“Go on, Doc.” Behind Ryan, the rest of the group had boarded the ice buggies and
were watching curiously from the ob slits.
“A shirt with a high collar. I remember the shoes were very sharply pointed,
which was the fashion of the time, and were polished like twin mirrors. The suit
was double-breasted, a brown pinstripe. That was the expression, pinstripe. That
torn suit—with the label of the tailor still neatly sewn within it.”
Doc’s voice was becoming quieter. The early sun had long gone and the day was
turning colder and bleaker. Gray clouds streaked with a dull purple were
gathering over the giant mountain behind them, and already the first flakes of
threatening snow were blowing.
Those clothes. And… most of his trousers were missing. All but the lower jaw of
the head was gone. That row of white teeth, everything sliced clean as a razor,
and very little blood. The right hand was there, perfect, the fingers still
curling, but the left was hewn away by some unknown and unimagined power. The
voice mewed like a kitten. I think that was the worst of it—that little, little
mewing voice. Lord forgive us for what was done in the name of science and
progress! Progress! That poor relic of a man, plucked from the past to end… who
knows where? Or when?”
“But what’s this got to do with craters, Doc? I don’t see the connection.”
Doc’s veiled eyes turned to him, unblinking. “The name of…”
J.B.’s shout interrupted them. “It’s droppin’ fast, Ryan. If we’re goin’, we
should move. Goin’ to be bad weather soon.”
“Sure, sure. Go on, Doc.”
“For…what? Go on? Ah, I comprehend you, Mr. Cawdor, indeed I do. Go on and get
into those infernal internal combustion machines. Of course.”
It had gone. The call from the Armorer had been enough to tip Doc’s mind back
over the edge, from sanity into utter confusion. But even the few coherent
sentences that Doc had managed gave Ryan plenty to think about. Time travel!
Maybe the gateways could be used for time travel. That was something else.
THE SMALL BAROMETER in the cab of Buggy One told its own tale. The pointer moved
down and down as they drove, roughly maintaining a heading that would take them
toward Fairbanks. But the land had undergone massive upheavals and distortions.
Also, they were driving in one of the worst blizzards that Ryan had ever seen:
worse than anything he’d ever experienced in the Deathlands. Visibility was
falling toward zero, and winds rocked the heavy vehicles.
In the end there was nothing to do but halt. In Buggy Two, J.B. was having
problems with the ignition system, which was coughing and cutting out. With a
wind-chill factor that lowered the temperature outside to around minus one
hundred and thirty, there was no hope of getting out to do repairs.
During a brief lull in the blizzard, Ryan saw a geodesic dome to the left, with
buildings and an old radar dish scattered around it. “Part of what they called
the DEW line,” he said to Krysty, pointing it out. “Early defense system.”
“Did ’em a lot of good, lover.”
“Yeah. And it looks like a dam up at the head of that valley.” But the storm
came screaming back again and visibility fell to zero.
IN MIDAFTERNOON the storm began to ease, with the wind fading away to a mere
fifty miles an hour, and the snow stopping altogether. The barometer rose from
the depths and the watery sun peeked through the chem clouds.
“Buggy One to Two and Three. You read?”
Both came back affirmative.
“Map shows steep valley a few miles ahead. We’ll go on and check it out. Keep in
contact. If you can’t fix the ignition, J.B., then call us, and we’ll return, or
you can all pack into Buggy Three. Is there room?”
“Sure, Ryan. No sweat. We’ll meet up in the opening to that canyon. Keep in
touch.”
As he was about to press the gas pedal, Ryan had a second thought and switched
the radio back on. “Mebbe better if you come with us, J.B. Henn’s the engine
expert, and he’s got Finn to help him out. Six in one of these babies could be