The Technicolor Time Machine

There was a moment of silence as happy laughter echoed through the closed doors.

“And he even got a bottle of whiskey in there,” one of the carpenters said dismally.

11

“One thing I really like about the eleventh century,” Barney said, spearing a large chunk of white meat with his fork, “is the sea food. What’s the reason for that, Professor? Lack of pollution or what?”

“It is probably because what you are eating is not sea food from the eleventh century.”

“Don’t try to sell me that. This isn’t any of that frozen TV dinner stuff we brought along. Look, the clouds are breaking up, if it stays like this we can shoot the rest of the homecoming today.”

The front of the mess tent was rolled up, which gave a clear view across the fields, with a bit of ocean visible beyond. Professor Hewett pointed to it.

“The fish in the ocean here are identical with those of the twentieth century, to all practical purposes. But the trilobite on your plate is of a totally different order and era, brought back by the weekend parties from Old Catalina.”

“That’s what all the dripping boxes were about.” He looked suspiciously at the meat on his plate. “Just a minute—this thing I’m eating—it has nothing to do with Charley Chang’s eyes and teeth, does it?”

“No,” the professor said. “You must remember we changed periods when it was decided that members of the company should spend two days a week in a different time, so that work here would be continuous. Santa Catalina is a perfect holiday spot, Mr. Chang verified that, but he was slightly put out by the local life. That was my mistake. I left him in the Devonian period, when amphibian life was beginning to emerge from the sea, totally harmless creatures such as the lung fish for the most part. But there were things in the water…”

“Eyes and teeth. We heard.”

“So I considered the Cambrian a wiser choice for our weekenders. Nothing in the ocean to bother the bathers that is larger than the harmless trilobite.”

“So you’ve used the word again. What is it?”

“An extinct arthropod. A form of life generally classed somewhere between the crustaceans and the arachnidans, some specimens of which are quite small, but the one you’re eating is the largest. A sort of two-foot long, seagoing wood louse.”

Barney dropped his fork and took a long swallow of coffee. “That was a delicious lunch,” he said. “Now if you don’t mind, could we talk about the colony in Vinland. Have you found it yet?”

“My news isn’t too good.”

“After the trilobite anything is good. Tell me.”

“You must understand that my detailed knowledge of the period is limited. But Dr. Lyn is well versed on the history and he has all the records in the original sagas about the Vinland discoveries and settlements, and I have been following his instructions. It was difficult at times to find a suitable arrival location, the coasts of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia are irregular to say the least, but we have been successful at this. The motorboat has been used extensively, so that I can assure you that the search has been carried out as thoroughly as was possible.”

“What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s the sort of news I like to hear,” Barney said, pushing his plate of french-fried trilobite farther away. “Get the Doc over here, if you don’t mind. I want to hear more about this.”

“It is true,” Jens Lyn said in his gloomiest. North Baltic manner. “There are no Norse settlements in North America. It is most disturbing. We have searched all the possible sites from the tenth to the thirteenth century and have found nothing.”

“What made you think that there was anyting to find?”

Lyn’s nostrils flared. “May I remind you that, since the discovery of the Vinland Map, there has been little doubt that the Norse did explore and settle in North America. It is recorded that in 1121 Bishop Eirik Gnuppsson went on a mission to Vinland. The sagas describe the many journeys there and the settlements that were made. Only the exact location of the settlements is still in doubt, and discovering the location was the purpose of our recent explorations. In theory we had thousands of miles of coast to explore, since the authorities differ widely as to the locations of Helluland and Markland mentioned in the sagas. Gathorne-Hardy identifies the Straumsfjord as Long Island Sound, and places Hop in the estuary of the Hudson River. But other authorities think the landings took place farther north, Storm and Babcock think favorable of Labrador and Newfoundland, and Mowat has actually pinpointed the location of Hop—”

“Stop,” Barney said. “I do not care about the theories. Did you or did you not just get through telling me that you had found no settlements or evidence of any kind?”

“I did, but…”

“Then all of the authorities are completely wrong?”

“Well… yes,” Lyn said, sitting down and looking very unhappy.

“Don’t let it bother you, Doc,” Barney said, holding his cup out so the waitress could pour more coffee into it. “You can write a book about it, then you’ll be the new authority. What is more important is—where do we go from here? May I remind those of you who have not read the script lately that it is titled Viking Columbus and is the saga of the discovery of North America and the founding of the first settlement there. So what do we do? We had planned to move the company over to the Viking settlements and shoot the last part of the picture there. But no settlements. What comes next?”

Jens Lyn chewed his knuckles a moment, then looked up. “We could go to the west coast of Norway. There are Norse settlements there, and it looks not unlike the Newfoundland coast at places.”

“Do they have many Indians we can hire for the big battle scenes?” Barney asked.

“None at all.”

“Then that’s out. Maybe we better ask our local man.” He looked around the tent and spotted Ottar working his way through a steaming heap of trilobites in the far comer. “Go over and disturb his lunch, Jens, tell him he can have seconds and thirds later.”

“You want Ottar?” the Viking asked, stamping over and dropping onto the bench.

“What do you know about Vinland?” Barney said to him.

“Nothing.”

“You mean you’ve never heard of it?”

“Sure I heard the skald make poems about it, and I talked to Leif Eriksson about his trip. I’ve never seen it, don’t know anything. One year I go to Iceland then go to Vinland, get very rich.”

“With what? Gold? Silver?”

“Wood,” Ottar said, with contempt for anyone who did not know such an obvious thing.

“For the Greenland settlements,” Jens Lyn explained. “They are always terribly short of wood of any kind, and in particular the hardwoods needed for shipbuilding. A load of hardwood delivered in Greenland would be worth a fortune.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Barney said, rising. “As soon as we finish shooting here we pay off Ottar and he sails to Vinland. We jump ahead in time and meet him. We film the departure, some ocean shots to do for the trip, then his arrival. They throw up a few shacks for a settlement, we pay some wampum to the local tribe to bum them down and the picture is finished.”

“Good idea. Plenty wood in Vinland,” Ottar said.

Jens Lyn started to protest, then shrugged. “Who am I to complain. If he is fool enough to do it, to enable you to make a picture—who am I to quibble. There is no known saga about a visit of someone named Ottar to Vinland, but since there seems to be no evidence as to the veracity of the other sagas I do not think I can complain.”

“Finish lunch now,” Ottar said.

Barney went out and found his secretary waiting for him with an armful of folders.