They knew he was there. How? He had crouched down behind a great rock partly blocking the entrance. But they were looking his way. Sniffing. Those big noses, those wide nostrils. They could smell him. They were murmuring to each other. Suddenly these people seemed less like ancient cousins, more like hairy ogres or trolls.
The storm was lashing the plain now: wild winds, flailing the falling snow into thick white curtains. Eric backed away from the mouth of the cave. He heard a shout from within, then another, another. Desperately now he began to run down the hill, slipping and stumbling in the loosely packed snow.
And they were coming after him.
Don’t try to run, he thought. Slide for it! Slide!
He dropped down flat and gave himself a shove. And went wildly tobogganing away, moving at an ever accelerating speed with his knees drawn up tight against his chest and his arms pulled in over them. A couple of times he fetched up against some up-jutting snag of a tree, or some hunk of rock, and gave himself a nasty whack; but then he pushed on, down and down and down the hill.
After a time he looked back. The Neanderthals had stopped pursuing him. They were standing some distance above him on a snowy ridge, staring at him in what looked like open-mouthed astonishment.
They probably think I’m crazy, Eric thought. Crazy skinny peculiar-looking guy with a strange outfit on, who can’t find any better way to amuse himself than go sliding down a bumpy hill in the middle of a snowstorm. Obviously a low I.Q. type, a real moron.
Or maybe not. Maybe they think I’m having a good time.
He stood up, waved, shouted to them.
“Come on!” he called. “You try it, too! It’s fun, guys! It’s fun!”
He saw them muttering to each other. Maybe they were considering it. Maybe they were seriously thinking about taking up body-sledding, now that I’ve shown them the way.
I may have started something here, he thought. The Neanderthal Winter Olympics!
He brushed snow from his clothes and trudged on down the hillside, feeling a little creaky and battered. When he looked back next, the Neanderthal conference was still going on, and two of them were lying in the snow, trying to shove themselves downhill.
22. Sean + 5×1010minutes
The point of the spear just barely grazed Sean’s chest. The other man held it there. Sean froze, not even breathing. He looked down, eyes bugging, at the sharp stone tip against his breastbone. This is it, he thought. The end of Sean, nine thousand years ago in Arizona. The archaeologists will be real confused when they find the bones of a white man in the ancient strata here.
You have to do something, he told himself.
Go for the dart gun? Or even the laser? No. It took a little-time to get the anesthetic darts armed and primed. He didn’t have that much time. As for the laser, he knew he was supposed to avoid using the weapon unless he had absolutely no other option. Besides, he suspected that the moment he made any movement toward his utility belt that spear would be sticking out his back.
Do something. Anything.
He began to sing.
He had no idea what good it would do. He just opened his mouth and let melody come flowing out.
Oh, say, can you see
By the dawn’s early light . . .
The hunter looked astounded. He stepped back, one pace, two, three, without taking his eyes off Sean.
Reprieve. Somehow.
. . . what so proudly we hailed
by the twilight’s last gleaming . . .
The hunter spoke: a single stream of words punctuated by explosive little bursts of breath.
“Sorry,” Sean said. “I don’t speak Prehistoric Hopi, or whatever you’re talking.” He managed a smile. It wasn’t easy. It must have looked more like a tense grimace. Every culture understands smiling, he knew. Show your teeth. It’s a sign of good will. “You are a Hopi or something, right? An Indian, anyway. An early version. An ancestor. My name is Sean. I come here in peace from the year 2016. Do you want me to sing some more? ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay—’ ”
The hunter spoke again, the same speech, faster this time. To Sean his words sounded blunt, cruel, harsh.
Sean responded with another smile, a little on the edgy side. And came out with:
California, here I come
Right back where I started from . . .
It was hard to tell what the other was planning to do. The hunter’s eyelids were fluttering now. His nostrils flared wide. He grasped his spear at both ends and pulled it back tightly against his chest. He spoke once more, slowly and in a deeper voice. As if he were sinking into some sort of trance.
Keep on singing, Sean thought.
I am the captain of the Pinafore
And a right good captain too.
De deedle deedle dee and deedle deedle dee
With chimpanzees for my crew.
They weren’t quite the right words, but he doubted that the hunter would know that. And at least the tune was there.
The other hunters were approaching now. Their faces were smeared with bison blood. One of them prodded Sean with the business end of his spear, pushing against the close-knit fabric of his jumpsuit. It was just the lightest of touches, but Sean shivered as he felt the keen tip of the stone point. He tried singing the “Hallelujah” chorus. It didn’t sound so good solo. They came in closer now, pinching and poking him. He switched to “Silent Night” thinking it might calm them some. The first one, the one who seemed to have gone into a trance, made a low rumbling sound far back in his throat.
I’d like to get out of here, Sean thought.
Somehow. Any way at all.
Just let it be right now.
He smiled again, the widest smile he could manage. “I know you can’t understand a thing that I’m saying, but I’m saying it calmly and reasonably. I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m simply a visitor. My name is Sean Gabrielson and I’m twenty-three years old and I have a degree in physics from Cal Tech, and I mean to keep right on speaking quietly and reasonably to you until you decide that I’m no threat. I’m also willing to sing anything you request. I can do some nice old rock numbers, I know a couple of hymns, I can do patriotic songs. And I can keep it up until the next shunt comes and gets me, if I have to. Just stand there and listen peacefully, okay?” He started in on “Rock of Ages.” They all looked almost hypnotized now. Eyes wide, staring. They didn’t know what to make of him. “I can tell you all sorts of useful things, too. For example, I can advise you to start thinking about migrating north, because these animals here that you hunt are going to clear out of this territory in another few hundred years, once things start getting really warm and dry, and—”
They were looking at him in what looked like awe. Maybe they’re beginning to think I’m a god, he thought. Or maybe they just love the sound of my voice.
“You see, this is the late Pleistocene, but eventually this is going to be known as the state of Arizona, and I can prophesy that there’s going to be a freeway right down the middle of this valley, running from Flagstaff down to Phoenix or Tucson—”
They were down on their knees. Yes. Worshipping me, Sean thought. He grinned. They do think I’m a god. Unless they’re just begging me to stop talking and start singing again.
Old Man River, that Old Man River . . .
This is going to be fun, he told himself.
Then he felt the displacement force tugging at him.
Not now, he thought in annoyance. Not just when it’s getting good! But there was nothing he could do about it. The force had pulled him away from Quintu-Leela and now it was yanking him away from his first good shot at being a god, or at least being a star singer. One moment he was staring at a bunch of awed prehistoric bison hunters, and the next he was floating in a globe of green light, somewhere very far away.