In normal operation, the shovels took a quarter-inch bite, and the click-click-click of the thing made it too loud to talk in the enclosed space, but our crew was equipt with earphones, throat mikes, and CB radios.
The tunneler went forward fifty feet with the operator stopping every two feet to check his leveling gauges, to open a hatch in the front to make sure that he was still going through solid rock, and to peek through a rear facing periscope to make sure he was going straight. Then he backed out, and a crew bolted on two “wings,” “shovels” that pivoted outward to make the hole he cut thirty-two feet wide. Again, he went forward and then backed out. A third pivoting wing was then bolted to the top of the tunneler. Finally, the operator drove forward two hundred feet, leaving behind an arched tunnel with polished walls that was thirty-two feet wide and twenty-four feet high at the center. This was our staging area, where we could get the rest of our stuff unpacked and assembled.
The pivoting wings were removed and a smaller semicircular shovel was bolted to the top, to give the stairway up an arched ceiling. A step-cutting gadget was set up to be towed behind the tunneler. It left a narrow ramp on each side for a special cart to roll on.
Most of the construction crew spent their time setting up the electric generator, and installing lights and handrails, using our temporal version of a half-inch drill, while our guards spent their time unloading the canister.
In an emergency, the tunneling machine could go faster than a man could run. Hell, in an emergency the damn thing could fly right out of the ground and keep on going, using the same flight mechanism as the escape harness and the fighter plane that was still under construction. Since there were no springs or shocks in the suspension system, and forward visibility was nonexistent, this procedure was not encouraged.
The tank tracks were used to get the tunneler into position, but in operation they did not drive it forward. Air pressure behind the machine did that. The tracks and their electric drive motors dynamically braked the forward motion, to keep the machine from slamming into the tunnel face. On long runs, you actually had to stop on occasion to discharge the batteries.
Since we were in no big hurry, we followed the safe procedure of going forward for two feet, stopping to see if the roof wanted to collapse, checking the instruments, opening the front window to make sure that we were still in solid rock, and then going ahead two more feet, stopping, and et cetera. Actually, when we got to the dirt a few feet from the surface, the roof did collapse, but that was no big thing. The top and sides of the tunneler also had “shovel” surfaces that the operator could switch on. The dirt was cleaned away in moments.
Ian handled what little supervising was necesary, so I went back to the passenger section, tilted my seat back and downed a dozen or so cold beers.
The girls who pulled waitressing duty felt obligated to strip out of their eighteenth-century finery to do the job in their traditional attire. It got a bit chilly towards the end, what with all the liquid air boiling off to replace what our “shovels” were sending elsewhen, but it never got cold enough for my waitresses to ask to put some clothes on.
Finally, word came that they were through to the surface, and your intrepid adventurer picked up his beer and wandered out. The new tunnel slanted upward at a thirty-degree angle through solid rock for a few hundred yards or so. It was nicely equiped with electric lights, hand rails, and steps that a building inspector would have approved of. So much for adventure.
The last twenty feet of the tunnel passed through loose rock, sand and dirt, and so was lined with prefabricated, interlocking steel arches that I had been pretty proud of when I thought them up.
I stepped up into the sunshine of an eighteenth-century morning, feeling very anticlimactic. It was the same old island, only now it seemed completely empty except for the abundant plant life.
Ian was waiting for me a few feet away. Our guards had set up a perimeter defense against nothing in particular, and the construction crew had gone down to rig up the freight cart cables and start bringing up equipment and supplies. In a small valley with a nice view of the ocean, the girls were already laying out a campsite.
As luck would have it, the tunnel mouth came out at the top of a low hill, which looked to be the highest point on the island.
I said to Ian, “Pretty good shooting. A few yards either way, and you would have had to stop tunneling sooner.”
“And shorten the scenic walk up here? For shame! Anyhow, this way we eliminate the drainage problems. Are you ready to join us working slobs?”
“There was something useful for me to do?”
“There’s a town to design and build. If I’m going to get the definitive history of mankind written, we ought to start here and now.”
We had long ago decided that if you put a secret installation in the middle of the wilderness, somebody is sure to notice all the people coming and going. But if you put it in the middle of a town, or better still a city, where strangers are wandering in and out all the time, your chances of going unnoticed are much better.
Since we could not be sure of the exact layout of the land back in this century, we had deferred the design of the town and its defenses until we actually got here. Our plan was to make this island the base for our exploration of the Western Hemisphere. In time, we figured to have three thousand people living here, with about ninety percent of them being locals who didn’t have any idea of what was really going on.
The obvious first step was to map the island and select a site for the town. A group of three Smoothie surveyors was getting itself together, to be accompanied by three Killer guards. I decided to tag along, for lack of anything better to do.
The surveyors planned to walk around the island, surveying as they went, staying near the beach so we wouldn’t have to clear much vegetation out of their way. Tomorrow, they would walk across the island a few times, to get an idea of the interior.
Despite the fact that I’d been living a sedentary life for the past few years, my new body took to a day’s brisk walk without difficulty. It’s remarkable what a little biological reengineering can do for you.
It was mid-afternoon when we came on the cannibals’ campsite. What had happened here was pretty obvious. The roasted and chewed bones of three people were scattered on the sand, skulls and everything. One of the broken open skulls was pretty small. It must have been a child.
The Smoothie surveyors just freaked out, shaking, breaking into cold sweats, or vomiting on the ground. I was more than a little queasy, myself.
Sergeant Kuhn was in charge of the Killer squad. “This happened last night, sir, judging from the bones and the campfire,” he said.
“You’ve seen something like this before?” I asked.
“Yeah. This was probably the work of Caribe Indians. They made a point of hunting the Arawaks on these islands. Or, it could have been the Arawaks. They were canibals, too. Whoever it was, they could still be around here. We’d better call the base and warn them to be on their guard.”
“Good idea. Do it.”
Our little hundred-milliwatt CB radios carried a long way in this century, with its clean, empty airways.
The other two guards had followed a trail into the brush. One of them gave a shout, and I went in to see what they wanted.
They’d found a fourth victim, a naked woman. She was unconsious, but still alive, barely, and dangling upside down from a tree.
“Well, cut her down!” I said.
“Are you sure we should get involved, sir?” a private said.
“What? Of course I’m sure! What are you worried about?”
“Causality, sir.”
“Causality be damned! We can’t just let a woman die without trying to help her!”
“Yes, sir.”
His “Brown Bess” had a temporal sword built in it, and with it he quickly cut the rope a foot above her feet while his partner caught her and laid her on the ground. She was filthy, and wouldn’t have been pretty if she’d been cleaned up, but she was human, cannibal or not, and she needed help. I took out my leather canteen and got a bit of water into her. She revived enough to drink the canteen dry, and then she fell asleep again.