Time Crime
I
Kiro Soran, the guard captain,
from the sun. A few of them were yelling; most of them ran silently. They ran more swiftly than the boy they were pursuing; the distance between them narrowed every moment. There were at least fifty of them.
Verner Hughes’ rifle barked; one of them dropped. As coolly as though he were shooting squirrels instead of his son’s pursuers, he dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground, poured a charge of powder, patched a ball and rammed it home, replaced the ramrod. Tenant Jones fired then, and then Birdy Edwards joined them and began shooting with the telescope-sighted hunting rifle. The young man who had been north of the Cathedral of Learning had one of the auto-carbines; Altamont had providently set the fire-control for semi-auto before giving it to him. He dropped to one knee and began to empty the clip, shooting slowly and deliberately, picking off the runners who were in the lead. The boy who had started to climb down off the library halted, fired his flintlock, and began reloading it. And Altamont, sitting down and propping his elbows on his knees, took both hands to the automatic which was his only weapon, emptying the magazine and replacing it. The last three of the savages he shot in the back; they had had enough and were running for their lives.
So far, everybody was safe. The boy in the library came down through a place where the wall had fallen. Murray Hughes stopped running and came slowly toward the bunker, putting a fresh clip into his rifle. The others came drifting in.
“Altamont, calling Loudons,” the scientist from Fort Ridgeway was saying into the radio. “Monty to Jim; can you hear me, Jim?”
Silence.
“We’d better get ready for another attack,” Birdy Edwards said. “There’s another gang coming from down that way. I never saw so many Scowrers!”
“Maybe there’s a reason, Birdy,” Tenant Jones said. “The Enemy is after big game, this time.”
“Jim! Where the devil are you?” Altamont fairly yelled into the radio, and as he did, he knew the answer. Loudons was in the village, away from the helicopter, gathering tools and workers. Nothing to do but keep on trying.
“Here they come!” Reader Rawson warned.
“How far can these rifles be depended on?” Birdy Edwards wanted to know.
Altamont straightened, saw the second band of savages approaching, about four hundred yards away.
“Start shooting now,” he said. “Aim for the upper part of their bodies.”
The two autoloading rifles began to crack. After a few shots, the savages took cover. Evidently they understood the capabilities and limitations of the villagers’ flintlocks; this was a terrifying surprise to them.
“Jim!” Altamont was almost praying into the radio. “Come in, Jim!”
“What is it, Monty? I was outside.”
Altamont told him.
“Those fellows you had up with you yesterday; think they could be trusted to handle the guns? A couple of them are here with me,” Loudons inquired.
“Take a chance on it; it won’t cost you anything but my life, and that’s not worth much at present.”
“All right; hold on. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Loudons is bringing the helicopter,” he told the others. “All we have to do is hold on, here, till he comes.”
A naked savage raised his head from behind what might, two hundred years ago, have been a cement park-bench, a hundred yards away. Reader Stamford Rawson promptly killed him and began reloading.
“I think you’re right, Tenant,” he said. “The Scowrers have never attacked in bands like this before. They must have had a powerful reason, and I can think of only one.”
“That’s what I’m beginning to think, too,” Verner Hughes agreed. “At least, we have eliminated the third of your possibilities, Tenant. And I think probably the second, as well.”
Altamont wondered what they were double-talking about. There wasn’t any particular mystery about the mass attack of the wild men to him. Debased as they were, they still possessed speech and the ability to transmit experiences. No matter how beclouded in superstition, they still remembered that aircraft dropped bombs, and bombs killed people, and where people had been killed, they would find fresh meat. They had seen the helicopter circling about, and had heard the blasting; everyone in the area had been drawn to the scene as soon as Loudons had gone down the river.
Maybe they had forgotten that aircraft also carried guns. At least, when they sprang to their feet and started to run at the return of the helicopter, many did not run far.
Altamont and Loudons shook hands many times in front of the Aitch-Cue House, and listened to many good wishes, and repeated their promise to return. Most of the microfilmed books were still stored in the old church; they were taking away with them only the catalogue and a few of the more important works. Finally, they entered the helicopter. The crowd shouted farewell, as they rose.
Altamont, at the controls, waited until they had gained five thousand feet, then turned on a compass-course for Colony Three.
“I can’t wait till we’re in radio-range of the Fort, to report this, Jim,” he said. “Of all the wonderful luck! And I don’t yet know which is more important; finding those books, or finding those people. In a few years, when we can get them supplied with modern equipment and instructed in its use—”
“I’m not very happy about it, Monty,” Loudons confessed. “I keep thinking about what’s going to happen to them.”
“Why, nothing’s going to happen to them. They’re going to be given the means of producing more food, keeping more of them alive, having more leisure to develop themselves in—”
“Monty; I saw the Sacred Books.”
“The deuce! What were they?”
“It. One volume; a collection of works. We have it at the Fort; I’ve read it. How I ever missed all the clues—You see Monty, what I’m worried about is what’s going to happen to those people when they find out that we’re not really Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”
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