Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3
    Ebook699 pages8 hours

    Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3

    By Alan E. Nourse, Philip Jose Farmer, Frank Belknap Long and

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Fantastic Universe started publishing in 1953 and continued until March 1960. It was one of the better magazines to launch during the boom in science fiction magazines publishing. It published many important stories' by some of the fields best known writers. This is our third Fantastic universe Superpack. Collected in this over sized edition are more than 100,000 words of science fiction and fantasy. Escape back to the golden age of science fiction!

    'Gods of the North' by Robert E. Howard
    'The Hohokam Dig' by Theodore Pratt
    'Operation Earthworm' by Joe Archibald
    'G-r-r-r . . . !' by Roger Arcot
    'The Hoofer' by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
    'Conquest over Time' by Michael Shaara
    'Rescue Squad' by Thomas J. O'Hara
    'The Shining Cow' by Alex James
    'Of Time and Texas' by William F. Nolan
    'The Helpful Robots' by Robert J. Shea
    'The Flying Cuspidors' by V. R. Francis
    'The Psilent Partner' by Edward S. Staub and John Victor Peterson
    'Happy Ending' by Mack Reynolds and Fredric Brown
    'It’s a Small Solar System' by Allan Howard
    'The Very Black' by Dean Evans
    'The Second Voice' by Mann Rubin
    'Rastignac the Devil' by Philip José Farmer
    'Texas Week' by Albert Hernhuter
    'The House from Nowhere' by Arthur G. Stangland
    'A World Apart' by Sam Merwin, Jr.
    'Bear Trap' by Alan E. Nourse
    'Now We Are Three' by Joe L. Hensley
    'One out of Ten' by J. Anthony Ferlaine
    'The Calm Man' by Frank Belknap Long
    'Foundling on Venus' by John & Dorothy de Courcy
    'The Doorway' by Evelyn E. Smith
    'Second Sight' by Basil Wells
    'Lighter than You Think' by Nelson Bond
    'The Long Voyage' by Carl Jacobi
    'Year of the Big Thaw' by Marion Zimmer Bradley
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateSep 16, 2016
    ISBN9781515406556
    Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3

    Read more from Alan E. Nourse

    Related to Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3

    Titles in the series (43)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Science Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Saints Of Salvation

      Nov 4, 2020

      The Saints Of Salvation
      1 min read

    • Article

      Liberation Day

      Nov 2, 2022

      Liberation Day
      2 min read

    • Article

      This Year’s Ripper

      Aug 10, 2023

      This Year’s Ripper
      3 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Oct 7, 2021

      Nigel Watson reported on the suggestion that the ancient aliens thesis was inherently racist because it refused to acknowledge the ability of people of colour to construct impressive edifices [FT409:32]. Now, while I don’t deny that some aficionados

      9 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Mar 24, 2022

      CONTACT US BY POST: PO BOX 1200, WHITSTABLE CT1 9RH, OR E-MAIL SIEVEKING@FORTEANTIMES.COM PLEASE PROVIDE US WITH YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS The very interesting report on ‘Man Of Russia’ and his outlandish claims about giant trees [FT415:9] got me thinking

      14 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Jan 27, 2022

      CONTACT US BY POST: PO BOX 1200, WHITSTABLE CT1 9RH, OR E-MAIL SIEVEKING@FORTEANTIMES.COM PLEASE PROVIDE US WITH YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS Although I was very happy to see my two ShukerNature books receive a positive joint review [FT411:65], I have to corr

      7 min read

    • Article

      In The Zone

      Jan 17, 2022

      In The Zone
      8 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Jun 15, 2023

      Fortean Times never fails to provide me with something to think about, but rarely as much as the assertion that mass panics like Havana syndrome and transdermal fentanyl overdoses have become “endemic and long term” [FT430:7]. I’d previously assumed

      12 min read

    • Article

      The Library

      Nov 23, 2023

      The Library
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Days Of The Jackal

      Jan 8, 2020

      The Days Of The Jackal
      4 min read

    • Article

      In 'Midwestern Strange,' A Tour Of The Utterly Bizarre And All-Too-Human

      Aug 28, 2019

      B.J. Hollars' book is both a quirky primer on some of the Midwest's oddest stories — and a fresh perspective on small-town culture.

      4 min read

    • Article

      History

      Jun 30, 2021

      A NEW HISTORY OF VIKINGS FROM SCANDINAVIA TO THE SILK ROADS CAT JARMAN Wm Collins, 336pp, £25 As a 17-year-old, Financial Times reviewer William Dalrymple was one of ten diggers who made an important archaeological discovery in a vicar’s garden near

      11 min read

    • Article

      In The Zone

      Dec 9, 2021

      In The Zone
      8 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Sep 10, 2020

      A possible case of identity theft (Noel Rooney, “The Man Who Would Be Q”, FT395:42-44) involves reclusive American chess genius, madman, and Fortean Times namesake Bobby Fischer (1943-2008), who certainly haunted a generation of chess players. Around

      18 min read

    • Article

      In The Zone

      Dec 28, 2021

      In The Zone
      8 min read

    • Article

      Enter The Duneiverse

      Aug 31, 2021

      Enter The Duneiverse
      5 min read

    • Article

      MAGIC, WITCHES & WEIRDNESS

      May 18, 2023

      MAGIC, WITCHES & WEIRDNESS
      5 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Dec 15, 2022

      Letters
      6 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Dec 2, 2021

      Regarding Scott Wilson’s letter about the Other Side [‘Burning question’, FT411:72]: there are several problems with the point he makes. Even if there are some genuine mediums, they are human beings, and might have reasons to lie about the religious

      10 min read

    • Article

      Arthurian Legend Tripping

      Jan 4, 2021

      Arthurian Legend Tripping
      10 min read

    • Article

      The Birds, The Birds

      Dec 16, 2020

      The Birds, The Birds
      2 min read

    • Article

      Also Received

      Apr 21, 2022

      The Burton Dassett UFO Events Of 1923 Richard Rokeby Flying Disk Press, 2020 Pb, 70pp, £5, ISBN 9798560435875 Two decades before the advent of UFOs, mysterious lights were seen moving about above the Warwickshire hills. This phenomenon was observed b

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Top 10: Wizards

      Jul 9, 2021

      The Top 10: Wizards
      2 min read

    • Article

      All Is Calm, All Is Bright

      Dec 15, 2021

      All Is Calm, All Is Bright
      4 min read

    • Article

      TV That Takes You From An Alternate Oxford To A Galaxy Far, Far Away

      Nov 15, 2019

      Disney Plus debuted “The Mandalorian” Nov. 12, and HBO is offering “Watchmen” and “His Dark Materials.” Which are worth viewers’ time?

      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3 - Alan E. Nourse

      Gods of the North

      by Robert E. Howard

      Publisher’s Note: The publication of this strange story by Robert E. Howard, author of the Conan stories, so much a part of the Living Library of Fantasy, represents a departure for this magazine. Without abandoning our policy of bringing you, month after month, the best in NEW Science Fiction and Fantasy, we will, from time to time, publish material such as this, hitherto known to only a few students of the field!

      She drew away from him, dwindling in the witch-fire of the skies, until she was a figure no bigger than a child.

      The clangor of the swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the red-stained snow. The pale bleak sun that glittered so blindingly from the ice-fields and the snow-covered plains struck sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blade, where the dead lay in heaps. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt: helmeted heads, back-drawn in the death throes, tilted red beards and golden beards grimly upward, as if in last invocation to Ymir the frost-giant.

      Across the red drifts and mail-clad forms, two figures approached one another. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky was over them, the white illimitable plain around them, the dead men at their feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as ghosts might come to a tryst through the shambles of a world.

      Their shields were gone, their corselets dinted. Blood smeared their mail; their swords were red. Their horned helmets showed the marks of fierce strokes.

      One spoke, he whose locks and beard were red as the blood on the sunlit snow.

      Man of the raven locks, said he, tell me your name, so that my brothers in Vanaheim may know who was the last of Wulfhere’s band to fall before the sword of Heimdul.

      This is my answer, replied the black-haired warrior: Not in Vanaheim, but in Valhalla will you tell your brothers the name of Amra of Akbitana.

      Heimdul roared and sprang, and his sword swung in a mighty arc. Amra staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the blade shivered into bits of blue fire on his helmet. But as he reeled he thrust with all the power of his great shoulders. The sharp point drove through brass scales and bones and heart, and the red-haired warrior died at Amra’s feet.

      Amra stood swaying, trailing his sword, a sudden sick weariness assailing him. The glare of the sun on the snow cut his eyes like a knife and the sky seemed shrunken and strangely far. He turned away from the trampled expanse where yellow-bearded warriors lay locked with red-haired slayers in the embrace of death. A few steps he took, and the glare of the snow fields was suddenly dimmed. A rushing wave of blindness engulfed him, and he sank down into the snow, supporting himself on one mailed arm, seeking to shake the blindness out of his eyes as a lion might shake his mane.

      A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight cleared slowly. There was a strangeness about all the landscape that he could not place or define—an unfamiliar tinge to earth and sky. But he did not think long of this. Before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind, stood a woman. Her body was like ivory, and save for a veil of gossamer, she was naked as the day. Her slender bare feet were whiter than the snow they spurned. She laughed, and her laughter was sweeter than the rippling of silvery fountains, and poisonous with cruel mockery.

      Who are you? demanded the warrior.

      What matter? Her voice was more musical than a silver-stringed harp, but it was edged with cruelty.

      Call up your men, he growled, grasping his sword. Though my strength fail me, yet they shall not take me alive. I see that you are of the Vanir.

      Have I said so?

      He looked again at her unruly locks, which he had thought to be red. Now he saw that they were neither red nor yellow, but a glorious compound of both colors. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was like elfin-gold, striking which, the sun dazzled him. Her eyes were neither wholly blue nor wholly grey, but of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not recognize. Her full red lips smiled, and from her slim feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair, her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of a god. Amra’s pulse hammered in his temples.

      I can not tell, said he, whether you are of Vanaheim and mine enemy, or of Asgard and my friend. Far have I wandered, from Zingara to the Sea of Vilayet, in Stygia and Kush, and the country of the Hyrkanians; but a woman like you I have never seen. Your locks blind me with their brightness. Not even among the fairest daughters of the Aesir have I seen such hair, by Ymir!

      Who are you to swear by Ymir? she mocked. What know you of the gods of ice and snow, you who have come up from the south to adventure among strangers?

      By the dark gods of my own race! he cried in anger. Have I been backward in the sword-play, stranger or no? This day I have seen four score warriors fall, and I alone survive the field where Mulfhere’s reavers met the men of Bragi. Tell me, woman, have you caught the flash of mail across the snow-plains, or seen armed men moving upon the ice?

      I have seen the hoar-frost glittering in the sun, she answered. I have heard the wind whispering across the everlasting snows.

      He shook his head.

      "Niord should have come up with us before the battle joined. I fear he and his warriors have been ambushed. Wulfhere lies dead with all his weapon-men.

      I had thought there was no village within many leagues of this spot, for the war carried us far, but you can have come no great distance over these snows, naked as you are. Lead me to your tribe, if you are of Asgard, for I am faint with the weariness of strife.

      My dwelling place is further than you can walk, Amra of Akbitana! she laughed. Spreading wide her arms she swayed before him, her golden head lolling wantonly, her scintillant eyes shadowed beneath long silken lashes. Am I not beautiful, man?

      Like Dawn running naked on the snows, he muttered, his eyes burning like those of a wolf.

      Then why do you not rise and follow me? Who is the strong warrior who falls down before me? she chanted in maddening mockery. Lie down and die in the snow with the other fools, Amra of the black hair. You can not follow where I would lead.

      With an oath the man heaved himself upon his feet, his blue eyes blazing his dark scarred face convulsed. Rage shook his soul, but desire for the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples and drove his wild blood riotously through his veins. Passion fierce as physical agony flooded his whole being so that earth and sky swam red to his dizzy gaze, and weariness and faintness were swept from him in madness.

      He spoke no word as he drove at her fingers hooked like talons. With a shriek of laughter she leaped back and ran, laughing at him over her white shoulder. With a low growl Amra followed. He had forgotten the fight, forgotten the mailed warriors who lay in their blood, forgotten Niord’s belated reavers. He had thought only for the slender white shape which seemed to float rather than run before him.

      Out across the white blinding plain she led him. The trampled red field fell out of sight behind him, but still Amra kept on with the silent tenacity of his race. His mailed feet broke through the frozen crust; he sank deep in the drifts and forged through them by sheer strength. But the girl danced across the snow as light as a feather floating across a pool; her naked feet scarcely left their imprint on the hoar-frost. In spite of the fire in his veins, the cold bit through the warrior’s mail and furs; but the girl in her gossamer veil ran as lightly and as gaily as if she danced through the palms and rose gardens of Poitain.

      Black curses drooled through the warrior’s parched lips. The great veins swelled and throbbed in his temples, and his teeth gnashed spasmodically.

      You can not escape me! he roared. Lead me into a trap and I’ll pile the heads of your kinsmen at your feet. Hide from me and I’ll tear apart the mountains to find you! I’ll follow you to hell and beyond hell!

      Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from the warrior’s lips. Further and further into the wastes she led him, till he saw the wide plains give way to low hills, marching upward in broken ranges. Far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains, blue with the distance, or white with the eternal snows. Above these mountains shone the flaring rays of the borealis. They spread fan-wise into the sky, frosty blades of cold flaming light, changing in color, growing and brightening.

      Above him the skies glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams. The snow shone weirdly, now frosty blue, now icy crimson, now cold silver. Through a shimmering icy realm of enchantment Amra plunged doggedly onward, in a crystaline maze where the only reality was the white body dancing across the glittering snow beyond his reach—ever beyond his reach.

      Yet he did not wonder at the necromantic strangeness of it all, not even when two gigantic figures rose up to bar his way. The scales of their mail were white with hoar-frost; their helmets and their axes were sheathed in ice. Snow sprinkled their locks; in their beards were spikes of icicles; their eyes were cold as the lights that streamed above them.

      Brothers! cried the girl, dancing between them. Look who follows! I have brought you a man for the feasting! Take his heart that we may lay it smoking on our father’s board!

      The giants answered with roars like the grinding of ice-bergs on a frozen shore, and heaved up their shining axes as the maddened Akbitanan hurled himself upon them. A frosty blade flashed before his eyes, blinding him with its brightness, and he gave back a terrible stroke that sheared through his foe’s thigh. With a groan the victim fell, and at the instant Amra was dashed into the snow, his left shoulder numb from the blow of the survivor, from which the warrior’s mail had barely saved his life. Amra saw the remaining giant looming above him like a colossus carved of ice, etched against the glowing sky. The axe fell, to sink through the snow and deep into the frozen earth as Amra hurled himself aside and leaped to his feet. The giant roared and wrenched the axe-head free, but even as he did so, Amra’s sword sang down. The giant’s knees bent and he sank slowly into the snow which turned crimson with the blood that gushed from his half-severed neck.

      Amra wheeled, to see the girl standing a short distance away, staring in wide-eyed horror, all mockery gone from her face. He cried out fiercely and the blood-drops flew from his sword as his hand shook in the intensity of his passion.

      Call the rest of your brothers! he roared. Call the dogs! I’ll give their hearts to the wolves!

      With a cry of fright she turned and fled. She did not laugh now, nor mock him over her shoulder. She ran as for her life, and though he strained every nerve and thew, until his temples were like to burst and the snow swam red to his gaze, she drew away from him, dwindling in the witch-fire of the skies, until she was a figure no bigger than a child, then a dancing white flame on the snow, then a dim blur in the distance. But grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums, he reeled on, and he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame, and then she was running less than a hundred paces ahead of him, and slowly the space narrowed, foot by foot.

      She was running with effort now, her golden locks blowing free; he heard the quick panting of her breath, and saw a flash of fear in the look she cast over her alabaster shoulder. The grim endurance of the warrior had served him well. The speed ebbed from her flashing white legs; she reeled in her gait. In his untamed soul flamed up the fires of hell she had fanned so well. With an inhuman roar he closed in on her, just as she wheeled with a haunting cry and flung out her arms to fend him off.

      His sword fell into the snow as he crushed her to him. Her supple body bent backward as she fought with desperate frenzy in his iron arms. Her golden hair blew about his face, blinding him with its sheen; the feel of her slender figure twisting in his mailed arms drove him to blinder madness. His strong fingers sank deep into her smooth flesh, and that flesh was cold as ice. It was as if he embraced not a woman of human flesh and blood, but a woman of flaming ice. She writhed her golden head aside, striving to avoid the savage kisses that bruised her red lips.

      You are cold as the snows, he mumbled dazedly. I will warm you with the fire in my own blood—

      With a desperate wrench she twisted from his arms, leaving her single gossamer garment in his grasp. She sprang back and faced him, her golden locks in wild disarray, her white bosom heaving, her beautiful eyes blazing with terror. For an instant he stood frozen, awed by her terrible beauty as she posed naked against the snows.

      And in that instant she flung her arms toward the lights that glowed in the skies above her and cried out in a voice that rang in Amra’s ears for ever after:

      "Ymir! Oh, my father, save me!"

      Amra was leaping forward, arms spread to seize her, when with a crack like the breaking of an ice mountain, the whole skies leaped into icy fire. The girl’s ivory body was suddenly enveloped in a cold blue flame so blinding that the warrior threw up his hands to shield his eyes. A fleeting instant, skies and snowy hills were bathed in crackling white flames, blue darts of icy light, and frozen crimson fires. Then Amra staggered and cried out. The girl was gone. The glowing snow lay empty and bare; high above him the witch-lights flashed and played in a frosty sky gone mad and among the distant blue mountains there sounded a rolling thunder as of a gigantic war-chariot rushing behind steeds whose frantic hoofs struck lightning from the snows and echoes from the skies.

      Then suddenly the borealis, the snowy hills and the blazing heavens reeled drunkenly to Amra’s sight; thousands of fireballs burst with showers of sparks, and the sky itself became a titanic wheel which rained stars as it spun. Under his feet the snowy hills heaved up like a wave, and the Akbitanan crumpled into the snows to lie motionless.

      *

      In a cold dark universe, whose sun was extinguished eons ago, Amra felt the movement of life, alien and un-guessed. An earthquake had him in its grip and was shaking him to and fro, at the same time chafing his hands and feet until he yelled in pain and fury and groped for his sword.

      He’s coming to, Horsa, grunted a voice. Haste—we must rub the frost out of his limbs, if he’s ever to wield sword again.

      He won’t open his left hand, growled another, his voice indicating muscular strain. He’s clutching something—

      Amra opened his eyes and stared into the bearded faces that bent over him. He was surrounded by tall golden-haired warriors in mail and furs.

      Amra! You live!

      By Crom, Niord, gasped he, am I alive, or are we all dead and in Valhalla?

      We live, grunted the Aesir, busy over Amra’s half-frozen feet. We had to fight our way through an ambush, else we had come up with you before the battle was joined. The corpses were scarce cold when we came upon the field. We did not find you among the dead, so we followed your spoor. In Ymir’s name, Amra, why did you wander off into the wastes of the north? We have followed your tracks in the snow for hours. Had a blizzard come up and hidden them, we had never found you, by Ymir!

      Swear not so often by Ymir, muttered a warrior, glancing at the distant mountains. This is his land and the god bides among yonder mountains, the legends say.

      I followed a woman, Amra answered hazily. We met Bragi’s men in the plains. I know not how long we fought. I alone lived. I was dizzy and faint. The land lay like a dream before me. Only now do all things seem natural and familiar. The woman came and taunted me. She was beautiful as a frozen flame from hell. When I looked at her I was as one mad, and forgot all else in the world. I followed her. Did you not find her tracks. Or the giants in icy mail I slew?

      Niord shook his head.

      We found only your tracks in the snow, Amra.

      Then it may be I was mad, said Amra dazedly. Yet you yourself are no more real to me than was the golden haired witch who fled naked across the snows before me. Yet from my very hands she vanished in icy flame.

      He is delirious, whispered a warrior.

      Not so! cried an older man, whose eyes were wild and weird. It was Atali, the daughter of Ymir, the frost-giant! To fields of the dead she comes, and shows herself to the dying! Myself when a boy I saw her, when I lay half-slain on the bloody field of Wolraven. I saw her walk among the dead in the snows, her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair like a blinding flame in the moonlight. I lay and howled like a dying dog because I could not crawl after her. She lures men from stricken fields into the wastelands to be slain by her brothers, the ice-giants, who lay men’s red hearts smoking on Ymir’s board. Amra has seen Atali, the frost-giant’s daughter!

      Bah! grunted Horsa. Old Gorm’s mind was turned in his youth by a sword cut on the head. Amra was delirious with the fury of battle. Look how his helmet is dinted. Any of those blows might have addled his brain. It was an hallucination he followed into the wastes. He is from the south; what does he know of Atali?

      You speak truth, perhaps, muttered Amra. It was all strange and weird—by Crom!

      The Hohokam Dig

      by Theodore Pratt

      From where had these attacking Indians come? Out of a long forgotten and dim past? Had their medicine man seen the one supreme vision?

      At first they thought the attack was a joke. And then they realized the truth!

      At first

       the two scientists thought the Indian attack on them was a joke perpetrated by some of their friends. After all, modern Indians did not attack white men any more.

      Except that these did.

      George Arthbut and Sidney Hunt were both out of New York, on the staff of the Natural History Museum. George was an ethnologist who specialized in what could be reconstructed about the prehistoric Indians of North America, with emphasis on those of the Southwest. He was a tall, lean, gracious bald man in his early sixties.

      Sidney was an archeologist who was fascinated by the ruins of the same kind of ancient Indians. Medium-sized, with black hair that belied his sixty-five years, he and George made an excellent team, being the leaders in their field.

      They had come west on a particular bit of business this spring, trying to solve the largest question that remained about the old cliff dwellers and the prehistoric desert Indians, both of whom had deserted their villages and gone elsewhere for reasons that remained a mystery.

      One theory was that drought had driven them both away. Another theory ran to the effect that enemies wiped them out or made off with them as captives. Still another supposition, at least for the Hohokam desert people, the builders of Casa Grande whose impressive ruins still stood near Coolidge, had to do with their land giving out so they could no longer grow crops, forcing them to go elsewhere to find better soil.

      No one really knew. It was all pure guesswork.

      *

      The two scientists meant to spend the entire summer trying to solve this riddle for all time, concentrating on it to the exclusion of everything else. They drove west in a station wagon stuffed with equipment and tracking a U-Haul-It packed with more.

      George drove, on a road that was only two sand tracks across the wild empty desert between Casa Grande Monument and Tonto National Monument where cliff dwellers had lived. It was here, not far ahead, in new ruins that were being excavated, that they hoped to solve the secret of the exodus of the prehistoric Indians. The place was known as the Hohokam Dig.

      They topped a rise of ground and came to the site of the dig. Here the sand tracks ended right in the middle of long trenches dug out to reveal thick adobe walls. In the partially bared ruins the outline of a small village could be seen; the detailed excavation would be done this summer by workmen who would arrive from Phoenix and Tucson.

      George stopped their caravan and the two men got out, stretching their legs. They looked about, both more interested in the dig, now they were back at it, than setting up camp. They walked around, examining various parts of it, and the excitement of the promise of things to be discovered in the earth came to them. This summer we’ll learn the answer, Sidney predicted.

      With skeptical hope George replied, Maybe.

      It was early afternoon when they set up camp, getting out their tent from the U-Haul-It. They took out most of their gear, even setting up a portable TV set run on batteries brought along. They worked efficiently and rapidly, having done this many times before and having their equipment well organized from long experience. By the middle of the afternoon all was ready and they rested, sitting on folding chairs at a small table just outside the opening of their tent.

      Looking around at the dig Sidney remarked, Wouldn’t it be easy if we could talk to some of the people who once lived here?

      There’s a few questions I’d like to ask them, said George. I certainly wish we had some to talk with.

      He had no more than uttered this casual wish than there sounded, from all sides of where they sat, screeching whoops. The naked brown men who suddenly appeared seemed to materialize from right out of the excavations. As they yelled they raised their weapons. The air was filled, for an instant, with what looked like long arrows. Most of them whistled harmlessly past the two scientists, but one hit the side of the station wagon, making a resounding thump and leaving a deep dent, while two buried themselves in the wood of the U-Haul-It and remained there, quivering.

      George and Sidney, after the shock of their first surprise at this attack, leaped to their feet.

      The car! cried Sidney. Let’s get out of here!

      They both started to move. Then George stopped and grabbed Sidney’s arm. Wait!

      Wait? Sidney demanded. They’ll kill us!

      Look, advised George, indicating the red men who surrounded them; they now made no further move of attack.

      George gazed about. Oh, he said, you think somebody’s playing a joke on us?

      Could be, said George. He ran one hand over his bald head.

      Some dear friends, Sidney went on, resenting the scare that had been thrown into them, hired some Indians to pretend to attack us?

      Maybe Pimas, said George. He peered at the Indians, who now were jabbering among themselves and making lamenting sounds as they glanced about at the ruins of the ancient village. There were eighteen of them. They were clad in nothing more than a curious cloth of some kind run between their legs and up and over a cord about their waists, to form a short apron, front and back.

      Or Zunis, said Sidney.

      Maybe Maricopas, said George.

      Except, Sidney observed, none of them look like those kind of Indians. And those arrows they shot. He stared at the two sticking in the U-Haul-It. Those aren’t arrows, George—they’re atlatl lances!

      Yes, said George.

      Sidney breathed, They aren’t holding bows—they’ve got atlatls!

      No modern Indian of any kind, said George, uses an atlatl.

      Most of them wouldn’t even know what it was, Sidney agreed. They haven’t been used for hundreds of years; the only place you see them is in museums.

      An atlatl was the weapon which had replaced the stone axe in the stone age. It was a throwing stick consisting of two parts. One was the lance, a feathered shaft up to four feet long, tipped with a stone point. The two-foot flat stick that went with this had a slot in one end and two rawhide finger loops. The lance end was fitted in the slot to be thrown. The stick was an extension of the human arm to give the lance greater force. Some atlatls had small charm stones attached to them to give them extra weight and magic.

      Charm stones could be seen fastened to a few of the atlatls being held by the Indians now standing like bronze statues regarding them.

      George whispered, What do you make of it?

      It isn’t any joke, replied Sidney. He gazed tensely at the Indians. That’s all I’m sure of.

      Have you noticed their breechclouts?

      Sidney stared again. They aren’t modern clouts. George, they’re right out of Hohokam culture!

      They aren’t made of cloth, either. That’s plaited yucca fibre.

      Just like we’ve dug up many times. Only here . . .  George faltered. It’s being worn by—by I don’t know what.

      Look at their ornaments.

      Necklaces, made of pierced colored stones, hung about many of the brown necks. Shell bracelets were to be seen, and here and there a carved piece of turquoise appeared.

      Look at the Indian over there, George urged.

      Sidney looked to the side where George indicated, and croaked, It’s a girl!

      It was a girl indeed. She stood straight and magnificent in body completely bare except for the brief apron at her loins. Between her beautiful full copper breasts there hung a gleaming piece of turquoise carved in the shape of a coyote.

      At her side stood a tall young Indian with a handsome face set with great pride. On her other side was a wizened little old fellow with a wrinkled face and ribs corrugated like a saguaro.

      Sidney turned back and demanded, What do you make of this? Are we seeing things? Hopefully, he suggested, A mirage or sort of a mutual hallucination?

      In a considered, gauging tone George replied, They’re real.

      Real? cried Sidney. What do you mean, real?

      Real in a way. I mean, Sidney, these—I sound crazy to myself saying it—but I think these are—well, Sid, maybe they’re actual prehistoric Indians.

      Huh?

      Well, let’s put it this way: We asked for them and we got them.

      Sidney stared, shocked at George’s statement. You’re crazy, all right, he said. Hohokams in the middle of the Twentieth Century?

      I didn’t say they’re Hohokams, though they probably are, of the village here.

      You said they’re prehistoric, Sidney accused. He quavered, Just how could they be?

      Sid, you remember in our Indian studies, again and again, we meet the medicine man who has visions. Even modern ones have done things that are pretty impossible to explain. I believe they have spiritual powers beyond the capability of the white man. The prehistoric medicine men may have developed this power even more. I think the old man there is their medicine man.

      So? Sidney invited.

      I’m just supposing now, mind you, George went on. He rubbed his bald pate again as though afraid of what thoughts were taking place under it. Maybe way back—a good many hundreds of years ago—this medicine man decided to have a vision of the future. And it worked. And here he is now with some of his people.

      Wait a minute, Sidney objected. So he had this vision and transported these people to this moment in time. But if it was hundreds of years ago they’re already dead, been dead for a long time, so how could they—

      Don’t you see, Sid? They can be dead, but their appearance in the future—for them—couldn’t occur until now because it’s happened with us and we weren’t living and didn’t come along here at the right time until this minute.

      Sidney swallowed. Maybe, he muttered, maybe.

      Another thing, George said. If we can talk with them we can learn everything we’ve tried to know in all our work and solve in a minute what we’re ready to spend the whole summer, even years, digging for.

      Sidney brightened. That’s what we wanted to do.

      George studied the Indians again. I think they’re just as surprised as we are. When they discovered themselves here and saw us—and you must remember we’re the first white men they’ve ever seen—their immediate instinct was to attack. Now that we don’t fight back they’re waiting for us to make a move.

      What do we do?

      Take it easy, advised George. Don’t look scared and don’t look belligerent. Look friendly and hope some of the modern Indian dialects we know can make connection with them.

      *

      The two scientists began, at a gradual pace, to make their way toward the old man, the young man, and the girl. As they approached, the girl drew back slightly. The young man reached over his shoulder and from the furred quiver slung on his back drew an atlatl lance and fitted it to his throwing stick, holding it ready. The other warriors, all about, followed suit.

      The medicine man alone stepped forward. He held up a short colored stick to which bright feathers were attached and shook it at the two white men. They stopped.

      That’s his aspergill, observed Sidney. I’d like to have that one.

      The medicine man spoke. At first the scientists were puzzled, then George told Sidney, That’s Pima, or pretty close to it, just pronounced differently. It probably shows we were right in thinking the Pimas descended from these people. He wants to know who we are.

      George gave their names. The medicine man replied, The man who has white skin instead of red speaks our language in a strange way. I am Huk. He turned to the young man at his side and said, This is Good Fox, our young chief. He indicated the girl. That is Moon Water, his wife.

      George explained what he and the other white man with him were doing here. Huk, along with all the other Indians, including Good Fox and Moon Water, listened intently; they seemed greatly excited and disturbed.

      When George was finished Good Fox turned to Huk and said, You have succeeded, wise one, in bringing us forward, far in the future to the time of these men with white skins.

      This is the truth, said the wrinkled Huk; he did not boast but rather seemed awed.

      Moon Water spoke in a frightened tone. She looked about at the partially excavated ruins and asked, But what has happened to our village? She faltered, Is this the way it will look in the future?

      It is the way, Good Fox informed her sorrowfully.

      I weep for our people, she said. I do not want to see it. She hung her pretty face over her bare body, then, in a moment, raised it resolutely.

      Good Fox shook the long scraggly black hair away from his eyes and told the white men, We did not mean to harm you. We did not know what else to do upon finding you here and our village buried.

      Ignoring that in his excited interest, Sidney asked, What year are you?

      Year? asked Good Fox. What is this word?

      Both Sidney and George tried to get over to him what year meant in regard to a date in history, but Good Fox, Huk, and Moon Water, and none of the others could understand.

      We do not know what you mean, Huk said. We know only that we live here in this village—not as you see it now—but one well built and alive with our people. As the medicine man I am known to have extra power and magic in visions. Often I have wondered what life would be like in the far future. With this group I conjured up a vision of it, carrying them and myself to what is now here before us.

      George and Sidney glanced at each other. George’s lips twitched and those of Sidney trembled. George said softly to the Indians, Let us be friends. He explained to them what they were doing here. We are trying to find out what you were—are—like. Especially what made you desert people leave your villages.

      They looked blank. Huk said, But we have not left—except in this vision.

      In an aside to George, Sidney said, That means we’ve caught them before they went south or wherever they went. He turned back to Huk. Have the cliff people yet deserted their dwellings?

      Huk nodded solemnly. They have gone. Some of them have joined us here, and more have gone to other villages.

      We have read that into the remains of your people, especially at Casa Grande, Sidney told him. With rising excitement in his voice he asked, Can you tell us why they left?

      Huk nodded. This I can do.

      Now the glance of Sidney and George at each other was quick, their eyes lighting.

      I’ll take it down on the typewriter, Sidney said. Think of it! Now we’ll know.

      He led Huk to the table set in front of the tent, where he brought out a portable typewriter and opened and set it up. He sat on one chair, and Huk, gingerly holding his aspergill before him as though to protect himself, sat on the other.

      Good Fox, Moon Water and the other Indians crowded about, curious to see the machine that came alive under Sidney’s fingers as Huk began to relate his story. Soon their interest wandered in favor of other things about the two men with white skin. They wanted to know about the machine with four legs.

      George opened up the hood of the station wagon and showed them the engine. He sat in the car and started the motor. At the noise the Indians jumped back, alarmed, and reaching for their atlatls. Moon Water approached the rear end of the car. Her pretty nose wrinkled at the fumes coming from it and she choked, drawing back in disgust. It is trying to kill me, she said.

      Clearly, she did not approve of an automobile.

      George cut off its engine.

      Over Good Fox’s shoulder hung a small clay water jug hung in a plaited yucca net. George asked for a drink from it and when he tasted it and found it fresh it was wondrous to him that its water was hundreds of years old. He brought out a thermos, showing the Indians the modern version of carrying water. They tasted of its contents and exclaimed at its coolness. Good Fox held the thermos, admiring it.

      Would you like to have it? asked George.

      You would give it to me? the handsome young Indian asked.

      It’s yours.

      Then I give you mine. He gave George his clay water jug and could not know how much more valuable it was than the thermos.

      George then took them to the portable television set and turned it on. When faces, music, and words appeared the Indians jerked back, then jabbered and gathered closer to watch. A girl singer, clad in a gown that came up to her neck, caused Moon Water to inquire, Why does she hide herself? Is she ashamed?

      The standards of modesty, George reflected as he glanced at the lovely nude form of the prehistoric Indian girl, change with the ages.

      Of the people and noises on the TV screen Good Fox wanted to know quite solemnly, Are these crazy people? Is it the way you treat your people who go crazy?

      George laughed. You might say it’s something like that.

      A shout came from Sidney at the card table near the tent where he was taking down Huk’s story. George! He’s just told me why the cliff people left! And why the desert people will have to leave in time. It’s a reason we never thought of! It’s because—

      Just then a big multi-engined plane came over, drowning out his words. The Indians stared skyward, now in great alarm. They looked about for a place to run and hide, but there was none. They held their hands over their ears and glanced fearfully at the TV which now spluttered, its picture and sound thrown off by the plane. Awesomely, they waited until the plane went over.

      We fly now in machines with wings, George explained.

      To make such a noise in the air, Moon Water said, is wicked, destroying all peace.

      I’ll agree with you there, said George.

      You have this, Good Fox observed, indicating the TV, which was now back to normal, and you send the other through the sky to make it crazier than before. He shook his head, not comprehending.

      George shut off the TV. He took up a camera of the kind that automatically finishes a picture in a minute’s time. Grouping Good Fox, Moon Water and the other warriors, he took their picture, waited, then pulled it out and showed it to them.

      They cried out, one man shouting in fear, It is great magic!

      George took a number of photographs, including several of Huk as he sat talking with Sidney. No matter what happened he would have this record as Sidney would have that he was taking down on the typewriter.

      Next he showed them a pair of binoculars, teaching them how to look through them. They exclaimed and Good Fox said, With this we could see our enemies before they see us.

      You have enemies? George asked.

      The Apache, Good Fox said fiercely.

      George handed him the binoculars. It is yours to use against the Apache.

      Solemnly the young chief answered, The man with white skin is thanked. The red man gives in return his atlatl and lances. He held out his throwing stick and unslung his quiver of lances. George accepted them with thanks; they would be museum pieces.

      Finally George showed them a rifle. He looked about for game and after some searching saw a rabbit sitting on a mound in the excavations. As he took aim Good Fox asked, You would hunt it with your stick?

      George nodded.

      This cannot be done from here, stated one warrior.

      George squeezed the trigger. Instantaneously with the explosion of the shell the rabbit jumped high and then came down, limp and dead. The Indians yelled with fright and ran off in all directions. Huk jumped up from the table. Then all stopped and cautiously returned. One went to the rabbit and picked it up, bringing it back. All, including Huk who left the table, stared with fright at it and at the rifle.

      Moon Water expressed their opinion of it. The thunder of the killing stick is evil.

      Moon Water speaks the truth, said Huk.

      It would make hunting easy, said Good Fox, but we do not want it even if given to us.

      He drew back from the rifle, and the others edged away from it.

      George put it down.

      Sidney held up a sheaf of papers. I’ve got it all, George, he said exultantly in English, right here! I asked Huk if they can stay with us in our time, at least for a while. We can study them more, maybe even take them back to show the world.

      What did he say?

      He didn’t have a chance to reply when you shot the rifle.

      George put it formally to the Indians, addressing Huk, Good Fox, Moon Water and the rest. You have seen something of the modern world. We would like you to stay in it if it is your wish. I don’t know how long you could stay in Huk’s vision, but if you can remain here permanently and not go back to your time and—well, not being alive there any more—we hope you will consider this.

      Huk replied, It is possible that we could stay in your time, at least as long as my vision lasts, which might be for as long as I lived. He glanced at Good Fox.

      The young chief in turn looked at Moon Water. Her gaze went to the station wagon, to the TV, then up at the sky where the plane had appeared, at the rifle, the camera, the thermos, and all else of the white man. She seemed to weigh their values and disadvantages, looking dubious and doubtful.

      Good Fox announced, We will hold a council about it. As is our custom, all have words to say about such a thing.

      Abruptly he led his people away, into the excavations and over a slight rise of ground, behind which they disappeared.

      Sidney murmured, I don’t like that so much.

      They must do as they want. George led the way to the card table and they sat there. On it rested Huk’s aspergill.

      He gave it to me, Sidney explained.

      George placed Good Fox’s netted clay water jug and his atlatl and furred quiver of lances on the table, together with the pictures he had taken of the ancient Indians. They waited.

      Sidney, glancing at the low hill behind which the Indians had gone, said, What they’re doing is choosing between living in modern civilization and remaining dead. What do you think they’ll do?

      I don’t know, said George. They didn’t think so much of us.

      But they couldn’t choose death and complete oblivion!

      We’ll see.

      They waited some more.

      At least, said Sidney, indicating the articles on the table, we’ll have these for evidence. He held up the sheaf of papers containing Huk’s story. And this, giving the real reason the cliff dwellers left. I haven’t told you what it was, George. It’s so simple that—

      He didn’t complete his sentence, for just then Huk, Good Fox, Moon Water, and the other warriors made their choice. It was announced dramatically.

      The water jug, the aspergill, and the atlatl and quiver of lances disappeared from the table. In their places, suddenly, there were the thermos and the binoculars.

      Sidney stared stupidly at them.

      George said quietly, They’ve gone back.

      But they can’t do this! George protested.

      They have.

      Sidney’s hand shook as he picked up the sheaf of papers holding Huk’s story. Indicating it and the photographs, he said, Well, they haven’t taken these away.

      Haven’t they? asked George. He picked up some of the pictures. Look.

      Sidney looked and saw that the pictures were now blank. His glance went quickly to the typewritten sheets of paper in his hands. He cried out and then shuffled them frantically.

      They, too, were blank.

      Sidney jumped up. I don’t care! he exclaimed. He told me and I’ve got it here! He pointed to his head. I can remember it, anyway.

      Can you? asked George.

      Why, certainly I can, Sidney asserted confidently. The reason the cliff dwellers left, George, was that they . . .  Sidney stopped.

      What’s the matter, Sid?

      Well, I—it—I guess it just slipped my mind for a second. His brow puckered. He looked acutely upset and mystified. Huk told me, he faltered. Just a minute ago I was thinking of it when I started to tell you. Now . . . I can’t remember.

      That’s gone, too.

      I’ll get it! Sidney declared. I’ve just forgotten it for a minute. I’ll remember!

      No, said George, you won’t.

      Sidney looked around. There must be something left. He thought. The atlatl lances they shot at us! He looked at the U-Haul-It. The lances no longer stuck in its side. Nor were those that had fallen to the ground to be seen.

      Sidney sat down again, heavily. We had it all, he moaned. Everything we’d been working for. And now . . . 

      Now we’ll have to dig for it again, said George. Do it the hard way. We’ll start tomorrow when the workmen come.

      Sidney looked up. There’s one thing! he cried. The dent in the car made by the lance! It’s still there, George! However everything else worked, that was forgotten. It’s still there!

      George glanced at the dent in the side panel of the station wagon. It’s still there, he agreed. But only to tell us this wasn’t a dream. No one else would believe it wasn’t caused by a rock.

      George groaned. He stared at the rise of ground behind which the Indians had disappeared. Huk, he pleaded. Good Fox. Moon Water. The others. Come back, come back . . . 

      No one appeared over the rise of ground as the cool desert night began to close in.

      Operation Earthworm

      by Joe Archibald

      Here he is again, the irrepressible Septimus Spink, in a tale as rollicking as an elder giant juggling the stars and the planets in his great, golden hands and laughing mirthfully as one tiny world—our own—goes spinning away from him into caverns measureless to man. With specifications drawn to scale, Joe Archibald, whose versatility with the quill never ceases to amaze us, has managed with slangy insouciance to achieve a rare triumph over space and time, and to aureole Spink in a resplendent sunburst of imperishable renown.

      Septimus Spink didn’t need to read Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth. He had more amazing ideas of his own.

      Interplanetary Press, Circa 2022—Septimus Spink, the first Earthman to reach and return from New Mu in a flying saucer, threw a hydroactive bombshell into the meeting of the leading cosmogonists at the University of Cincinnatus

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1