It was a diorama, a fake scene.
This one was better than you see in museums. I was looking through a bush at a small clearing in wild country. It ended in a limestone bank. I could see overcast sky and a cave mouth in the rocks. The ground was wet, as if from rain.
A cave man hunkered down close to the cave. He was gnawing the carcass of a small animal, possibly a squirrel.
Peewee tried to shove past me; I stopped her. The cave man did not appear to notice us which struck me as a good idea. His legs looked short but I think he weighed twice what I do and he was muscled like a weight lifter, with short, hairy forearms and knotty biceps and calves. His head was huge, bigger than mine and longer, but his forehead and chin weren’t much. His teeth were large and yellow and a front one was broken. I heard bones crunching.
In a museum I would have expected a card reading “Neanderthal Man -circa Last Ice Age.” But wax dummies of extinct breeds don’t crack bones.
Peewee protested, “Hey, let me look.”
He heard. Peewee stared at him, he stared toward us. Peewee squealed; he whirled and ran into the cave, waddling but making time.
I grabbed Peewee. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Wait a minute,” she said calmly. “He won’t come out in a hurry.” She tried to push the bush aside.
“Peewee!”
“Try this,” she suggested. Her hand was shoving air. “They’ve got him penned.”
I tried it. Something transparent blocked the arch. I could push it a little but not more than an inch. “Plastic?” I suggested. “Like Lucite but springier?”
“Mmm . . .” said Peewee. “More like the helmet of my suit. Tougher, though-and I’ll bet light passes only one way. I don’t think he saw us.”
“Okay, let’s get back to our rooms. Maybe we can lock them.”
She went on feeling that barrier. “Peewee!” I said sharply. “You’re not listening.”
“What were you doing talking,” she answered reasonably, “when I wasn’t listening?”
“Peewee! This is no time to be difficult.”
“You sound like Daddy. He dropped that rat he was eating-he might come back.”
“If he does, you won’t be here, because I’m about to drag you-and if you bite, I’ll bite back. I warn you.”
She looked around with a trace of animosity. “I wouldn’t bite you. Kip, no matter what you did. But if you’re going to be stuffy-oh, well, I doubt if he’ll come out for an hour or so. We’ll come back.”
“Okay.” I pulled her away.
But we did not leave. I heard a loud whistle and a shout: “Hey, buster! Over here!”
The words were not English, but I understood-well enough. The yell came from an archway across the corridor and a little farther on. I hesitated, then moved toward it because Peewee did so.
A man about forty-five was loafing in this doorway. He was no Neanderthal; he was civilized-or somewhat so. He wore a long heavy woolen tunic, belted in at the waist, forming a sort of kilt. His legs below that were wrapped in wool and he was shod in heavy short boots, much worn. At the belt and supported by a shoulder sling was a short, heavy sword; there was a dagger on the other side of the belt. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven save for a few days’ gray stubble. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly; it was sharply watchful.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly. “Are you the jailer?”
Peewee gasped. “Why, that’s Latin!”
What do you do when you meet a Legionary? Right after a cave man? I answered: “No, I am a prisoner myself.” I said it in Spanish and repeated it in pretty fair classical Latin. I used Spanish because Peewee hadn’t been quite correct. It was not Latin he spoke, not the Latin of Ovid and Gaius Julius Caesar. Nor was it Spanish. It was in between, with an atrocious accent and other differences. But I could worry out the meaning.
He sucked his lip and answered, “That’s bad. I’ve been trying for three days to attract attention and all I get is another prisoner. But that’s how the die rolls. Say, that’s a funny accent you have.”