The Technicolor Time Machine

“It sounds all right,” Barney agreed. “But aren’t you forgetting that we still have a movie to make? I want Gino and his camera on the hill there, overlooking the whole thing. And I should have another camera, hand held maybe, inside the stockade to film them when they come up.” He ran through the possible second cameramen and arrived at the inevitable, though depressing, conclusion that he was the only qualified one available. “I guess I’ll have to go in with Ottar and his crowd.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Dallas said, and watched thoughtfully for a moment while the musicians fled back the way they had come. “Gino and his camera go in the back of the truck. The truck will be on the hill and it will have a driver. Since the truck is between the beach and the camp, Tex can ride shotgun on it—and he’s in charge. When he says pull back, they pull back. I’ll come with you into the stockade.”

“Good, it sounds good, let’s go.”

The forward movement of the boats slowed as more and more of them appeared, as though they were massing for an attack. Whatever the reason, it gave the people onshore time to set up their defenses. Once the movie people were organized to Dallas’s satisfaction, he and Barney climbed into the six-by and bumped down the hill to the Viking camp. Dallas wore his pistol, had a submachine gun and bandoleers of ammunition slung over his shoulders, and unloaded some heavy and sinister metal boxes. They were the last ones inside the walls, and the big double gate, with the long wooden bar to lock it, was closed behind them. From the firing step Barney could see the truck back into position on the crest of the hill above.

“What makes the noise?” Ottar asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Barney told him. “Here they come!”

There was a ripple of motion that spread across the bay as the skin boats started in.

Barney rested the 35-mm camera against the top of the log stockade and panned across the line of advancing boats. Sunlight slashed down through an opening in the clouds and glinted from the spray and the chopping blades of the countless paddles. It was a grim, steady advance, and the blackness of the boats and the clothing of the men gave them the uniform of an army of darkness. The outlandish and frightening noise grew louder as the boats approached, and Barney clutched the camera and kept shooting, glad of the task that kept him busy. He had the feeling that if it hadn’t been for that he would have turned tail and run.

“I’ve heard that noise before,” Dallas said. “The same kind of humming whistle, only not so loud.”

“Do you remember where?” Barney asked, zooming the lens in for a close-up of one of the leading boats. It was very close.

“Sure, Australia. They have these natives there, what they call Abos, and a witch doctor was spinning this stick around his head on the end of a piece of string so it made the noise.”

“A bullroarer, of course. A lot of primitive tribes use them and they are supposed to have magical qualities. I’m beginning to see why, with a sound like that. There must be an Indian in each boat who is spinning one.”

“I have magic here to fix their magic,” Ottar said, whirling his ax over his head.

“Don’t look for trouble,” Barney said. “We have to avoid a fight if we can.”

“What?” Ottar shouted, shocked to the bottom of his Viking spirit. “They want fight—we fight. No cowards here.” He glared at Barney, daring him to answer.

“They’re landing,” Dallas said, stepping between the two men.

Any doubt about the peaceful nature of the visit had now vanished. As each boat landed the occupants dragged it up onto the shore and took out spears, bows, and soft quivers of stubby, stone-headed arrows. Barney concentrated on close-ups, Gino would be filming the entire action, and he could see the details of the weaponry in entirely too much detail.

“Ottar,” Dallas said, “tell your people to get under cover and keep their heads down.”

Ottar grumbled but issued the order. The Viking personality did not adjust easily to the concept of defense, but it was not completely suicidal. The defenders inside the walls were outnumbered at least twenty to one and even the combative northmen were forced to respect the odds. The first arrows hummed by and a spear thudded into the wood just below the camera. Barney dropped down and pushed the lens through a chink between two logs. It limited his field of vision—but was a good deal healthier.

“Coward weapons,” Ottar muttered. “Cowards. No way to fight.” He rattled his ax angrily against his shield. The Vikings scorned the use of the bow and arrow and believed only in the value of shock tactics and hand-to-hand fighting.