther was serious. He glanced to the large cat in the tree, some one hundred and fifty yards away. He did not want the cat disturbed, the hunt interfered with. He glanced at William, and nodded. William, too, nodded.

“Release me,” whispered Hamilton.

William climbed back into the seat beside her, and then, quickly, to her consternation, put his left hand over her mouth, and held her right hand with his. She could utter only muffled noises. Her eyes were wild over his hand. Gunther was now reaching toward her, he had something in his hand. She felt her shirt on her right side pulled out of her slacks, and shoved up, exposing her right side, over and a bit forward of the hip.