The Many-Coloured Land - 1 (2 page)

They passed through a metal-sheathed door into what was apparently a converted wine cellar. An area of stone paving some three meters square had been removed, leaving bare earth. Guderian's apparatus stood in the middle of it.

The old man rummaged for a moment in an antique oak cabinet near the door and came up with a small pile of reading-plaques, which he distributed to the scientists. "A precis of my theoretical considerations and diagrams of the device are contained in these booklets, which my wife has been kind enough to prepare for visitors. You must excuse the simplicity of the format. We have long since exhausted our major funding."

The others murmured sympathetically.

"Please stand here for the demonstration. You will observe that the device has certain affinities to the subspace translator and thus requires very little power input. My own modifications have been designed with a view toward phasing in residual magnetics contained in the local rock strata, together with the deeper contemporary fields being generated beneath the continental platform. These, interacting with the matrices of the translator fields, generate the singularity."

Guderian reached into the pocket of his work smock and took out a large carrot. With a Gallic shrug, he remarked, "Expedient, if somewhat ridiculous."

He placed the carrot on an ordinary wooden stool and carried it to the apparatus. Guderian's device rather resembled an old-fashioned latticework pergola or gazebo draped in vines. However, the frame was made of transparent vitreous material except for peculiar nodular components of dead black, and the "vines" were actually cables of colorful alloys that seemed to grow up from the cellar floor, creep in and out of the lattice in a disconcerting fashion, and abruptly disappear at a point just short of the ceiling.

When the stool and its carrot were in position, Guderian rejoined his guests and activated the device. There was no sound. The gazebo shimmered momentarily; then it seemed as if mirror panels sprang into existence, hiding the interior of the apparatus completely from view.

"You will understand that a certain waiting period is now in order," the old man said. 'The carrot is almost always effective, but from time to time there are disappointments."

The seven visitors waited. The wide-shouldered human clutched his book-plaque in both hands but never let his eyes leave the gazebo. The other colonial, a placid type from some institute on Londinium, made a tactful examination of the control panel. The Gi and the Poltroyan read their booklets with equanimity. One of the younger Simbiari inadvertently let an emerald drop fall and made haste to scuff it into the cellar floor.

Numerals on the wall chronometer flickered past. Five minutes. Ten.

"We will see whether our game is afoot," the Professor said, with a wink at the man from Londinium.

The mirrored energy field snapped off. For the merest nanosecond, the startled scientists were aware of a pony-shaped creature standing inside the gazebo. It turned instantly to an articulated skeleton. As the bones fell, they disintegrated into grayish powder.

"Shit!" exclaimed the seven eminent scientists.

"Be calm, colleagues," said Guderian. "Such a denouement is unfortunately inevitable. But we shall project a slow-motion holo so that our catch may be identified."

He switched on a concealed Tri-D projector and froze the action to reveal a small horse-like animal with amiable black eyes, three-toed feet, and a russet coat marked with faint white stripes. Carrot greens stuck out of its mouth. The wooden stool was beside it.

"Hipparion gracfle. A cosmopolitan species during Earth's Pliocene Epoch."

Guderian let the projector run. The stool quietly dissolved. The hide and flesh of the little horse shriveled with dreadful slowness, peeling away from the skeleton and exploding into a cloud of dust, while the internal organs simultaneously swelled, shrank, and puffed into nothingness. The bones continued to stand upright, then tumbled in graceful slow arcs. Their first contact with the cellar floor reduced them to their component minerals.

The sensitive Gi let out a sigh and closed its great yellow eyes. The Londoner had turned pale, while the other human, from the rugged and morose world of Shqipni, chewed on his large brown mustache. The incontinent young Simb made haste to uI'llize a wastebasket.

"I have tried both plant and animal bait in my little trap," Guderian said. "Carrot or rabbit or mouse may make the trip to the Pliocene unharmed, but on the return journey, any living thing that is within the tau-field inevitably assumes the burden of more than six million years of earthly existence."

"And inorganic matter?" inquired the Skipetar.

"Of a certain density, of a certain crystalline structure, many specimens make the round trip in fairly good condition. I have even been successful in circumtranslating two forms of organic matter: amber and coal travel unscathed."

"But this is most intriguing!" said the Prime Contemplate of the Twenty-Sixth College of Simb. The theory of temporal application has been in our repository for some seventy thousand of your years, my worthy Guderian, but its demonstration eluded the best minds of the Galactic Milieu . . . unI'll now. The fact that you, a human scientist, have been even partially successful where so many others have failed is surely one more confirmation of the unique abilities of the Children of Earth."

The sour-grape flavor of this speech was not lost on the Poltroyan. His ruby eyes twinkled as he said, "The Amalgam of Pohroy, unlike certain other coadunate races, never doubted that the Intervention was full justified." "For you and your Milieu, perhaps," said Guderian in a low. voice. His dark eyes, pain-tinged behind rimless eyeglasses, showed a momentary bitterness. "But what of us? We have had to give up so much, our diverse languages, many of our social philosophies and religious dogmata, our so-called nonproductive lifestyles . . . our very human sovereignty, laughable though its loss must seem to the ancient intellects of the Galactic Milieu."

The man from Sbqipni exclaimed, "How can you doubt the wisdom of it, Professor? We humans gave up a few cultural fripperies and gained energy sufficiency and unlimited lebensraum and membership in a galactic civilization! Now that we don't have to waste time and lives in mere survival, there'll be no holding humanity back! Our race is just beginning to fulfill its genetic potential, which may be greater than that of any other people!"

The Londoner winced.

The Prime Contemplates said suavely, "Ah, the proverbial human breeding capacity! How it does keep the gene pool roiled. One is reminded of the well-known reproductive superiority of the adolescent organism as compared to that of the mature individual whose plasm, while less prodigally broadcast, may nonetheless be more prudently in the pursuit of genetic optima."

"Did you say mature?" sneered the Skipetar. "Or atrophied?"

"Colleagues! Colleagues!" exclaimed the diplomatic little Poltroyan. "We will weary Professor Guderian."

"No. it's all right," the old man said; bat he looked gray and ill.

The Gi hastened to change the subject "Surely this effect you have demonstrated would be a splendid tool for pako-biology."

"I fear," Guderian replied, "that there is limited galactic interest in the extinct life-forms of Earth's Rhone-Saone Trough."

"Then you haven't been able to, er, tune the device for retrieval in other areas?" asked the Londoner.

"Alas, no, my dear Sanders. Nor have other workers been able to reproduce my experiment in other localities on Earth or on other worlds." Guderian tapped one of the plaque-books. "As I have pointed out, there is a problem in computing the subtleties of the geomagnetic input. This region of southern Europe has one of the more complex geomorphotogles of the planet. Here in the Moots des Lyonnais and the Forez we have a foreland of the utmost antiquity cheek-by-jowl with recent volcanic intrusions. In nearby regions of the Massif Central we see even more clearly the workings of intracrustal metamorphism, the anatexis engendered above one or more ascending asthenospheric diapirs. To the east lie the Alps with their stupendously folded nappes. South of here is the Mediterranean Basin with active subduction zones, which was, incidentally, in an extremely peculiar condition during the Lower Pliocene Epoch."

"So you're in a dead end, eh?" remarked the Skipetar. 'Too bad Earth's Pliocene period wasn't all that interesting. Just a few million years marking time between the Miocene and the Ice Age. The shank of the Cenozoic, so to speak."

Guderian produced a small whiskbroom and dustpan and began to tidy up the gazebo. "It was a golden time, just before the dawn of rational humankind. A time of benevolent climate and flourishing plant and animal life. A vintage time, unspoiled and tranquil. An autumn before the terrible winter of the Pleistocene glaciation. Rousseau would have loved the Pliocene Epoch. Uninteresting? There are even today soul-weary people in this Galactic Milieu who would not share your evaluation."

The scientists exchanged glances.

"If only it weren't a one-way trip," said the man from Londinium.

Guderian was calm. "All of my efforts to change the fades of the singularity have been in vain. It is fixed in Pliocene time, in the uplands of this venerable river valley. And so we come to the heart of the matter at last! The great achievement of time-travel stands revealed as a mere scientific curiosity." Once more, the Gallic shrug.

"Future workers will profit from your pioneering effort," declared the Poltroyan. The others hurried to add appropriate felicitations.

"Enough, dear colleagues," Guderian laughed. "You have been most kind to visit an old man. And now we must go up to Madame, who awaits with refreshment I bequeath to sharper minds the practical application of my peculiar little experiment."

He winked at the outworld humans and tipped the contents of the dustpan into the wastebasket. The ashes of the hipparion floated in little blobby islands on the green alien slime.

PART I - The Leavetaking

CHAPTER ONE

Burnished trumpets sounded a flourish. The ducal party rode gaily out of the Chateau de Riom, horses prancing and curvetting as they had been trained, giving a show of spirit without imperiling the ladies in their chancy sidesaddles. Sunshine sparkled on the jeweled caparisons of the mounts, but it was the gorgeous riders who earned the crowd's applause.

Greenish-blue reflections from the festive scene on the monitor blackened Mercedes Lamballe's auburn hair and threw livid lights across her thin face. "The tourists draw lots to be in the procession of nobles," she explained to Grenfell. "It's more fun to be common, but try to tell them that. Of course the principals are all pros."

Jean, Due de Berry, raised his arm to the cheering throng. He wore a long houppelande in his own heraldic blue, powdered with fleurs de lys. The dagged sleeves were turned back to show a rich lining of yellow brocade. The Duc's hosen were pure white, embroidered with golden spangles, and he wore golden spurs. At his side rode the Prince, Charles d'Orleans, his robes parti-colored in the royal scarlet, black, and white, his heavy golden baldric fringed with tinkling bells. Other nobles in the train, gaudy as a flock of spring warblers, followed after with the ladies.

"Isn't there a hazard?" Grenfell asked. "Horses with untrained riders? I should think you'd stick with robot mounts."

Lamballe said softly, "It has to be real. This is France, you know. The horses are specially bred for intelligence and stability."

In honor of the maying, the betrothed Princess Bonne and all her retinue were dressed in malachite-green silk. The noble maidens wore the quaint headdresses of the early fifteenth century, fretted gilt-wire confections threaded with jewels, rising up on their braided coiffures like kitten ears. The crepine of the Princess was even more outlandish, extending out from her temples in long golden horns with a white lawn veil draped over the wires.

"Cue the flower girls," said Gaston, from the other side of the control room.

Mercy Lamballe sat still, gazing at the brilliant picture with rapt intensity. The antennae of her comset made the strange headpiece of the medieval princess out on the chateau grounds look almost ordinary in comparison.

"Merce," the director repeated with gentle insistence. "The flower girls."

Slowly she reached out a hand, keying the marshaling channel.

Trumpets sounded again and the peasant crowd of tourists oohed. Dozens of dimpled little maids in short gowns of pink and white came running out of the orchard carrying baskets of apple blossoms. They romped along the road in front of the ducal procession strewing flowers, while flageolets and trombones struck up a lively air. Jugglers, acrobats, and a dancing bear joined the mob. The Princess blew kisses to the crowd, and the Due distributed an occasional piece of largesse.

"Cue the courtiers," said Gaston.

The woman at the control console sat motionless. Bryan Grenfell could see drops of moisture on her brow, dampening the straying tendrils of auburn hair. Her mouth was tight.

"Mercy, what is it?" Grenfell whispered. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. Her voice was husky and strained. "Courtiers away, Gaston."

Three young men, also dressed in green, came galloping from the woods toward the procession of nobility, bearing armfuls of leafy sprigs. With much giggling, the ladies twined these into head-wreaths and crowned the chevaliers of their choice. The men reciprocated with dainty chaplets for the damsels, and they all resumed their ride toward the meadow where the maypole waited. Meanwhile, directed by Mercy's commands, barefoot girls and grinning youths distributed flowers and greenery to the slightly self-conscious crowd, crying: "Vert! Vert pour le mail"

Right on cue, the Due and his party began to sing along with the flutes:

Cest le mai, c'est le mai, Cest le joli mois de mail.

"They're off pitch again," Gaston said in an exasperated voice. "Cue in the filler voices, Merce. And let's have the lark loops and a few yellow butterflies." He keyed for voice on the marshaling channel and exclaimed, "Eh, Minou! Get that clot out from in front of the Due's horse. And watch the kid in red. Looks like he's twitching bells off the Prince's baldric."