and the Italian campaign, and I was ready to go into Germany when I happened to stop a bullet. I'll tell you one thing, and you should never forget it. Whenever the Army has you guarding something, there'll be no trouble."

"I don't get you," Neil said.

Rusty leaned closer and said, "It's simple, kid. Wherever there's no guard, that's where the trouble pops. I'll let you in on a secret. This guard business is all a hoax, Neil. It's just a plan to make sure that no self-respectin' dogface gets a good night's sleep, that's all."

Rusty began chuckling, and Neil joined him. "Come down to have another look at her?" Rusty asked.

Neil nodded. "I feel kind of funny," he admitted. "I mean about. . . well ..."

Rusty spit into the sand again. "You mean about going along on the trip?"

"Yes," Neil admitted. "I still don't think it's exactly right."

"Forget it," Rusty said. "You'll have the time of your life, believe me. There's nothing like overseas duty."

Neil's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark now, and he saw that Rusty was smiling again. Rusty was a short, squat private first-class with a shock of red hair that always hung in an unruly manner over his forehead. He had a broad nose that seemed to have been squashed into his face and then peppered with freckles. His grin was a quick, infectious one, and Neil could never be with him without feeling in good spirits.

That was one of the reasons he'd come down to the enclosure tonight. He'd begun thinking about the time trip again, and feeling a little blue. He knew he'd find Rusty here, with his disheveled uniform and his highly polished rifle. Neil could never figure out why the same man would keep his clothes so dirty and his rifle so clean. But each was an integral part of Rusty's makeup, and Neil had come to like the soldier a lot. In a way, he almost wished that Rusty were going on the trip tomorrow.

Tomorrow!

Again, the same half-thrilling, half-frightening tingle shot up Neil's spine. He, Neil Falsen, was leaving in the time machine tomorrow; leaving for Yucatan and the land of the ancient Maya, in search of a god.

"May I go inside and look at her?" he asked Rusty.

"Sure, kid," Rusty said. "But you're gonna wear the old lady out with your staring."

He chuckled again and unlocked the gate leading to the inside of the enclosure. He wheeled the gate back and, when Neil stepped through, he closed it again, leaving the padlock hanging open.

The time machine rested on a platform high above the ground. It looked clean, and shining, and unused. The moon perched above it, a thin crescent in an ebony-black sky.

It looks like an hourglass, Neil thought.

The machine was at least twenty-five feet high, a beautifully tooled work of aluminum and plastic. The control room was in the exact center of the ship, an aluminum band that seemed to squeeze the plastic bubbles above and below into a constricting wasp waist. Exactly like an hourglass, the bubbles above and below arced away from the tight band of aluminum. The lower compartment contained the fuel tanks, aluminum containers set against the circular, plastic walls of the machine. A hatchway stood in the center of the lower bubble and, to the right of this and on the inside, was a thin aluminum ladder leading to the control room.

Above the control room, and housed in the upper plastic bubble, was a shaft that led to the twin rotors at the top of the machine. The rotors were exactly like those on a helicopter, and Neil knew they would handle the space-travel angle of the machine's operation.

The time-travel angle, and here Neil's own heart skipped a beat at the thought, had its heart in the control room, in the temporium crystal that lay covered by sheets of aluminum in the control panel.

Tomorrow, III be whirling through time. Me, Neil Falsen,

It was funny the way things happened suddenly. Everything would be going along just as it always had, with the University quiet and complacent on the desert sands, and the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing, and everything normal, everything just the way it always was, day after day. And then, bango! and the whole world could go topsy-turvy, just like that, just like snapping your fingers and pulling a rabbit out of a silk hat.

Only, this was more than topsy-turvy. This was unimaginable, absurd, fantastic.

Neil tried to remember the events that had led up to this very moment.

Yesterday had started out to be another normal day, yes. He had eaten his breakfast, and was heading over to the ball lot to see if any of the guys were around.

That's when it had happened. Or at least, that's when it had started. His mother had caught him just as he was leaving the house.

"Neil," she said, "Dad wants to see you a minute."

Neil's face had expressed reluctance. "I'm pitching, Mom," he said. "Does Dad know that?"

"It'll only take a minute," Mrs. Falsen assured him.

"Oh-h-h, all right," Neil grunted.

He took the steps up to his father's room two at a time, the ball glove still on his left hand. He knocked on the door softly, and his father's voice answered.

"Come in, Neil."

Neil opened the door and stepped into the room. Doctor Falsen lay propped against the soft, white pillows on his bed. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw Neil, and he moved his head off the pillows and leaned forward slightly. He shook his head sadly, the black locks of his hair jumping with the movement. Doctor Peter Falsen had a long, angular face, with Neil's fine nose and deep blue eyes. His chin was covered with an immaculate black beard that covered the jut of his jaw and no more.

His leg stood out at an acute angle from his body. It was in a heavy plaster cast, and it hung suspended from the ceiling by a network of complicated strings and pulleys.

"This darned leg," Doctor Falsen said, his head still wagging. "You know, Neil, it's beginning to itch. Itch, mind you." He opened his eyes in disbelief.

Neil grinned at his father and came straight to the point.

"I hope this isn't important, Dad. I'm pitching and I-"

"Well, I don't know if you'd call it important," Doctor Falsen said.

"Good," Neil replied, socking his right hand into the glove. "What's on your mind, Dad?"

"Well, nothing much really. I just wanted you to go along on the time trip. In my place."

Neil's hand was poised, ready to sock into the glove again. It stopped suddenly, and his eyes opened wide while his jaw fell open.

"What!"

Doctor Falsen assumed the air of a man who had just said, "A nice day today, isn't it?" He looked at Neil in mock puzzlement and said, "The time trip, Neil. I'd like you to go in my place."

Neil's astonishment wore off, and he looked at his father suspiciously. "Do you feel all right, Dad?" he asked. "Shall I get Mother?"

Doctor Falsen continued as if he hadn't even heard Neil.

"It's this way, son. The other men are anxious to get started. Heaven only knows when this leg of mine will be healed. It's not fair of me to hold them up any longer/'

"Not fair?" Neil repeated blankly.

It seemed to be the only thing he could think of

saying.

"Of course not," Doctor Falsen went on. "I finally convinced them to leave without me. Arthur Blake, that stubborn old fool, held out to the last. But I threatened to club him with my plaster cast if he didn't listen to reason."

Doctor Falsen began chuckling while Neil swallowed the lump in his throat.

"But . . . but . . ." he stammered, "that's impossible. I mean, it's your time machine."

Doctor Falsen shook his head. "No, Neil, it is not my time machine. It is the University's. They supplied the money that made the machine a reality. Without their grants, it would still be on the drawing board."

"But you invented it!" Neil protested.

"Let us say, I had a part in inventing it. We mustn't forget the brilliant work Dave Saunders did."

Neil fell silent for a moment. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.

Then, suddenly, he said, "I won't go."

"But why not?" his father asked.

"Because it's not fair. You do all the work on the machine and then, because of a lousy accident, I take your place. No, sir, not for me!"

"Don't you want to go?" Doctor Falsen asked slyly.

"I'd love—" Neil started, stopping himself before it was too late. "No, no, I don't want to go."

"Why not?"

"First of all, I don't know anything about Yucatan. I don't even know why you're going there."

"You don't have to know anything about Yucatan," Doctor Falsen said. "Doctor Manning is an archaeologist, and Arthur Blake is a historian. They'll take care of that end."

"Nope," Neil said. "I'm not interested."

"They're going to look for a god, you know," Doctor Falsen said.

"I'm still not—" Neil paused. "Look for a what?" "A god." "That's silly."

"It may be, true. But they're going to try to find the Feathered Serpent."

"What kind of a snake is that?" Neil asked.

"It's not a snake," Doctor Falsen replied, laughing softly. "It's the god they're looking for. Kukulcan, he was called."

"I'm not sure I understand," Neil said, beginning to get interested in spite of his resolve.

"You've probably heard of Quetzalcoatl. He was a man who lived in the thirteenth century, a man who greatly influenced the history of the whole of Central America."

"Yes," Neil said, "I've heard of him."

"Quetzalcoatl was the Mexican name for this man. The Mayas called him Kukulcan. The name means practically the same in both languages, you see. In Mexican, it's 'Quetzal-bird-serpent,' in Maya, 'feathered serpent.'"

"Well, if you know all about this Kukulcan, why are you going to look for him?" Neil asked.

"We do know a great deal about this thirteenthcentury man named Kukulcan," Doctor Falsen admitted. "But we're not going back through time to find him" "Who then?"

"The thirteenth-century man was named after the Feathered-Serpent god. We are looking for the original Kukulcan, the god the man was named after."

"Then there are two Kukulcans," Neil said.

"Exactly. One was a man. The other—who knows?" Here Doctor Falsen spread his hands wide, palms upward.

"What do you mean?" Neil asked.

"We don't know," Doctor Falsen said. "Was the original Kukulcan a man too? Or was he nonexistent, a story that simply grew into a legend? Or was he a combination of men? We just don't know."

"And that's the reason for the time trip?"

"Yes. The University granted me the money to finish my time experiments on condition that the first trip be made to Yucatan, to find the Feathered-Serpent god. There's quite an archaeology department here, you know."

Neil considered this for a moment, and then asked, "How far back will you have to go? In time, I mean."

"Very far. Perhaps all the way back to a.d. 50."

Neil let a long, low whistle escape his lips.

"Perhaps farther," Doctor Falsen added. "You see, we have no way of knowing when the legend came into existence."

"It sounds exciting," Neil admitted. "But I couldn't go, Dad, really. I can think of a hundred reasons why."

"Name one," Doctor Falsen interrupted.

"Well—" Neil thought for a second and then said, "I'm too young. I'm only sixteen. That's much too young to be—"

"Nonsense. Besides, you'll be seventeen in two months."

"And Mother would worry if I'm a . . ."

"I'll take care of Mother. I've been taking care of her for twenty years now."

"And the ball team. I have to pitch for . . ."

"Bob Andrews can pitch. He's been dying for the chance all summer."

"And-"

"Yes?"

Neil suddenly ran to the bed and gripped his father's hand tightly. For a moment, their eyes met, and there was seriousness in both their faces.

"Do you really want me to go, Dad?"

"Yes, Neil. I'd consider it a great honor if you took my place."

"And the others. Doctor Manning and Mr. Blake? And Dave?"

"They've already agreed. In fact," and here Doctor Falsen grinned, "you're leaving the day after tomorrow."

And that was how a guy suddenly had the whole pattern of his life changed. For here it was the night before they were leaving! And there the machine stood, proud and strong in the light of the moon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!

"You'd better get some sleep, kid," Rusty's voice said from the gate. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"Yeah," Neil agreed. Rusty opened the gate, and Neil stepped through. "You'll be here when we leave, won't you, Rusty?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, kid," Rusty said, "Now go get some sleep."

"Good night," Neil said.

"Good night, kid."

Neil began walking toward the University, looking back at the machine only once.

Like an enormous hourglass, it stood poised against the blackness of the night, waiting.

The next day was clear and bright. The sky stretched for as far as the eye could see in a brilliant, almost-blinding sheet of blue.

The good-bys were over and done with. Neil's mother had kissed him and cried a little, and then she'd reminded him to change his underwear regularly. Neil's father had simply shook his hand, the way men do, and wished his son good luck.

And now Neil waited below while Dave Saunders warmed up the engine of the machine. He wore a linen shirt, open at the throat. His blond head was bare, and his skin against the brilliant white of the shirt was a gleaming bronze in the sun. He wore dungarees, rolled at the cuff, and a pair of solid leather boots.

Standing beside him was Arthur Blake, dressed in almost the same fashion. He was a small man, with a balding head and quick, intelligent eyes. Two shaggy black eyebrows sprawled over his eyes like elongated hyphens. His nose was sharp and thin, and he spoke in a soft voice.

"She's a beauty, isn't she, Neil?"

"She is," Neil agreed, staring in wonder at the plastic and aluminum dream that was his father's.

"Here's Doctor Manning now," Arthur Blake said.

Doctor Manning was at least six-feet-four. He had the square, muscular shoulders of a fullback, complete with a waist that rivaled that of the time machine's for its slenderness. His face seemed to have been chiseled out of hard granite, set with black coal for eyes. His jaw jutted out like the trapdoor on a gallows, and when he spoke, his voice boomed forth from his enormous barrel chest.

"Dave warming her up, I see," he said.

If anyone looked less like an archaeologist, Neil decided, it was Doctor Manning.

One of the portholes on the side of the control room opened and Dave's head popped out.

"Let's go, boys," he called cheerfully.

Doctor Manning and Arthur Blake started for the machine. Neil walked to where Rusty stood leaning on his rifle. He extended his hand.

"Good luck, kid," Rusty said.

"Thanks," Neil answered.

"Come back soon. I won't know what to do at night, not having that machine to guard."

Neil smiled and started for the ship. He climbed the ladder that was in place before the platform. The ladder was of the movable type to be found on any airfield, triangular shaped, with wheels under each leg.

As Neil climbed the ladder to the plastic hatchway in the lower bubble, his mind wandered back to what had happened less than a month ago on this very spot. His father, after inspecting the machine, had stepped through the hatchway and reached for the ladder with his foot. A negligent attendant had moved the ladder from the hatchway, and Doctor Falsen had tumbled fifteen feet to the ground below. If it hadn't been for that accident, Doctor Falsen would be climbing the steps now, rather than Neil.

Neil reached the hatchway and pulled up on the toggle that snapped it open. He climbed through and signaled to the attendant below to wheel the ladder away. Then he pulled the hatchway shut and peered through the plastic. A little way in the distance, the University spires stood out against the sky in dim silhouette. He could almost make out the little house on the campus in Faculty Row. Here, he knew, his mother was probably still crying, and his father would be trying to console her. He bit his lower lip and started for the aluminum ladder that led to the control room. The ladder was bolted securely to the aluminum floor of the plastic bubble, and it rose vertically to an opening in the floor of the control room. Neil climbed it, hand over hand, rung by rung, and poked his head into the control room.

"Hi," he called.

Dave Saunders looked up from the control panel. He was a young man, twenty-six at the most, with straight brown hair and large, warm brown eyes. He had a finely sculpted face with high cheekbones, and a sensitive, thin mouth. He would have been good-looking if it hadn't been for his nose. While an engineering student, Dave had been a member of the • college boxing squad. From what Doctor Falsen had told Neil, Dave was quite good. But he'd been unlucky in one bout, and he sported a broken nose as a result.

"Good," Dave said when he saw Neil. "We were waiting for you."

"Are we ready to go?"

"As ready as we'll ever be. Help me chase these two coots out of here, will you, Neil?"

"Let's go, Arthur," Doctor Manning said. "I can take a hint."

"Aren't you going to stay up here for the take-off?" Neil asked.

Dr. Manning shrugged his fullback's shoulders. "Only two people allowed in the control room, Neil."

"Well, if you want to stay—" Neil started.

"We'll go down below," Doctor Manning said. "I want to see what happens anyway. With all that clear plastic down there, it'd be a shame to stay cooped up here. Coming, Arthur?"

He started down the ladder, with Arthur Blake following close behind him.

"I'll give you a warning buzzer just before we take off," Dave said to the descending figures.

"All right," Arthur Blake answered as his head went below the floor level into the lower bubble.

Dave checked a few dials on the instrument panel and nodded his head.

"Everything seems okay so far. I'd better start the crystal working."

"The time crystal?" Neil asked.

"That's it, Neil," Dave said, smiling. "We're fancy, and we call it the temporium crystal. But time crystal will do."

He reached out to a switch on the panel and closed the circuit. A hum, low and steady, filled the machine. Behind it, and almost too faint to be heard, was a slight coughing sound. Dave's face clouded momentarily, and he studied the dials before him.

"That's strange," he said.

"What's the matter? Is anything wrong?"

Dave hesitated before answering. "No-o-o," he said slowly. "Not by the instruments anyway. Everything seems to be fine. I could have sworn I heard some rumbling when I threw on the generator, though."

"I heard something too," Neil admitted.

Dave shrugged. "Probably just warming up," he said. "We haven't used the machine since its test runs, you know." He checked his dials again. "Want to press that warning buzzer on your right, Neil?"

Neil looked over the instrument panel and found a large red button near the right-hand corner. He pressed it with his forefinger, and a loud buzz filled the machine.

"Ready, Neil?" Dave asked.

"Yes."

"Nervous?"

"A little."

"Don't be. Everything'U turn out fine. We'll be in Yucatan before you can say Kukulcan." "Here we go," Dave said.

He throttled the big machine and an ominous roar filled the aluminum chamber.

Slowly, steadily, like a giant elevator rising, the machine lifted from the platform.

"Easy as pie," Dave said, his mouth breaking into a wide grin. "Switch on the inter-com, Neil. We'll see how the boys in the cheaper seats are enjoying the ride."

Neil reached up to the speaker on the wall and snapped a toggle. A red light gleamed as the inter-com took on life.

Dave reached over and depressed the "Press-to-talk" lever.

"How is it down there, boys?" He released the lever. "Fine, just fine," Doctor Manning and Arthur Blake chorused.

Dave pressed the lever again and said, "We're clear of the platform now. I'm putting space travel up to top speed and I'm cutting in the crystal." He waited.

"I've been waiting to see this for a long time," Arthur Blake said.

"There won't be much to see, Art. It'll probably look kind of gray out there. Remember that night and day will be changing some thirty times a second."

"I'll enjoy it anyway," Arthur Blake replied.

"Well, here we go," Dave said. He moved away from the inter-com and snapped another switch on the instrument panel. A louder hum filled the machine, and Neil remembered what Dave had told him about the machine. At full speed, the machine u)as capable of traveling some three hundred years an hour. That meant five years a minute, a month every single second. Summer would become winter in just six seconds!

And, at the same time, the machine would be plowing forward in space at a speed of more than one hundred miles an hour. Of course, the machine was calibrated so that it would land in the right place at the right time.

"Neil," Dave said.

And that time and place would be Yucatan in A.d. 50 or perhaps later. It all depended on what they found when—

"Neil!" Dave's voice was sharp.

Instantly, Neil snapped out of his thoughts.

"What is it, Dave?"

"Something's wrong."

"What?"

"Something's wrong, I said."

"But, I don't understand. You said everything was—" Dave turned a worried face to Neil. His brown eyes were large against a pale face, and his nose somehow looked comical against the seriousness of his features.

There was nothing funny about what he said, though.

"I can't control the machine, Neil. I can't control it!"

Dave made an infuriated, helpless gesture. "Darn it, darn it, DARN IT!" he shouted.

"Easy, Dave. There must be some way out."

Quickly, Dave scrambled to his feet. "Give me a hand here, Neil," he said. "The only thing we can do is try to cut our time travel speed. If we can."

"What about our space travel?"

"Can t do a thing with it. It's stuck at top speed. One hundred and fifty miles an hour. And the worst part is I don't know where we're going."

Together, they grabbed a sticklike handle that jutted out of the instrument panel. "We've got to yank this as far down as she'll go, Neil. Ready?"

"Ready," Neil said tensely.

"Let's go then! Pull!"

Neil strained at the handle, pulling with all the strength in his arms. Beside him, Dave grunted and struggled with all his power.

"Pull, Neil, pull!"

"I'm . . . pulling."

"Harder."

The handle moved down a notch.

"More," Dave said through clenched teeth.

Slowly, reluctantly, the handle edged its way down another quarter of an inch. Neil felt all the strength in his body concentrate in his arms and shoulders. His neck muscles stood out taut as they struggled against his skin, seeming ready to burst through.

Again, the handle crept down a trifle.

Dave's labored voice reached Neil above the beating in his eardrums.

"A little . . . more . . . just a . . . little . . . more."

Neil braced himself and pulled, pulled harder than he'd ever done in his life. Sweat broke out on his face and neck, and his eyes seemed ready to pop. Still he tugged at the rebellious handle, his muscles straining against the tremendous power of the machine.

Dave suddenly let go. "Enough, Neil. Enough."

Neil relaxed his grip on the handle. His chest rose and fell laboriously as he took in great gulps of air. His arms felt dead, two limp, dangling, useless burdens hanging at his sides.

"We got her to half-speed," Dave said. "I don't think it'll go any farther."

Together they collapsed to the floor of the control room, neither speaking, both breathing hard.

From below, the voices of Arthur Blake and Doctor Manning chattered on excitedly.

Neil sighed deeply and said, "What now?"

Dave shrugged. He was lying on his back on the floor, one arm over his eyes. "I don't know, Neil," he said softly.

"Shouldn't we tell the others?"

"I don't think so. Not yet. There'll be plenty of time later. We'll have to see what happens first."

"What can happen?" Neil wanted to know.

"Anything," Dave said. "Anything."

Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the inter-com. He depressed the speaking lever and said, "How is it down there, boys?"

"Wonderful," Arthur Blake answered. "You should see the effects out here, Dave. Fantastic."

"Look," Dave said, "Neil and I are going to be doing a little calibrating up here for the next few hours. Think you two fellows can find enough to keep you busy down there?"

"Sure, sure," Arthur Blake said. "Just forget we're around."

"We'll buzz you when we're through," Dave said. He released the speaking lever and turned to face Neil. "Well," he sighed, "that takes care of them for a while."

"And what do we do now?" Neil wanted to know.

"We wait," Dave said simply, a defeated sadness in his brown eyes.

They waited. The machine hummed on, every two seconds carrying them a month into the past now that the controls were set at half-speed. And the machine moved geographically at a speed of one hundred and fifty miles an hour.

A sudden click echoed through the aluminum chamber.

"What's that?" Neil asked, jumping to his feet.

Dave's eyes scanned the instrument panel rapidly. Quickly, he ran to the emergency handle they'd used to cut the time speed of the machine. The handle had snapped up to the full-speed position again.

Dave looked at it mournfully. Then, suddenly, his face crumpled into a smile. "No use being grim, I guess. This old machine is just a stubborn cuss, that's all."

Together, he and Neil tried to force the handle down again. It wouldn't budge at all.

"Say," Doctor Manning's booming voice cut in over the inter-com, "how much longer will you two be up there? We're getting hungry."

Dave smiled and spoke into the inter-com. "A few hours yet. You fellows go ahead and eat. We'll have a bite up here."

"Can't you come down for a few minutes?" Doctor Manning complained.

"Impossible," Dave answered. "Go on and eat."

"Well, all right, if you say so."

The speaker went dead.

"We've got to stay up here," Dave explained. "There's no telling what might happpen."

They slumped against the aluminum wall of the ship again, exhausted, waiting for the worst.

After five hours of top-speed travel, it happened.

At first, it was just a low rumble in the generator. Dave jumped to his feet immediately. He rushed to the inter-com and threw the switch. "Attention, down there. Attention! There's going to be trouble. Adjust your safety belts immediately."

Doctor Manning's voice boomed into the control room. "Are you kidding us, Dave?"

The rumble in the generator grew louder. Spasmodically, the motor attached to the twin rotors began to cough.

"That's an order," Dave barked. "Adjust your safety belts at once!"

"Trouble, Dave?" Doctor Manning asked.

"Serious trouble," Dave snapped. "Stand by for a crash landing, Doc."

"Need any help up there?"

"Nope. Just adjust those safety belts and brace your . . ."

Suddenly, without warning, the machine began to tremble violently.

"Stand by," Dave barked into the speaker.

The floor began to pitch beneath Neil's feet. And then the machine began to spin crazily, round and round, over and over, like a mad plastic and aluminum pinwheel in the sky. Neil was smashed into the wall, his shoulder filling instantly with pain.

"We're losing altitude," Dave shouted above the roar of the throbbing generator and motor. He was lifted from his feet and sent scuttling across the floor. He bounced against the far wall, bounced off again, and was lifted into the air to crash with a sickening thud beside Neil. Neil staggered to his feet, clutching one of the wall lockers for support. The machine gave a final, frightening shudder and dropped like a stone. Neil's fingers were pried loose from the wall locker, and he was flung backward against the instrument panel.

Wave after wave of grayness folded in on Neil, engulfing him, growing grayer and grayer, and then black, and blacker, and then there was nothing but the aching throb in his shoulder and the terrible sound that burst in his ears.

The machine seemed to erupt into a thousand living skyrockets that screamed in Neil's head, shooting live sparks into every corner of his mind.

The hatchway from which the aluminum ladder led to the bubble below was now halfway up the wall on Neil's right instead of on the floor, where it should have been. And the wall was flat, rather than slightly curved.

I've gone crazy, Neil thought. I've surely blown my cork.

And then, like the first feeble rays of dawn, Neil understood what the trouble was. He sighed in relief as he realized the machine was lying on its side. He was actually standing on one of the walls. And now, instead of one bubble being below and the other above the control room, one bubble would be to the right and the other to the left of it.

Suddenly Neil remembered Dave!

Frantically, his eyes widened as he scanned the machine quickly. His eyes stopped on what appeared to be a crumpled bundle of rags lying in a corner of the machine.

"Dave!" he shouted, running across the room as fast as he could on the curved floor. "Dave!"

He dropped to his knees beside his fallen friend and lifted his head into his lap. Carefully, almost tenderly, he brushed the hair off Dave's forehead. A thin, pencil line of blood trickled from Dave's left temple, down the side of his face, spilling over his jaw.

Neil reached for the handkerchief in the back pocket of his dungarees, and wiped the blood from his friend's face.

Neil's fingers quickly sought Dave's wrist, and he let out a deep breath when he found a pulse there.

"Dave," he said, gently, "Dave, can you hear me?" The machine rolled under him, and he was aware of the roll but too occupied to interpret its meaning. "Dave."

Dave shook his head, almost as if he were scolding Neil for speaking. He shook it again, and his eyes suddenly popped open. He stared around the control room, a blank expression on his face.

"It's all right, Dave," Neil said, smiling.

Dave grinned then, and propped himself up on his elbows.

"Whew," he said, shaking his head again. "That'll teach me to cross streets against the lights, I guess." He grinned again and sat up. "You all right, Neil?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"A little shaken. Otherwise—" Dave cut himself short, and looked quickly at the hatchway leading to the lower compartment. "Where are the others?" he snapped, wide-awake now, suddenly alert. "I—I don't know. You were the first—" Dave was on his feet already and heading for the hatchway.

He was quick to understand the situation. "We're on our side, I see." He gripped the edge of the hatchway with his hands and pulled himself up. He dropped through on the other side and Neil scrambled after him.

Dave was standing stock-still beneath the aluminum ladder that now ran over their heads like a thin catwalk. Neil dropped down beside him, standing now on the plastic part of the bubble. He was surprised to see water beneath his feet, and outside through the clear plastic. Water, green, capped with white rolling breakers, stretching as far as he could see.

But Dave wasn't looking out at the water. His eyes were opened wide, two white saucers perched on either side of his crooked, comical nose. He was staring at the limp form of Doctor Manning, hanging from his safety belt on the plastic wall opposite him. Below Doctor Manning, a pool of bright red blood was forming on the floor. To his right, just above the line of the water outside, the plastic wall was slashed in a jagged line, a gaping hole staring out at the green, rolling ocean.

The plastic that should have filled the hole in the wall was splintered in several razor-like pieces. Some of these pieces lay on the floor beneath the dangling, athletic form of Doctor Manning.

Another piece of jagged plastic was imbedded deeply in Doctor Manning's neck.

Outside, the waves lapped against the sides of the machine like the swish of a brush against a starched shirt.

Crumpled against what had been the aluminum floor of the lower bubble, curved grotesquely, his neck slanting at a weird angle from his body, was old Arthur Blake. His eyes were open wide, staring out at the ocean. His mouth was open too.

Just above his head, in the aluminum, was the shape of his skull where it had undoubtedly crashed into the metal when the machine collided with the water.

Without a word, Dave crossed to the hanging body of Doctor Manning. He loosened the safety belt and lowered the doctor's body to the floor.

Neil knelt beside Arthur Blake and felt for his pulse. The old man was dead. Gently, he closed his eyelids and walked over to where Dave stood, looking through the plastic out at the ocean.

Neither said anything for several minutes.

Dave broke the silence, then.

"Let's give them a decent burial, Neil. They were swell guys."

They buried them at sea, Doctor Manning and Arthur Blake, an archaeologist and a historian. The sea quickly reached out with a green, rolling tongue and hungrily snatched up its offering.

A silent gloom seemed to descend upon the machine, and Dave and Neil listlessly went about their work, checking the damage, trying to estimate their position in time and space. The instrument panel was badly damaged, with splintered dials and twisted knobs.

One of the fuel tanks in the lower bubble had been punctured and gasoline now sloshed underfoot as they made their way back and forth.

Silently, they pried open the outer hatchway, which had luckily been above the water line when the ship crashed, and lifted themselves out to sit outside the machine, their legs dangling down through the hatchway.

Dave looked past the control room and the upper bubble to the rotors. One rotor was twisted completely out of shape, a bent, metallic pretzel dipping into the ocean whenever a wave rolled under the machine. The other rotor was in comparatively good condition, slightly bent at the tip, giving the illusion of a large golfing iron.

"It looks pretty bad," Dave said.

Neil didn't answer. His eyes were busily scanning the horizon. It spread around them, a gigantic circle of water, green and immense. Overhead, a few scattered clouds, bloated and lazy, drifted across the bright blue sky. The sun blazed down fiercely.

No land broke the clean line of sky meeting water. Nothing.

"Where do you suppose we are?" Neil asked. "Where and when, you mean." "First of all, where?" asked Neil. "Where: I don't know. I can only estimate." "What do you figure?"

"I can only judge by our speed," Dave said. "We were traveling at top speed, one hundred and fifty miles an hour. We were in the air for over five hours, which means we traveled approximately eight hundred or so miles."

"That's a long way," Neil said, thinking wistfully of the University.

"It's a lot longer than you think," Dave said. "The worst part is that I had no control of the machine. We could have traveled in any direction."

"Which means?"

"Which means we can be somewhere off the coast of Yucatan, or somewhere off the coast of Pensacola, or somewhere off the coast of Lower California in the

Pacific. We might even be in the middle of the Great Salt Lake."

"Isn't there any way of knowing?"

"I'm afraid not. And the same holds true for the time angle, although we can estimate a little more closely there. We were in the air for more than five hours, traveling at a time speed of three hundred years an hour, except for the few minutes we were at half-speed."

"That would put us somewhere around . .. a.d. 400, wouldn't it?"

"Approximately. I'd give or take a few centuries and say somewhere between a.d. 100 and 600." Neil whistled softly. "Some fun, eh, kid?" Dave asked. "Yeah, yeah, some fun."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, the sound of the waves whispering around the machine.

"What's our next move?" Neil asked.

"An excellent question," Dave said, assuming the pose of a college professor, one finger placed meditatively beside his temple. "An ex-cellent question."

"And the answer?"

"Several answers," Dave said. "First, we find land. Second, we start to fix the mach—" "How do we find land?"

"Another good question. How do we find land?" Dave became serious. "I don't know, Neil. I really don't. We'd better find it fast, though. This machine won't float forever."

"I hadn't even thought of sinking," Neil said.

"Our food'll last about two weeks," Dave said. "But the machine won't float that long, as light as it is. And if we should hit a storm—"

Dave stopped and watched Neil's face. Neil's mouth had dropped open, and his eyes now were large and bright against the copper of his skin. He was staring over Dave's shoulder, looking out at the horizon.

Quickly, Dave's head snapped over his shoulder, and he followed Neil's intent stare. "What is it, kid?"

Neil pointed, his hand on Dave's shoulder. "There! Look. On the horizon."

"I don't see anything. Is it land?"

"No, no, look. It's a sail. A sail, Dave!"

"Where? I don't see any—yes, I see it. It's a sail, Neil. By jumping Jupiter, it's a sail."

"And heading this way, Dave. See, it's heading toward us."

A look at Dave's face cooled Neil's enthusiasm.

"What's the matter, Dave? That's a sail out there. A ship! Don't you understand? We'll be rescued."

"There's one catch," Dave said, his voice low and serious.

"Catch? What can possibly be wrong with a—?"

"I don't know a heck of a lot about the Mayas, Neil," Dave hurried on, "and I sure wish the Doc or Art were here to back me up on this. I'm not even sure we're near Yucatan, or that we're in the time I estimated."

"I don't get it. What's all that got to do with—?"

"Just this. If we are sometime between a.d. 100 and 600, and if we are near Yucatan, there shouldn't be a sail in these waters."

"But, why not?"

"Because the sail is unknown to the Mayas. That's why."

Neil considered this briefly. "Well, that's simple, Dave. We just aren't near Yucatan."

Dave's eyes flicked again toward the horizon and the approaching sail.

"That's what bothers me. I don't know who's on that ship, or what their business is."

He looked out over the horizon once more, at the tiny sail in the distance.

"I think," he said slowly, "we'd better break some rifles out of the gunlocker."

clouds watching quietly overhead. And the sail, a little closer now, a little larger, but still unreal, almost ghostly.

Dave's voice broke the silence. "Want to take these, Neil?"

He handed two rifles through the hatchway, and Neil accepted them gingerly. Dave grabbed either side of the hatchway and pulled himself up to sit beside Neil. He glanced out at the approaching sail and then lifted one of the rifles from Neil's lap.

"I hope you know how to use that," he said to Neil.

"I know how to squeeze a trigger. That's about the extent of it."

Dave raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. He looked out at the sail again and said, "Looks like we've got a little time yet." He turned again to the rifle in his lap and said. "This little baby here is called the Garand rifle, better known to G.I. Joe as the Ml. It's semiautomatic, gas-operated, and clip-fed, firing a .30 caliber slug." Dave paused and shook his head, a mild smile on his face. "My gosh, I sound like Sergeant Long," he said.

"Who's Sergeant Long?"

"The guy who taught me all I know about the ML A heck of a nice guy who knew this rifle like the back of his hand."

Neil's eyes shifted uncomfortably to the horizon, and Dave followed his glance to the oncoming ship.

He began speaking hurriedly, as if there weren't much time in which to give Neil all the details.

"This is a clip," Dave said, holding out a fat, rectangular object. "Contains eight bullets. Once this is in the rifle, you don't have to load again until you've fired all eight."

"How do you load?" Neil asked.

"Simple." He placed his fingers on a lever on the right-hand side of the rifle. "This is the operating rod. Pull it back until you hear a click." He demonstrated. "Then let it go. That leaves this space in the top of your rifle. Slip the clip in and shove it down until the top bullet is opposite the chamber here."

Neil pulled back the operating rod and let it go when he heard the click.

"You've got to be careful with that. Once you hear the click, let it alone. Otherwise, you might uncock it and the darned thing'U come flying back and hit your hand." He chuckled softly. "We used to call this 'Ml Thumb' because so many guys got smacked on the thumb when that rod snapped back."

Neil nodded and inserted the clip into the groove on the top of the rifle.

"That's it," Dave said. "Right there. That's it."

Neil nodded and looked up for further instructions.

"Now push the operating rod forward and that puts a slug in the chamber, ready for firing. When you squeeze the trigger, the empty cartridge will fly back on the right here. When your clip is empty, it'll fly out and make a sort of 'twang' sound. Then you go through the process again, putting another clip in the way I showed you. All clear?"

"Think we'll have to use these?"

"I don't know. In the meantime, point that the other way, and get your finger away from that trigger. I went through three years in the Army without a scratch, and I don't intend to have you shooting me now."

Neil pointed the rifle out at the water and smiled.

"Here," Dave said, "you'd better put the safety on until you're ready to shoot at something." He reached over inside the trigger guard on Neil's rifle and pushed a curved bar forward. "When you want to fire, just push that back again and it'll release the trigger."

Quickly and expertly, Dave put the safety on his own rifle and then rested the piece on his knees. He looked out over the water and said, "It won't be long now."

Neil looked over his shoulder and was surprised at how close the ship had come. It definitely looked like a ship now, a ship with a high prow and a big, square sail.

"I almost forgot," Dave said, reaching into his pocket. "I ripped this compass from the instrument panel. At least we'll be able to tell from what direction they're coming."

He held the big compass between his hands and waited for the needle to swing to north.

"Look at that needle," Dave said. "Almost as if it knew we were having company. It's pointing right at the ship."

"Then they're coming from the north?"

"North it is," Dave answered.

The ship was clearly distinguishable now. It rode high on the water, a strong ship with curving prow and stern. The prow jutted high over the sides of the ship, and an animal's head seemed to be carved into the end of the sweeping, heavy piece of lumber.

There was a stout mast in the center of the ship, and the big square sail billowed out from it, pushing the trim ship closer to the machine. But what struck Neil about the sail was its coloring. From top to bottom, as bright as a barber pole, were red and white stripes, thick, running perpendicular to the deck of the ship.

"A colored sail," Neil murmured aloud.

"Yes."

Together, they watched, their eyes squinting into the oblique rays of the sun. The ship seemed to swarm with color. Lining each side of the vessel, in a circular array of brilliance, were painted discs. Neil strained his eyes to determine the nature of these discs and then, as the ship drew closer, looming large ahead of them, he recognized them for what they really were. "Shields," he exclaimed. "Those are shields, Dave." Dave nodded. "I know." His eyes narrowed, and he added, "Look at those oars. There must be at least sixteen on each side of the ship."

The ship was in full view now, and Neil could see men scurrying busily over the deck. The wind filled the red-and-white striped sail, and seamen bent into their oars, muscular arms and backs gleaming with sweat. Together, like dancers in a ballet, the oars lifted, moved toward the stern of the ship, dipped gracefully into the ocean, and pulled forward. And the ship moved closer. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back-Suddenly something stirred in the dim recesses of

Neil's mind. It was a bright October day, in Mrs. Daniels' history class, and she was describing a ship that might have been this very one.

"Dave," Neil said, "I may be crazy but—"

"I know just what you're thinking," Dave replied, nodding his head vigorously.

Slowly his fingers found their way to the trigger guard on the Ml, resting there in readiness.

Neil gripped his rifle tightly, and his hands began to sweat. "Is it what I think it is?"

"It's not the Queen Mary" Dave said.

"It's a Norse ship," Neil said, almost to himself.

"That's what I think too."

The ship lifted oars no less than a hundred yards from the time machine. A tall muscular man, his hand resting lightly on the curving prow of the ship, unslung a shield from his back and slipped it over his arm.

A blazing flash of color caught the rays of the sun, reflecting off the metal helmet that rested on his head. The helmet ended just at his forehead, and it gave his head the shape of a bullet. Fastened to either side of the helmet, and glinting in the sun, was a pair of metal wings.

The man was dressed in rough garments, a sleeveless tunic that exposed brown, muscular arms with bulging biceps and forearms. He wore a heavy metal band on the muscle of his right arm, and the muscle seemed to threaten the strength of the band whenever he moved his arm. The tunic was bunched at the waist beneath a leather belt. A large metal disc ornamented the front of the belt, and a heavy battle-ax hung from its side.

The man shouted something to the crew and the ship swung around, its brightly colored sail emptying itself of wind and collapsing like a fat lady into an easy-chair.

Neil heard a faint click, and he knew that Dave had released the safety on his rifle. He did the same and waited.

The man standing in the prow of the ship looked taller as the ship drifted closer. Neil noticed for the first time that he wore a bright, reddish-blond beard.

The man leaned over the side of his ship and shouted something at the time machine.

"What's he saying?" Dave asked.

"I don't know."

As if at a signal, Neil and Dave lifted their rifles. Neil's finger curled around the trigger guard, ready to slip into position if the need arose. He suddenly thought of something. "Dave. I haven't got another clip after this one."

Dave reached into his pocket and handed two clips to Neil. Neil slipped these into his back pocket and looked over at the ship again.

Every member of the crew was clearly visible for the first time.

There were at least twenty-five men in the vessel, and they lined the sides now, muttering among themselves and staring at the time machine.

Again the bearded man in the prow shouted something at them.

Neil's eyes blinked, and then opened wide. He stared at Dave in disbelief and said, "Why, I almost understood that."

Dave kept his rifle trained on the ship, but he turned his head to Neil. "How do you mean?"

"Well," Neil hesitated, unsure of himself, "it sounded like Swedish."

"Do you understand Swedish?"

"Why, sure. My father was born in Sweden. We spoke it every time my grandfather came to visit."

Dave considered this for a moment. "Yell something over to the big blond guy. In Swedish, I mean."

"What shall I say?"

"Just tell him we're not looking for any trouble, that's all."

Neil shouted over to the Norse vessel, "Hel-l-l-l-l-lo. We are friends and come in peace." He was surprised at how easily the Swedish came to him, considering he hadn't spoken it for quite some time.

There was an excited muttering on the Norse ship. The sailors turned to each other, and some pointed at Neil. The blond giant spoke to a man standing beside him and then shouted back, "We too are friends."

"What'd he say?" Dave wanted to know.

"They're friends," Neil told him.

"They probably speak an ancient Swedish," Dave mused. "Thank God we didn't run into a Chinese ship." He glanced skeptically at Neil. "Or do you speak that too?"

Neil grinned. "Just Swedish. And high-school Spanish."

"Are these guys hard to understand?" "A little."

"Think you can get the story from them? Find out if they'll give us a tow to land?"

"I'll try." He turned to the Norsemen again and shouted, "Will you tow us to land?"

Again the sailors reacted to Neil's voice. Another man joined the bearded blond in the prow. He was short and muscular, with an enormous barrel chest covered with black, curly hair. He stood close to the blond man who, Neil suspected, was captain of the ship. They held a hurried consultation, and then the captain shouted back across the water, in Swedish, in a booming voice, "We are lost, and do not know where there is land. Are you not from these waters?"

Neil turned to Dave and said, "They're lost too. They think we're from these parts."

"What?" Dave asked. He scratched his head in puzzlement. "I don't get it. I just don't get it. For a minute there, I thought we'd traveled clear across the Atlantic." He shook his head and added, "Maybe we are in the Gulf of Mexico, after all. But what are Norsemen doing here? Ask them how they got here, will you?"

"How do ybu happen to be in these waters?" Neil yelled.

"A storm blew us off course," the Norseman answered. "We lost nine members of our crew. We have no idea where we are."

Neil translated, and Dave said, "Find out more."

"Where are you from?"

"From the Northland. And you?"

"From a land unknown to you."

"Then how do you speak our tongue?" the Norseman asked.

"My father knows your tongue well."

"Is this one with you your father?"

"No. This is a friend, Dave Saunders."

Dave looked up at mention of his name. "What's going on?" he asked, a puzzled frown stretching across his brow.

"Dave Saunders?" the Norseman asked.

"This is the name he is called," Neil explained.

"And yours?"

"Neil."

"My," Dave remarked. "This is getting to be a regular tea party."

"I am Erik!" the Norseman said proudly. "Son of Johan the Black, and captain of this vessel."

"I'm glad to know you," Neil called politely.

"Ask them if we may come aboard," Dave said, beginning to get somewhat impatient with all the talk.

"May we come aboard?" Neil shouted to Erik.

The muttering among the sailors grew louder, and Neil saw the short man with the hairy chest shake his head violently and wave his ax in the air.

"What's biting Shorty?" Dave asked.

"I don't know," Neil admitted.

Erik listened to the short man and then called over to Neil, "My crew say your ship is cursed, that you are evil."

"Our ship is strange to you because it is unlike yours. All the ships in our land are like this one," Neil lied.

The short, hairy man standing next to Erik shouted, "I am Olaf, son of Lars the shipmaker, and second in command on this vessel. Bring your ship closer that we may examine it."

"There's Shorty hopping up and down again," Dave said. "What's he want now?"

"They think we're cursed because of the machine. They want to have a closer look at it."

"Tell them we're damaged, and they should come to us. I'll cover with the rifle."

Neil cleared his throat and shouted, in Swedish, "Our ship is crippled. We cannot move it. You can row closer if you like."

Erik listened to Olaf for a minute, and then ordered his crew to row the Norse ship closer to the machine. Several men manned the oars, and the big ship moved nearer. Neil could see the sharpness of the axes as they gleamed in the sun. He could also see the drawn, wary looks on the faces of the sailors. Bearded and dirty, they were, and Neil wondered if it was wise to bring them within striking distance.

The ship drew alongside, and one of the seamen threw a line over. Dave dropped the line into the machine, the heavy wooden chock on its end clunking against the plastic.

Now that Erik was closer, Neil studied his face carefully. He was deeply burned from the sun and the wind, and two clear blue eyes gleamed brightly in his face. His nose was straight and a little on the long side. His beard was a fiery blond that covered his chin, his upper lip, and most of his neck. He had shaggy blond eyebrows, and they were lifted now in speculation.

"We need food," he said simply. "Do you carry any?"

"Not much," Neil lied. The expedition had taken enough food to last approximately two weeks. They had expected to live on what they found in Yucatan. Erik's crew consisted of at least twenty-five hungry men, if not more. They could go through the time machine's stores in less than five minutes.

"They are evil," Olaf shouted. "I warn you, Captain, they are evil."

"Be silent," Erik ordered, and Olaf clamped his jaws shut, a dull anger smoldering in his eyes. Erik turned to Neil. "Can you lead us to land? We need food and water before we can attempt to reach home."

Neil turned to Dave. "They want to know if we can lead them to land. What shall I tell them?"

"What tongue do they speak now?" Olaf demanded. "They are evil and they speak the tongue of the Devil."

"I speak in the tongue of my friend," Neil answered in Swedish. Then, in English, "What shall I tell them, Dave?"

"Tell them we'll lead them to land if they take us abord and tow our machine. It's our only chance, Neil. This baby isn't going to float much longer."

"We'll find land," Neil said to Erik, "if you tow our ship and take us aboard."

"Take the Devil aboard," Olaf said, "and we are doomed."

Erik walked amidships and began talking softly with his crew. Occasionally, a sailor, his eyes lighting with a strange mixture of fear and wonder, would look over at the machine and Neil. Still, the Norsemen talked among themselves.

Neil and Dave waited patiently.

Finally, Erik strode back to the side of the ship.

"We will take you aboard," he said simply.

"This is wrong," Olaf protested. "They will bring us nothing but ill luck. I say throw them to the sharks."

"And I say take them aboard," Erik said softly, "and I am captain of this vessel."

Olaf spat on the deck and swore. "Then take them aboard," he said, "and suffer the consequences."

"Shorty doesn't like us," Dave said. "I can tell. Don't ask me how; I can just tell."

"But they're taking us aboard," Neil said happily.

Dave nodded, a smile on his lips. Together, they climbed onto the railing of the Norse ship and dropped to the deck. The crew opened a respectful path for them.

"Your clothes are strange," Erik remarked.

"The clothes of our land."

"The clothes of the Devil," Olaf muttered.

"We'll need lumber lashed to our ship," Neil explained, "to keep it afloat so that we too may get home."

"We'll give you lumber. Are you sure you can take us to land?"

"Yes," Neil said, not at all certain that he could.

Quickly, Erik ordered the crew to prepare lumber and lashings. When these were ready, Neil and Dave set to work on the time machine, lashing lumber to the rotors, to the control-room area, and to the upper and lower bubbles. When they were through, they were fairly certain the machine wouldn't sink in anything less than a storm.

Erik stood watching them all the while they worked, his eyes glued to the rifles slung over their shoulders. When they climbed aboard again, he asked, "What are these long sticks you carry?"

Neil hesitated.

"What does he want to know?" Dave asked. "The rifles."

Dave sighed. "I guess you'd better tell him. We've trusted him so far."

"They are weapons," Neil explained to Erik. "Like your axes."

"I will have to ask you for them," Erik said. "To protect my ship." "He wants them," Neil said.

Dave snapped on the safety catch and handed his rifle to Erik. He grinned broadly as Neil handed his rifle over too.

"Which way do we sail?" Erik asked.

"Well, Dave?" Neil asked.

"What does he want?"

"He wants a course."

"Oh! Just a second."

Dave climbed over the rail and back into the machine. When he appeared again, he was carrying the compass he'd torn from the instrument panel.

"If we're near Yucatan," he said to Neil, "in the

Gulf of Mexico, we should sail south." He pointed in the general direction. "That way."

Erik's face clouded momentarily. "Are you sure?" he asked Neil.

"Yes."

Olaf had padded up to where the men stood talking. He sneered at Neil and said, "And if they are wrong, Captain?"

Erik seemed to think this over. "If they are wrong," he said slowly, "we shall do as you suggested. We shall throw them to the sharks."

He rammed his battle-ax into the heavy belt around his waist and walked amidships.

"Man your oars," he bellowed. "Man your oars."

The sailors scurried to bow and stern, grasping their oars in sturdy arms. Several men handled the sail, and one man stood in the stern of the ship, handling the tiller.

Erik pointed out their course, and the men pulled on the oars, swinging the great ship around. The sail billowed out with wind, and the ship began to move forward.

Olaf passed close to Neil and whispered, "You had better be right, evil one."

He swaggered off to the stem of the ship, and Neil stared after him.

"What's Shorty beefing about now?" Dave asked.

"Nothing," Neil said. "Nothing."

The big ship sliced into the waves, its prow pointed south, the wind strong in its sails, and hungry sailors pulling heavily on their oars.

"My friend was smoking," Neil replied.

Olafs face remained blank. "Tell your friend to throw this evil cylinder overboard."

"He wants you to throw it overboard, Dave," Neil explained.

"Throw what overboard?"

"The cigarette."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Tell him," Dave said, his eyes glued to Olafs face, "that the cigarette is no longer burning. It can do no harm."

Neil swallowed and said, "My friend's cylinder no longer burns. It cannot harm . . ."

Olafs arm shot out with a sudden movement, and he gripped Neil by the shirt front.

"Tell your friend to pick it up!" he shouted.

Dave's face went tense, and tight lines formed about his mouth and his eyes. Before Olaf knew exactly what was happening, Dave's hand had come down on his wrist, hard, forcing it away from Neil's shirt.

Olaf backed off a few paces, and his hand dropped to his ax. Slowly he pulled it from his belt and tested the blade with his finger tips.

Dave backed off. "Tell him I'll fight him with fists if he's not too scared to put his meat chopper away."

Erik strode to the bow of the ship. "What is this?" he asked, his voice rising in threat.

"One of the demons defies my command," Olaf said.

A tight knot of sailors formed around the group huddled in the stern sheets.

A fat sailor with a black mustache stepped forward and said, his eyes round with excitement, "The demon breathed fire. I saw it, I saw it."

"Aye," another sailor piped up. "Fire from his mouth and from his nostrils."

"What nonsense is this?" Erik asked. "No man breathes fire."

"These are not ordinary men," Olaf said. "They are cursed, and their vessel is transparent. We should never have taken them aboard."

"Aye," a sailor with a patch over his right eye added, "I too saw the one with the twisted nose breathe smoke. Olaf is right. They are more than men, and nothing less than demons."

"Three days we have sailed," another seaman said, "and no land."

"And no sign of land," another spoke up.

"Olaf is right. Kill the demons and throw them to the sharks."

"Aye, kill the demons."

"Kill the demons!"

The cry rose like a chant around the clustered deck of the Norse ship. Axes slid noiselessly from their halters, and browned arms sliced at the air in protest.

"This looks bad," Neil whispered. "We're really in for it, now."

"Shorty again," Dave said. "Always Shorty and his big mouth."

"He still says we're demons, that we should be killed."

Dave thought silently for a second. The noise of the sailors reached his ears as they pressed closer to the group in the stern sheets.

"Ask Shorty there if he'll fight with a demon."

Neil hesitated.

"Go on," Dave said. "Ask him!"

"Do you dare fight a demon?" Neil said to Olaf. "Do you dare fight him with your fists?"

"A demon is evil," Olaf pronounced. "I can defeat a demon because evil holds no power on this ship."

The crew cheered Olaf's words, and Neil waited for silence before he spoke again.

"And if this demon should defeat you, and using your own logic, he is no longer a demon. He is a mere man who beat you in fair combat."

"He is a demon," Olaf declared, "and I will destroy him."

"But if he wins," Neil persisted, "is he not then human? You yourself say that evil holds no power on this ship."

Erik's voice broke in. "If your friend wins, Olaf will have to admit that he is only human."

"With bare fists?" Neil pressed.

"With bare fists," Erik commanded. "Clear the deck!"

"He'll fight you," Neil said excitedly. "And if you win, they'll drop all this demon nonsense."

"Good," Dave said, beginning to strip off his shirt. "I'm going to enjoy this. I am certainly going to enjoy this." He grinned maliciously at Olaf.

The sailors formed into a circle amidships, a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder. Before them, against their chests, they held their heavy metal shields, rim to rim.

Olaf peeled his tunic from his shoulders and let it hang down over the belt of his garment. He flexed the enormous muscles on his arms and chest and drew in a deep breath. Several friends patted him on the back and hovered around him, chuckling, glancing every now and then at Dave who had stripped to the waist.

Dave was taller than Olaf by at least eight inches, and his height gave a lean suppleness to the appearance of his body. But he was as strong as a metal spring, Neil knew, his muscles tough and sinewy, neatly covering the big bones of his body. And he had boxed at college.

"Just take it easy," Neil advised. "Don't let him get those arms around you. I don't imagine there'll be any rules in this match, Dave."

"I'll take him," Dave said confidently. "Don't worry."

"Are you ready?" Erik called.

"We're ready," Neil said.

Olaf stepped into the circle of men, the shields lowering momentarily to admit him, and then closing into a tight, metal ring again.

Dave entered the circle on the other side, and Erik handed Neil a shield.

"We will join the circle," he said.

The men made room for Neil and Erik. Erik stood on Neil's right in the circle, his shield touching Neil's. On Neil's left was the sailor with the patch over his eye.

"You may begin whenever you are ready," Erik said.

"Good luck, Dave," Neil called.

Dave winked at Neil and then concentrated on his burly opponent. Warily, they eyed each other and circled around the human ring.

Dave fell into a boxing stance, his left arm probing the air ahead of him, his right hand tucked against his shoulder. He came closer to Olaf who stood his ground, his heavy arms weaving ahead of him, his fingers widespread.

Suddenly Dave lashed out with a left jab that caught Olaf on the point of his chin. Olaf staggered backward, and Dave pressed his advantage, firing two more sharp lefts in rapid succession. His right, Neil saw, was cocked and ready to flash out. Again Dave bounced a left jab off Olafs jaw. Olafs head rocked on his thick neck, and he retreated again, his hands out in front of him, helplessly trying to ward off the slashing blows that Dave's left hand was driving into his face.

Neil grinned and watched Dave's left flick out again and again as Olaf backed away. This might be over sooner than he'd expected!

And then Dave uncorked the right. It shot out with all the power of his arm and shoulder behind it, and Neil knew that if that blow landed it would send Olaf sprawling on the deck.

Olaf seemed to sense this too. With animal agility, surprising in a person so solid and squat, he dropped to his knees and Dave's fist flew over his head. There was the sickening thud of flesh meeting metal as Dave's blurred hand smashed against the shield that was behind Olaf. Dave drew back his hand in mute agony, and Neil's face went pale.

Dave tried to back off a pace, but he was too late. Olaf wrapped his huge arms around Dave's legs and pulled. Dave crashed to the wooden deck, wincing in pain as his body landed on his right hand.

Olaf was up already. Quickly he moved to Dave's side as Dave tried to roll away. Olaf's foot lashed out, striking Dave in the ribs.

"Dave," Neil shouted, "get up!"

His voice was drowned in the shouts of the sailors as Olaf kicked at Dave again, this time narrowly missing his head.

His miss seemed to anger him. He opened his mouth and a terrible growl, half-animal, half-human, sprang from his throat. He backed off and lashed out again with his powerful legs.

But this time Dave was ready. He seized Olaf's foot with his left hand and, half-rising from the deck, he shoved backward. Olaf danced away on one leg, trying to keep his balance, and then bounced unceremoniously to the deck.

"That's it, Dave, that's it," Neil shouted.

"Kill the demon," the sailor with the patch said.

"Be careful, Olaf," another sailor bellowed as Dave leaped across the deck and bounced onto Olaf's chest.

Olaf's arms went out immediately, circling Dave's back, crushing him to his chest in a bear hug. Dave screamed as the full power of Olaf's strength tore into his back muscles. Together they rolled over on the deck, two sweating bodies, Dave grunting and Olaf chuckling maliciously.

"Fight him his own way," Neil shouted. "Get dirty, Dave!"

Neil couldn't be sure that Dave had heard him.

But Dave suddenly sank his teeth into Olaf's shoulder, and the Norseman released his grip immediately. Dave leaped away from the sweating, squat body on the deck. He stepped back a few paces and gripped Olaf's feet with his hands.

With a deft twist, he snapped the foot away from the ankle. Olaf shouted in pain, and rolled over on his stomach. Dave shifted his grip on the foot and pressed it down, putting all his weight into it.

With almost superhuman strength, Olaf lifted his body from the deck, using his arms, and suddenly rolled over, lashing out with his legs again. Dave staggered back to crash into the wall of shields again. Only this time the wall was not stationary. Dave slammed into it, and before he could move away, three shields had pushed forward to send him sprawling on his face in the center of the ring.

Neil opened his mouth in protest, but the sailor beside him seized his arm warningly.

Olaf ran forward and lifted Dave from the deck. He picked him up in his powerful arms and threw him against the wall of shields again. This time the men behind the shields pushed forward as Dave crashed into them, putting their own weight into the battle.

Dave crumpled to the deck. Olaf reached for him again, lifted him, tossed him against a new set of shields that reached out to meet Dave with the force of brawny arms behind them.

Dave got to his knees and shook his head, trying to clear it.

This was dirty, as filthy as it could get. Neil watched in amazement, as Dave crouched helplessly on the deck, fighting to maintain consciousness. Olaf backed away, his lips curled back over his teeth now, his face dripping sweat, the black hair on his chest matted and wet. He went clear across the ring, his eyes on Dave, backing all the way. He seized the shield of the man with the patch and raised it over his head as he prepared to run across the ring and dash Dave's brains out.

As he started his run, Neil's foot whipped out, catching Olaf just below the ankle. Olaf sprawled forward, his big chest crashing to the deck.

On the other side of the ring, Dave stared at his fallen opponent dazedly.

He struggled to his feet then, just as Olaf rose and reached for the shield.

Dave crossed the ring, pressing close to Olaf before he could reach the shield. He brought up a left from the deck, and it exploded against Olaf's nose. Olaf screamed again, and thrashed wildly with his hands.

Dave unleashed another left into Olaf's eye, and another on the tip of his jaw, and another that caught him on the side of his face. He backed away as Olaf reached for him. Then he swung around and pushed his fist into Olaf's mid-section. Olaf crumpled over, doubled in pain, as Dave brought another left from the floor.

The blow erupted on Olafs right cheek, and a thin line of red sprang out. Carefully, like the excellent boxer he was, Dave backed away and circled warily. His right hand hung limp at his side. He had to beat Olaf with his left, and he had to beat him his own way.

The crew fell silent now, watching the struggle with curious fascination.

Olaf circled around, his big hands weaving, searching for an opportunity to get Dave into his arms again.

Dave feinted at Olafs mid-section, and the burly Norseman dropped his hands to cover his stomach. The left drew back instantly, and then unloaded itself on Olafs right cheek again. The blood burst forth like a blossoming flower, staining Dave's fist, trickling down the side of Olafs face.

Dave closed in now, his eyes slitted in hatred, his teeth clenched tightly. His left flicked out at Olafs eye, once, twice, again, again. Methodically, the fist moved to the cut on Olafs cheek, worrying it, pounding against it, slitting the cheek wide open. Olafs hands dropped to his side, and Dave came in for the kill.

His fist landed three times in succession on Olafs mouth. Olaf shook his head, and the blood spattered onto the shields of the Norsemen in the ring. Dave was beginning to enjoy the punishment he was inflicting.

Why doesn't he end it? Neil thought. What is he waiting for?

The left hand moved with the swiftness of a snake now. Strike and back, strike again, strike, back. Olaf's face was a crisscross of cuts. His left eye was swollen and puffed, and blood spilled from his mouth.

He staggered back, crashing against the wall of shields, knocking one to the floor as he lashed out blindly. He shook his head again, and bellowed.

Dave closed in, the left fist cocked, his eyes gleaming dully.

Olaf's hand dropped to his belt, fumbled beneath the top of his tunic which was hanging at his waist.

Dave moved closer, his mouth open with each labored breath he took.

And suddenly, Olaf's fist emerged from beneath the tunic, and the sun glanced brightly off a shining, metallic object.

The cry tore itself from Neil's throat.

"Look out, Dave! He's got a knife!"

Norseman. He stood beside Dave, the shield out before them.

"Get back where you belong," Dave muttered.

"I'm just evening the odds a little," Neil answered.

"I can handle him."

"You handle him, and I'll handle his knife," Neil said. "That way, it's even."

But the Norsemen in the circle had other ideas. A low grumble rose from the group when Neil stepped into the ring.

Olaf stopped and reconsidered his advance. Then, throwing his head back, he bellowed to his comrades, "Now I fight two of them!" He waited for this to penetrate and then shouted, "Is there no strong arm to join me?"

A roar went up from the Norsemen, and they began to tighten the circle, methodically, slowly, shields advanced, axes and knives drawn.

"Now you've done it," Dave scolded lightly. "Now we're both in the soup."

Olaf, visibly bolstered by the support of his friends, began stalking forward again, the knife gently nudging the air ahead of him. The circle tightened, and Neil saw gleaming, hateful eyes, shaggy beards, grinning mouths come closer, closer.

And then, from the prow of the ship where a lookout was posted, over the roar of the Norsemen's blood cry, came another voice. It was an excited voice, high and clear, and it stabbed through the air like the slash of a pointed rapier.

The Norsemen froze, and Olaf turned his head slightly toward the bow of the ship. For an instant, Neil had the ridiculous idea that he was watching a movie and that the projector had suddenly stopped, freezing one frame of film on the screen. None of the Norsemen moved. The circle stopped moving, became an alert, inquisitive wall of listening humans.

And then again, clearer in the silence this time, the voice shouted, "Land ho! Land on the starboard bow!"

Silence for an instant.

And then, an ear-shattering outburst that rose from happy throats. Colored shields flew into the air, clattered to the deck with a joyous ring. Laughter sprang into the charged air, like rain on parched earth. The circle crumbled, and men rushed to the sides of the ship, leaping into each other's arms, shouting, jumping, scrambling like ants from an upturned ant mound. For the first time, Neil noticed that Erik had broken from the circle before it started to close on Dave and him.

He was standing in the bow now, his eyes squinting over the sides of the ship, his voice raised along with the voices of his men.

Dave and Neil held their ground, Dave with his fists poised, Neil with the shield in front of their bodies. Olaf stared at them sullenly. Then he spit on the deck, rammed the dagger into its sheath, and turned his back. He rushed to the side of the ship and joined the men there.

Neil dropped the shield to the deck then. It rolled at his feet, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Dave lowered his fists and grinned at Neil.

"Well," he said. "Looks as if we found land."

Neil took Dave's battered right hand in his own hands and turned it over. "Is it bad?" he asked.

"Not very," Dave answered. "I couldn't very well smash it against Shorty's hard head, though."

Neil gently lowered Dave's hand. Then he clasped his friend's shoulder, and a bright grin covered his face.

"Hey, pal," he said. "We found land!"

Erik was the first man to step ashore. He dropped over the side of the ship and waded in, his powerful legs pushing against the water. The beach was a small one, with coarse sand and finely rounded pebbles. Behind the beach, several hundred feet from the water's edge, was a dense forest.

"Is it Yucatan?" Neil asked Dave. They were leaning over the side of the ship, as the Norsemen pulled gently on the oars.

"Could be," Dave said, shrugging. "Could be Pakistan, too, for all I know."

"Or Hindustan," Neil joked.

Dave countered, "Or even Frankenstein."

"Ouch!" Neil said, his face twisted in a grimace.

Several Norse sailors dropped over the sides of the ship and pitted their shoulders against the solid bark. Slowly, the ship eased onto the beach.

The crew shouldered their shields, picked up their axes, and began dropping over the sides into the low water.

"Might as well join them," Dave suggested.

They dropped into the water, Dave first, and Neil following. They held their boots high, their dungarees rolled to the knees. When they reached the beach, they sat down, brushed the sand from their feet, and slipped into their boots again.

Erik walked to where they were sitting and smiled at Neil.

"You led us to land," he said. "I want to thank you." "That's all right," Neil said.

"And your friend is a powerful warrior. Tell him I admire his strength." Neil translated for Dave.

Dave grinned and said, "Thank the captain for me."

"My friend wants to thank you," Neil said.

"I should really have him killed for what he did to my second officer," Erik said. "But between us, I think Olaf's face has been greatly improved." He began to chuckle and when Neil translated, Dave laughed loudly.

Squatting at the water's edge, Olaf dipped a rag to wet it. Cautiously, he applied the rag to his face, screwing up his features as the salt stung into the cuts.

"What Shorty needs," Dave observed, "is a good beefsteak." He suddenly remembered something. "Neil, ask Erik if his crew will help us beach the time machine."

When Neil explained to Erik, the captain immediately selected ten sailors to help Dave and Neil with the injured machine. Together, the men waded into the water and helped the Americans cut the lashings that held the timber to the machine.

They guided it to the low water, waiting for further instructions. With Dave shouting in English, and Neil rapidly translating into Swedish, the men swung the machine around so that it was parallel to the beach. Then, with five men behind each of the bubbles, they began to roll it onto the sand. The twisted rotor curled back into the air like a wisp of smoke, and the other rotor, its gears disconnected, rested parallel to the ground as the machine rolled.

When it was well beyond the high-tide mark, Dave sent the men for the timber that had been lashed to it. Heavy ropes were wrapped tightly about the upper bubble. These were placed in the hands of three strong sailors who played the ropes out past the control room and the lower bubble. Two men stood by with the stout timber, ready to prop it under the control room as soon as the machine began to rise.

The remaining five Norsemen, and Neil and Dave, put their shoulders under the upper bubble and started to lift. Slowly, with the rim of the lower bubble wedged firmly in the sand, the machine began to rise, The three men on the ropes pulled, and the men under the bubble slowly lifted the machine. When they were standing erect, the machine resting on their shoulders and held by the firm ropes, the two men standing by the control room wedged their lumber into the sand, and slid it under the aluminum. They stood bracing the lumber against the machine, as the five Norsemen moved out from the upper bubble.

Dave and Neil stepped back then and considered the rest of their task.

"We've got to get her standing up again," Dave said.

"How are we going to do that?" Neil asked.

"It's really simple," Dave answered. "We keep moving the lumber under the control room, a little at a time. We'll get some longer pieces of wood and start shoving on the bubble end too."

When the men had chopped some long branches from the forest, they turned to the job of righting the machine again. Three men put their weight against the lumber under the control room. Slowly, they forced the end that was wedged in the sand a few feet forward. The machine rose slightly.

With infinite patience, they repeated the process again.

Then, with the long branches they'd cut in the forest, the rest of the men pushed up against the bubble, while the men with the ropes pulled back.

"Careful now," Dave ordered. "All right now, push. Let's push, all together now. Watch those ropes, men. Don't get them snarled. Here we go, now. Together. Push. Pu-u-u-u-u-ssssh!"

As Neil struggled against his branch, he smiled inwardly at Dave, who was shouting English orders at men who understood Swedish only.

And then, finally, the machine stood almost erect. It quivered for an instant, as if deciding whether to get on its feet or fall back to the sand on its side.

"Pull on those ropes!" Dave shouted.

The Norsemen put their back muscles into the strenuous pull, and the machine settled down, the floor of the lower bubble resting firmly in the sand.

"Whew," Dave said, letting out his breath. "Some job."

He automatically reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Neil put his hand on Dave's arm and whispered, "I wouldn't smoke, Dave."

Dave remembered the recent trouble over the cigarette, and let his hand drop to his side. "Darn it," he complained. "I sure feel like a smoke." Suddenly he had an inspiration. "Here, Neil," he said, "you take my lighter. I'll pretend I've lost it. I certainly won't rub two sticks together to light a cigarette."

Neil took the cigarette lighter and stuffed it into his pocket.

"I'll ask you for that back as soon as I can sneak off somewhere and have a lonely smoke," Dave said. "I feel the way I did when I was sixteen and smoking corn shocks behind the barn."

Neil laughed a little at this. He had many friends who did the same thing.

Erik strode over and looked up at the machine, his eyes calmly examining it, his beard pointing skyward.

"Is this the position in which you sail it?" he asked in a surprised voice.

"Yes," Neil said.

Erik examined the machine again, walking completely around its base. When he joined the Americans again, he shook his head in wonder and said, "A strange vessel. Very strange/'

Then, completely dismissing the subject, he turned to Neil. "Olaf and I are going into the forest in search of water," he said. "Would you and Dave like to come along?"

"Why, sure," Neil answered. All at once, he remembered the fight Dave had just finished. "Dave, Erik would like us to look for water in the forest with him. Olaf is going along too."

"I think I'd better stay here," Dave said. "I don't think Shorty would appreciate my company. And besides, I'd like to keep an eye on the machine. You go ahead, Neil."

"You wont mind?"

"Not a bit. Go ahead."

"I'll see you later," Neil called as he started walking toward the forest with Erik, Olaf joined them at the forest's edge. He was no longer bleeding, but his lips were puffed, and his face was covered with cuts. Both eyes were discolored, and he glanced at Neil sullenly, his eyes dark beneath their puffed, swollen fids.

The forest was not as dense as it had appeared. Rather, it was somewhat sparse at the outskirts, and they walked easily for the first ten minutes. After that, the growth seemed to be a little thicker, and Erik and Olaf used their axes freely as they hacked their way through the tangled trees and bushes.

Overhead, monkeys chattered noisily, like old wives leaning over their backyard fences and exchanging gossip about their visitors.

Brightly colored birds swooped low, cawing and screeching as they darted through the foliage.

It was hot. The sun beat down with an intolerable intensity that abated only when they passed under the sheltering leaves of a tree.

Wild fruit spread overhead in lush abundance.

"I would like to find water," Erik said at last.

"There must be water," Neil said. "All this growth . . ."

A faint rustling ahead brought the trio to a dead stop. Olaf's hand tightened on his ax, as Erik raised his over his head, ready to deliver a blow. Cautiously, they tiptoed forward.

With a loud cracking of twigs and branches, the leaves ahead of them parted violently. A startled deer, its eyes wild in fright, burst into view, turned a hurried glance on his visitors, and then darted away into the forest.

Erik stood looking after the deer, his ax poised overhead. Suddenly, Neil began laughing.

"Only a deer," he choked. "Only a little deer."

Erik became gruff all at once. "Quiet, boy," he barked, sliding his ax into his belt. And then, as the foolishness of the situation became clear to him, a smile broke over his face. White teeth gleamed against the brown ruggedness of his face, against the blazing, reddish-blond of his beard. The smile burst into a slight laugh which immediately erupted into an uncontrollable bellow.

He put his arm around Neil's shoulder and, laughing wildly, they stumbled ahead through the undergrowth.

Only Olaf was sullen, his mouth grim.

They traveled for a half-hour with the sun beating down on their heads, and still they found no water.

"Can it be there are no rivers in this land?" Erik asked.

"There are rivers," Olaf said. "But we will find none while the Devil follows in our tracks." He looked meaningfully at Neil.

"Was not one Devil enough for you today?" Erik asked.

"Let's go a little farther," Neil suggested, tactfully.

They chopped their way through more light growth, seeing a jaguar leap to the ground once and rush away between the trees.

"Plenty of meat," Erik commented. "We need not worry about that."

They rested, then, on a broad, flat, yellow rock between two low bushes. Neil glanced at his wrist watch. They'd left the beach more than forty-five minutes ago. We'd better get started again, he thought. Either find water or get back to the beach.

Neil got to his feet, not fully rested yet, and feeling a little lazy.

"We'd better move on," he said.

Erik and Olaf followed Neil as he took the lead into the forest. They moved on, slowly, relentlessly, the insects buzzing around them, and the monkeys raising an infernal din.

After fifteen minutes of back-breaking marching, they broke into a little clearing.

At the far end of the clearing, between two low bushes, was a broad, flat, yellow rock. Neil looked at the rock, and his eyes clouded. Erik had noticed it, too, and Olaf s eyes widened now in recognition.

"That rock," he said. "It is the very one we rested on. We have been walking in a circle. The Devil has led us in a circle."

"Quiet," Erik said tensely. He was serious as he spoke to Neil. "We should have marked a trail."

"Yes. But we didn't."

"What now?" Olaf demanded. "What do we do now?"

Neil thought of the jaguar they'd seen, and wondered how many other dangerous animals were in the forest.

"We shall have to find our way back to the beach," Erik said. His voice softened. "Would you like to lead, Neil?"

"I'll try," Neil replied. He thought again of the jaguar.

They started off between the trees again, Erik following Neil, and Olaf bringing up a quiet, scowling rear.

Overhead, the monkeys chattered foolishly.

green things growing in a vast wilderness, a wilderness a little too awesome to comprehend.

You struggled onward, because it seemed the only thing to do, and because two Norsemen were following you: one who believed in you and another who hated your guts.

You struggled onward.

Neil's breath came in hurried gasps. He pushed the grass aside and stepped forward again. A branch slashed across his face, and he stepped to one side in a vain effort to dodge it. Ahead, a monkey sat on a low limb, raising his eyes foolishly, his mouth babbling incoherent nonsense. Neil swatted at an insect that buzzed unmercifully about his head. He glanced at his watch.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes since they'd left the flat rock, and they hadn't come across it again. At least, he reassured himself, they weren't now going in a circle. But were they headed back for the beach or were they only penetrating deeper into the forest?

Back in America, back in the University ball park, the kids were playing baseball now. It was the twentieth century there, and somewhere there was probably a kid dreaming of a Norseman or a forest adventure. Neil's mother would be preparing supper, or was it still a little too early; yes, probably it was. And his father would be reading a book perhaps, propped up in his bed, his leg stretched out ahead of him, his head resting on the pillows.

Neil suddenly felt terribly alone, terribly Jar from the people he loved and the places he knew. Irritably, he swatted at a fly and doggedly pushed against the growth again.

He stopped, raising his head like a bird dog sniffing the wind. His eyes squinted through the trees, and every muscle in his body went stiff.

"What is it?" Erik asked behind him.

Neil didn't answer. His eyes kept staring straight ahead. Perhaps it was only a trick his vision was playing. Perhaps the sunlight and the trees and the insects and the noise of the forest . . .

"Do you see something?" Erik asked.

"Yes. Yes. That is, I think so. I think I see something."

He was vaguely aware that his speech was hesitant and a little incoherent. With a trembling finger, he pointed through the trees, through the leaves that formed a natural arch of green.

"It is a house," Erik said, a little surprised. "A stone house."

Neil let out his breath. "You see it too?"

"Yes. Not all of it. Just the top. But it is a house of some sort."

Olaf pushed forward, his eyes flashing behind their puffed lids like the worried eyes of an English bulldog. "Where?" he demanded, his voice rising expectantly.

Erik pointed. "See there? Beyond the trees. The stone dwelling? Do you see it?"

"No."

"Use the eyes the gods gave you," Erik said in anger, relieved at finding signs of life and annoyed because

Olaf could not, or would not, see it. "There, ahead there." He looked at Olafs face and found blankness there. He seized Olaf by the shoulder and pointed again. "Follow this branch, do you see? Follow my finger along the branch."

Olafs eyes followed Erik's finger as it moved along the line of the branch. "Now. Do you see where the branch forks at the tip? Near that cluster of leaves? There. Do you see, or are you truly blind?"

"I see," Olaf answered. "It is the top of a stone dwelling."

"Ah-h-h-h," Erik said, "ah-h-h-h. He sees. He sees, Neil. We may now proceed."

Together they made their way forward, never losing sight of the stone building ahead. The forest began to thin, with large clearings now, and fewer trees and bushes.

On the edge of the forest, they stopped and climbed to the top of a huge rock. Here they sprawled flat on their bellies and looked toward the place where they had seen the stone building.

Neil blinked at the sight that confronted his eyes. He shook his head, blinked again, and then stared in open wonder.

Below them lay not only one building, but a profusion of buildings, clean and majestic-looking, well-ordered, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Temples and palaces greeted their awe-struck eyes, well-paved courts and plazas, immense pyramids, tall, carved blocks of stone.

Neil's mind flicked back to the photographs he had seen on Dr. Falsen's desk, photographs of the ruins of a once great city. These were the pictures of Chichen-Itza, the fabulous Maya city in Yucatan.

Neil knew he was looking at that very city now, seeing it as no archaeologist had ever seen it, seeing it in its splendid perfection—the complete glory of ages past.

He sucked in a great gulp of air and murmured, "Chichen-Itza. Yucatan. We're in Yucatan." "What?" Erik asked.

"Yucatan," Neil said, "this is Yucatan, Erik." He spoke in Swedish now.

Erik struggled with the word. "Yook-tan? Is that the name of this city?"

Neil remembered that the land was completely unfamiliar to the Norseman. "It is a city far from your home," he said. "It is called Chichen-Itza."

"It is a beautiful city," Erik said.

"Yes."

Olaf suddenly spoke. "There is water in the city. I see water there."

He pointed to a small stone building that faced a large, open wall.

"Yes," Erik said. "But where are the people?"

Neil said, almost to himself, "I wish my father were here."

"Your father? Why?"

"He knows the people of this land well. If he were here, he could help us."

"What people?" Olaf wanted to know. "I see no people. Let us go down for the water."

"Perhaps we had better ask for it," Erik said wisely. "Ask whom?" Olaf demanded. "There is no one to ask."

"There must be people living here," Erik replied "We will talk to them."

"I have my ax and a strong right arm." Olaf declared, rising to his feet and sliding down the face of the large rock. "They are the only bargaining tools I need."

Erik and Neil hastily jumped to the ground beside Olaf.

And at that moment there was a rustling in the woods. Six men burst into the clearing, spears thrust before them. Erik and Neil turned to scramble up the face of the rock again, but six more spear bearers had climbed it from the other side and were standing on top of it now, their sharp weapons ready.

The spear bearers clutched the spear shafts tightly, their eyes hard and unfriendly. They were short men, none of them very much over five feet, but they were well-proportioned and heavily muscled where their arms showed. Their coloring varied, the skin of some being almost pure white, while that of others was the color of light chocolate. Their hair was long and black, coarse, and grew low on their foreheads.

They had large, dark-brown eyes, small ears, and broad noses. Their jaws protruded, and they stood squat before the trio, watching them from hostile eyes.

Suddenly Olaf gave a wild scream and reached for the ax hanging from his belt. He tore it loose and raised it over his head, screaming wildly all the time.

Then, like a loosed beast, he burst forward, the ax raised.

Before Olaf had moved a foot, Erik's fist lashed out and his powerful fingers tightened about the other Norseman's wrist.

"They are armed," Olaf shouted, but as Erik twisted, Olaf opened his hand and let the ax drop to the ground.

The spearsmen watched the scene with interest, their eyes flicking from the red-bearded captain to the short, squat Norseman.

Erik probably realized that they were three men pitted against an armed group of twelve, and peace was the only way out of this situation. To this Neil heartily agreed. Undoubtedly there were more Mayas where these came from. He began thinking of the bigger stakes involved, the chances of getting home, and more than before he understood the necessity of maintaining peace with these men.

These were not ordinary citizens, he figured. They were, more likely, professional soldiers strung about the city for the special purpose of protecting their people from unwelcome visitors.

Unlike Erik, the Mayas were clean-shaven, their skins bright and shining. Covering their bodies, starting at their necks and ending below their knees, was a cotton quilt that probably served as armor against the crude weapons of the day.

These weapons, Neil saw, were many and diversified.

Each of the Mayas carried a spear with a pointed blade of what seemed to be sharp, dark glass. Other weapons were also visible among the soldiers. Several carried swords of hardwood, into the sides of which were set blades of the same dark glass. Others carried slings and pouches that probably contained stones. Some of the soldiers carried something that looked very much like a top with a string wound about it, and Neil surmised that this, too, was a weapon. They all carried shields, some square, some round, all covered with deerskin.

Slowly, carefully, Erik unbuckled his ax and dropped it to the feet of the nearest Maya. The man stepped back nimbly and looked to a fellow soldier, with confusion clouding his face.

The other soldier put up his spear and moved closer to the ax.

This is their leader, Neil thought. This is the man toe must deal with.

The leader had a long scar stretching down the length of his face. It crossed the ends of his lip and twisted his mouth sideways, in what appeared to be a comical grin. Neil knew he wasn't smiling, though.

The soldier poked at the ax with his spear point, and then stooped to pick it up. He was surprised at its weight as he lifted it. His fingers went to the blade and rested there, his eyes widening in respect of its keenness.

Quickly he turned and shouted an order at one of the other soldiers, who stepped forward and picked up Olaf's ax. This he presented to the scarred leader, then rapidly returned to the place he had left in the spear-bristling circle.

The leader barked an order to another soldier, who stepped forward and placed his shield on the ground. With puzzled brow, his teeth clamping his lower lip where the scar crossed it, the leader lifted the ax to test it, and then brought it smashing down on the deerskin-covered shield.

The shield splintered into a hundred flying pieces of wood and hide. A general outburst went up from the Mayas, and the leader beamed from ear to ear, his smile threatening to flow all over his ruddy face. He turned then and said something to Erik.

"What does he want?" Erik asked Neil.

"I—I don't know," Neil answered. In desperation, he faced the scarred leader and asked, "Había usted español?"

The scarred lips clamped shut again, and the eyes expressed bewilderment.

Slowly, painstakingly, the Maya leader repeated something in his own tongue, and waited for a response.

"What did he say?" Erik asked.

"I don't know. But he looks kind of angry because we're not answering."

The scowl deepened on the scarred face. Angrily, the leader shouted another order, and the Mayas began to close in, their spears ahead of them.

"Friends," Neil said frantically. "We are friends."

The leader of the band frowned again and raised his hand. Immediately the soldiers stopped advancing. He studied Neil closely.

"Friends," Neil repeated, almost making it a question this time. "Let's show him what we mean," he said to Erik.

He grasped Erik's hand and began to shake it. "Friends, see? Big friends. All big friends. Shake hands, see?" He grinned at the Maya soldiers, feeling quite foolish at his own antics.

Erik grinned too, his teeth flashing behind his brilliant beard. He pumped Neil's hand vigorously and then threw his arms around him and caught him to his chest in a bear hug.

"Gee whiz, Erik," Neil protested. "You're Strang— hey, for Pete's sake!"

"Smile," Erik muttered through clenched, glistening teeth. "Smile, Neil."

Neil beamed as Erik released him and took his hand again, squeezing it tightly, threatening to rip his arm from the socket.

Olaf stood by, obviously displeased with all this nonsense.

Neil smiled graciously at the Maya leader and extended his hand. "Friends?" he asked.

The dark eyes clouded in the scarred face, and the leader stepped back cautiously, away from Neil's extended hand.

Neil shook hands with Erik again. "Friends," he said.

He turned to the scarred soldier once more and held out his hand.

"Friends?" he repeated.

The soldier's face changed a little, and a flicker of understanding sparked in his eyes. His mouth began

in the string, and the top trailed across the leaves, rasping gently as it moved. He wound the string around it and once again stuck it into his belt.

Two soldiers hastily crossed the clearing and seized Olaf by the arms. They lifted him until he hung limply between them, and then hauled him back to the captain, his legs dragging through the leaves.

The captain gave a sharp order, and the two men carrying Olaf headed toward the city. A soldier stepped behind Erik and prodded him with his spear. At the same time, Neil felt the sharp point of a spear in his back. The captain spoke softly to six of his men. They nodded and headed into the forest.

"They're probably going after the rest of our party," Neil whispered to Erik.

Erik nodded, and two sharp spear thrusts put an end to further conversation.

A Maya walked beside the two soldiers carrying Olaf. The scarred leader of the band stayed behind Neil and Erik, and slowly the procession moved toward the city. They broke out of the forest, and the sun bore down on them with all its brilliance. Heavy clouds of dust swirled around them as their feet stamped into the ground. Behind Olaf, extending from his trailing feet, were two narrow ridges in the ground—almost like the tracks a very tiny automobile would leave, Neil mused.

Surrounding the city, in contrast to the architectural beauty of the huge stone buildings and intricately carved facades, were thatched huts, squat and ugly. A few children sat in the sun, blinking up at the visitors.

Here and there an old woman sat before a hut, gently nodding as the procession passed.

Far in the distance, Neil could see rising clouds of dust. Through the dust, he saw figures wending their way home to the city. It was the end of the working day, he figured, and the young people were returning from the fields.

The procession marched through the city, almost deserted now except for the very young and very old. Neil was amazed by the orderliness, by the planning of buildings that was evident all around him.

There seemed to be two preferred types of architecture. One consisted of a rectangular-shaped building set on a rather high pyramid, which seemed to be nothing more or less than earth and rubble, into which had been set cement or perhaps cut stone. Thé front of the pyramid was cut into terrace-like steps. This type of building, Neil judged, seemed to be in the majority. The other seemed to consist of a cluster of rooms built on low, irregularly shaped platforms.

Each was highly ornamented, bold carvings covering the faces—carvings that were faintly reminiscent of the Oriental, but in a much stronger, rougher-hewn way.

A band of soldiers appeared on the street, marching in formation, their heels raising dust as they moved closer to the captives.

The scarred captain stepped forward and spoke to the leader of the new band. He nodded as the Maya with the scar pointed to the forest. Then he gave an order and the men began marching toward the woods.

"They go for our friends," Erik said, his eyes squinting after the retreating soldiers.

"I hope," Neil faltered, "I hope there's no trouble."

Ahead of them, Olaf shook his head and staggered to his feet. Instantly, a spear pressed against his ribs on either side of his body. He looked around in wonder, surprised at finding himself within the city.

The captain returned and gave another order, and the procession moved forward again. In the distance, the returning farmers seemed to be larger and closer to the city now.

The procession passed by one of the pyramid-type buildings and the captain raised his hand. The group stopped and waited on the sun-baked street while the captain climbed the long, low steps leading to the building. He walked through one of three doorways cut into the face of the buiding, and disappeared into the dark recesses behind the stone.

Neil shifted uncomfortably, the dust rising to smart his eyes. He could feel the prick of the spear behind him, where it rested between his shoulder blades.

The captain was gone for at least ten minutes, and then a figure appeared in the doorway of the building. This man was a little taller than the soldiers, and his head was crowned with a brilliant shock of white hair that rose in splendid contrast to the brownness of his skin. He wore a long, white, cotton garment that reached to his ankles.

The captain stepped out behind him and pointed at Neil. The man in white nodded and started down the steps.

Neil glanced at Erik in time to see the Norseman take a deep breath.

The man in white paused on the bottom step of the pyramid, his deep brown eyes studying Erik, and then Neil, and then Olaf, who stood sullenly between his captors.

He walked down to the trio and stopped before Neil. In gentle tones he said something to him.

Neil shook his head at the old man. "I do not understand," he said.

Little creases of puzzlement formed alongside the old man's eyes. He cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening for a sound, and then repeated what he'd said before.

Neil shrugged helplessly and said, "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

The old man ran his thin fingers through the white, flowing hair on top of his head. He turned and said something to the captain. The captain answered rapidly, and the old man turned to Neil again.

He held both his hands out from his body in a puzzled gesture, and raised his eyebrows questioningly

"I think he wants to know about us," Neil said to Erik.

"But how can we tell him?"

Neil stepped forward and held out his hand, palm downward. Then he moved his hand slowly across his body in an undulating motion, tracing invisible peaks and valleys in the air.

"Water," he said, repeating the motion. He pointed back toward the forest and repeated, "Water."

The old man smiled in sudden recognition and moved his hand as Neil had done. He muttered a single word, and Neil hoped that this meant he had grasped the concept of water.

Neil covered his eyes with one hand and groped in front of him with the other. "Lost," he said. "Lost." The old man studied Neil's pantomime carefully. Neil went through the motions again, this time uncovering his eyes and looking all around him worriedly. The white-haired Maya seemed to understand. He nodded vigorously, and Neil went on.

He pointed to the spear the captain held, and shook his head. The old man expressed confusion.

Neil pointed to the spear, shook his head, and then pointed to the Norse axes that hung from the belt of the Maya with the scar. He opened his palms wide, indicating that he held nothing, and grinned widely.

The old man stroked his chin thoughtfully. He lifted one of the axes from the soldier's belt and offered it to Neil. Neil shook his head.

"No," he said. "We are friends."

The old man glanced down at the ax, and a smile crossed his wrinkled features. He threw the ax to the ground and stamped on it. He then took the spear from the hands of the soldier and dropped it to the ground before Neil's feet.

Neil smiled happily and stamped on the spear.

"He understands," Neil said to Erik. "He knows we are friends."

Neil pointed a finger at his own chest and said, "Neil."

The Maya shook his head and shrugged.

Neil repeated the action. "Neil," he said. He pressed his finger against Erik's powerful chest and said, "Erik."

He then pointed to the old man, and spread his palms wide as he shrugged.

The old man seemed to be struggling for meaning. He touched Neil's chest and asked, "Nee-ill?"

Neil nodded happily. "Neil."

"Neil," the old man repeated.

Neil pointed to Erik again. "Erik," he said. For an amusing moment, he felt very much the way Tarzan must have with his "Boy-Tarzan-Jane" routine.

The old man understood fully now. He pointed to the bearded Norseman and repeated, "Err-ik."

He looked quizzically at Olaf and pointed a long, thin finger at the squat Norseman's chest.

"Olaf," Neil said.

"O-laf," the Maya repeated.

Then Neil pointed to the old man.

"Talu," the Maya said. "Talu."

"Talu," Neil repeated.

The old man seemed to think a game of some sort was being played. He pointed to the captain with the scar across his lips and said, "Baz."

Neil repeated this name, and one by one introduced the Maya soldiers, becoming very much amused at Neil's repetition of each name.

When diis was done, he stared at Neil, apparently waiting for something more to be said.

"Erik," Neil said hastily, "give me something I can offer the old man. A present."

Erik glanced down at his belt, then changed his mind when he saw the old man's narrow waist. He touched his chest with widespread hands, wondering what he could give the old man. And then his hands went to the metal helmet that sat atop his blond head. He lifted it down with two hands, placing one under each of the metal wings, and offered it to the old man.

The old man shook his head and grinned, pointing to Erik's head and wiggling his finger impatiently.

"He doesn't want it, I guess," Neil said disconsolately.

"What else can we give him?" Erik asked.

Neil was wearing his dungarees, boots, and a tee shirt. There wasn't very much he could offer the old man, actually. His eyes suddenly fell on his wrist watch, the one he'd gotten from Uncle Frank on his sixteenth birthday. Quickly he unbuckled it and held it out to the withered Maya.

The old man stared curiously at the instrument, his eyes squinting down at the dial. Neil noticed that Erik, too, was looking at the watch with great interest.

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

Neil realized he'd have a difficult time trying to explain a wrist watch to an ancient Maya. But he pointed up at the sun and slowly moved his finger across the sky.

The old man seemed to grasp the concept immediately.

"Itzamna," he said, nodding his head. "Itzamna."

Neil didn't know whether this meant "time" or "sun." But he nodded his head and held out the watch again. The old man refused it a second time and turned to say something to the Maya soldiers. The soldiers nodded, touched their foreheads in salute, about-faced, and walked off into the city.

"They're gone," Olaf said, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the city. "Let's run. The soldiers are gone."

The old man seemed to sense what Olaf was suggesting so excitedly, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Silence," Erik commanded, and Olaf caught his tongue.

Neil was wondering why the soldiers had touched their foreheads when leaving the old man. There was the remotest possibility that he was an officer, but Neil felt this was unlikely. Why then had they . . .?

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of a familiar voice.

"Neil! Neil, are you all right?"

It was Dave, two Maya soldiers behind him with spears. Following him, guarded by the heavily armed Mayas, was the rest of the crew.

Dave broke into a run, ignoring the spears.

"Neil! Are you all right?" he asked desperately.

Two soldiers started after Dave, but the old man snapped an order and they stopped short, the dust rising up around them. In deference, they touched their hands to their foreheads and watched the proceedings respectfully.

Neil clasped Dave's hands. "It's okay," he said. "Everything's okay, Dave. These people are friends."

"They're Mayas, you know," Dave said, his eyes blazing. "We've found Yucatan after all, pal."

"I know, I know," Neil said excitedly. He turned to the old Maya and pointed at him.

"This is Talu."

The old man smiled. "Talu."

Dave caught on and pointed to himself. "Dave."

Talu nodded.

"I think he's a big wheel," Neil whispered to Dave. "He orders these other guys around like waiters."

"Probably a priest," Dave murmured.

Neil snapped his fingers. "That's it! I should have known. He is a priest, I'll bet."

Suddenly the street seemed to fill itself with milling bodies. They gathered around the group of strangers, inquisitive brown eyes taking in the curious scene.

Talu addressed the people softly as Neil looked over the crowd. The men were dressed differently than either Talu or the soldiers. They wore a waist garment that passed between their legs, and their chests were bare except for a square mantle thrown over the shoulders.

Skilfully embroidered into the ends of the waist covering with colored threads, were complicated designs—and some of the men had feathers colorfully decorating their garments in intricate mosaics.

The women's garments extended far enough up to cover the base of their chests. Many of them wore colorful jewelry.

Neil noted with surprise that many of the men and women were tattooed on their faces.

Talu went on speaking to the people, and they listened quietly. When he had finished, they took up a chant, waving their arms over their heads.

Then they began laughing and shouting, and running off to various parts of the city, leaving the street almost deserted again, with the dust leaping into the air in playful gusts.

Talu spoke to Neil. Neil listened carefully and then shrugged his shoulders.

Dave slapped his forehead. "Oh, no! Wonder boy understands Maya too. He must."

"No, Dave, I don't. Look, he's trying to explain something to us."

Talu had opened his mouth wide, and was now putting his fingers into it. He dropped his fingers, pantomimed the lifting of an imaginary object, and then put his fingers back into his mouth.

"Food," Neil said in sudden understanding.

"I'll be darned," Dave agreed. "The old boy is inviting us to dinner."

They sat at low, rectangular tables piled high with food. Four persons sat at each table on small wooden stools provided by Talu. In addition to the stools, Talu had given each of his guests a cloak of fine feather mosaic work and a painted pottery vase which rested on the table before them.

Neil sat at a table with Erik, Dave, and Talu. The other Norsemen were seated at tables arranged in a large square within a court in front of one of the big buildings.

Food in great variety, some foods that Neil knew and others he could only guess at, stretched out in abundance at each table, and Neil realized that this was no ordinary meal but a banquet prepared in honor of the visitors.

Many different types of meat, all cooked to a succulent brown, melted in Neil's mouth as he tasted each hungrily—deer, wild boar, turkey, small birds that were delicious to the palate.

Bright red tomatoes and sweet potatoes, fat, ripe squashes and juicy beans, avocado pears, plums, papaya, all were spread in colorful profusion before them.

A drink prepared from the cacao bean, boiled with chili pepper before the eyes of the guests and stirred into a froth with a carved stick, was served in great wooden cups.

There was honey, too, in abundance. The only thing Neil missed was bread.

And then the dancing started when they sat back after their meal.

Drumsticks began beating a lively tattoo on various types of drums—a large, slitted, horizontal drum and small round drums, as well as tall, thin ones. Several musicians pounded on turtle shells. A series of flutes, reed, bone, wood, shrieked into being. Large conch shells were pressed to the lips of musicians and blared forth as trumpets. Whistles screamed and calabash mouthpieces were fitted into wooden trumpets. And there were rattles, and together with the rest of the instruments they beat out a wild rhythm while the dancers whirled and gyrated in the center of the square formed by the tables.

The dancers formed a circle, linking hands. Two of the troupe leaped to the center of the circle, one of them armed with slender lances. He drew these back and snapped them across the circle at his partner, his muscles gleaming in the light of the torches, his feet stamping on the paved court in time to the drumbeat. His partner squatted, his feet moving rhythmically, parrying the lances as they came with a small shield no wider than a pole.

Neil watched in fascination as the men in the ring leaped into the air, their feet flashing. The dancers swarmed around them dizzily, then voices raised in a wailing chant. The drums increased in tempo, their beats resounding against the stone building behind Neil. The trumpets blasted loud and clear, shattering the night air with their stridency.

And then, above all this, sounded a shriek, a vicious shriek that electrified the air. It grew in volume, and was joined by many voices raised in shouts and cries.

The dancers stopped, the music trailing off to a weak moan behind them.

Talu leaped to his feet in the glare of the torchlight.

He shouted orders at the Mayas just as a group of unkempt, dirty, leering men burst into the courtyard, spears and daggers bristling from their arms.

Another scream, a scream that could be nothing but a battle cry, wrenched through the night.

matted and twisted, and their bodies were covered with filth. They were almost naked except for tattered, dirty loin-cloths slung haphazardly about their waists. They were barefoot, too, and they ran with the swiftness of a people hardened to a life of wilderness.

It was almost as if Neil were looking at two sides of the same race: one civilized and the other barbaric.

The word barbarian had barely crossed his mind when he felt Talu's slender hand tug impatiently at his arm. Neil turned, and the priest beckoned with his finger. Swiftly Neil followed the old man. Dave and Erik ran after them, along with the other unarmed Norsemen. Talu led them into a stone building resting on a low mound of earth. To Neil's surprise, three Maya soldiers immediately took positions before the single entrance, their spears raised.

"I don't get it," Dave said.

"I imagine they're trying to protect us," Neil suggested. "We're their guests, you know."

"Those other guys don't strike me as being nice playmates," Dave said wryly.

The Mayas and the barbarians seemed to pause momentarily, like players in a tennis match, surveying their opponents for a brief, respectful moment.

Their weapons gleamed dully in the flickering torchlight, and their faces appeared drawn and tired, the way the faces of men in war always look.

Suddenly the battle burst like a balloon filled with blood. There was an insane rush by the barbarians, their feet padding across the court, their voices raised in wild threat. Onward they charged, screaming all the way, their weapons waving over their heads, their bodies sweating freely. They were horsemen without horses, wild in the fanaticism of their reckless charge.

The Mayas held their ground like a solid stone wall, spears extended, swords ready, faces impassive. The barbarians crashed into that wall with the strength of a runaway bull. The wall bent in the middle, swayed backward, and then surged forward again.

The barbarians retreated a little way, then turned and charged again, pitting their frenzy against the stolidity of the Mayas, their faces impassive as the barbarians swooped down again. Swords flashed and screams tore the night. The wall held for an instant, like a frayed rope about to split, and then it ripped apart, men scattering, arms flaying wildly, legs thrashing.

Neil watched as the great battle began in earnest. Man pitted himself against man in a sweating, bleeding, furious struggle.

The Mayas fought in little groups, their arms swinging swords, spears jabbing out, spilling barbarian blood. The barbarians, on the other hand, were like a flooding stream that rushed over everything without direction, without purpose.

Four shaggy, half-naked men seized a Maya and pinned him against the stone wall, their swords slashing again and again until the man hung like a tattered cloth. They turned, the blood fresh on their hands and their swords, swept across the court to where a group of Mayas were battering away at the barbarians who had surrounded them. They leaped over the heads of their fellow men, crashed into the Mayas, two meeting instant death on the tips of spears, the others flailing wildly with their swords.

Then, bursting into the court with a fresh band of heavily padded soldiers, was the captain with the scar on his face, the one Talu had called Baz.

His face was grim, and the scar stood out in vivid relief against the tautness of his cheeks. The light flickered over his face like the fires of hell on the face of a demon.

"Baz!" the cry went up from the Mayas. "Baz!"

Like a fury unleashed, he slashed across the court, his sword cutting a wide swath around him, barbarians falling like grains of wheat before the power of his thrashing arm. His soldiers stamped along behind him, caught in the fire of his charge, men fighting for their city and their home.

A terrible grin split Baz's face in two, and his teeth gleamed, his eyes like two fiery coals embedded in his head. He shouted, his voice tearing through the night like the scream of a motherless coyote. He burst into a group of barbarians, lifting them, throwing them, slicing, cutting, gouging, kicking. The barbarians dispersed, regrouped and charged across the court again.

But this time the Mayas were strong behind the leadership of the screaming, bloodthirsty Baz. Like a tireless machine, they rolled across the court, the barbarians falling before their sharp swords and spears. The stones ran red, and their feet splashed in the blood and they forced the invaders back, back, killing, furious now in their first taste of victory, anxious to annihilate the foe, anxious to pound him into the very stones underfoot.

The back of the barbarian resistance was broken. Like a crippled snake, the foe slithered away from the city, pursued all the way by the ferocious Baz and his warriors.

The screams died on the night, and the smoldering torches faded and winked out, replaced by the cold, hard stars overhead.

The barbarian attack was over.

Neil slept fitfully that night, dreaming of the unkempt invaders and of the warrior Baz.

It was not until three weeks later, when Neil could converse with Talu in a halting, broken version of the Maya tongue, that he learned that those barbarian attacks were not infrequent.

"They come from the south," Talu said, and Neil strained his ears and his mind to grasp the meaning of the Maya language. "They come often, and each time they come in stronger numbers. I fear they will completely overrun the city some day. And then what will become of us? What will happen to the Mayas?"

Neil's knowledge of Maya had not come easy to him. The day after the barbarian attack, Talu had introduced Neil to a boy and a girl of approximately his own age.

Talu had pointed to the boy and said, "Rixal." Neil smiled and acknowledged the name.

The priest had then indicated the young girl and said, "Tela."

Neil nodded profusely and repeated both names, "Rixal," pointing to the muscular, brown-bodied boy, and "Tela," his finger extended toward the shy, grinning girl.

The two of them had taken him under their wings then, two well-appointed teachers who led him around the city, pointing out buildings and courts, plazas and pillars. At first they chattered on and on in Maya, but Neil's ears were deaf to the language.

After a week of constant exposure to the language, he began to pick up simple words and concepts. Words such as, "eat," and "sleep," and "boy," and "girl," and "temple," and "palace."

It was then that Neil learned the pyramid-shaped buildings were temples, and that the clustered rooms atop the low, flat mounds were the palaces of the nobles and city officials. Rixal and Tela were brother and sister, and they lived in one of the palm-thatched huts on the outskirts of the city. Ordinarily they worked in the fields during the day, but they had been chosen to serve as guides for Neil and were thus excused from their normal duties.

Rixal was close to seventeen, and Tela was fifteen.

Neil learned their ages the hard way, during the second week of his education. By that time, his knowledge of Maya had increased enough for him to make his wants known in simple, direct phrases.

They had been eating, and Neil pointed toward a plum, indicating that he wanted one.

Rixal reached into the wooden bowl and scooped three plums into the palm of his hand.

"No," Neil said in Maya. Then, not knowing the Maya word for one, he shook his head and held up one finger.

Rixal understood immediately and handed Neil one plum. And that had started them off on numbers and the Maya system of counting.

They sat at a low table in front of one of the temples, the table having been set up in the court for Neil and his guides. Rixal rose and tugged at Neil's hand, leading him to a patch of dry earth beyond the court. He knelt then, and held up one finger.

Neil nodded.

With the end of a stick, Rixal poked into the sand, making a large dot. He pointed to the symbol, •, and held up one finger again. Neil smiled and nodded.

Rixal then held up two fingers and poked into the dried earth again, twice this time. ••.

Neil nodded in understanding again. Rixal repeated the process until he was holding up four fingers, with four dots in the sand.

Then he held up five fingers. He moved the stick across the sand in a long mmmm symbol.

Neil understood that the bar was five. Rixal dropped the stick near his knees, held up five fingers of one hand and one of the other, and made the symbol ^¿^1 in the earth. This was six. It continued: hSm ^was

eight; ¡¡221 was ten; 55E ^was nineteen.

Neil understood now and drew some symbols in the sand to show that he knew what they meant. Rixal was delighted, and he chattered in rapid Maya to Tela, who was no longer shy in Neil's presence.

Then Rixal dragged Neil to one of the huge pillars embedded in the earth at various spots around the city. He pointed to the faces carved on the stone, and began holding up fingers again. Neil realized that there was probably a face symbol for each number, too, but he had had enough teaching for one day.

He held up his hands in protest, and Rixal and Tela laughed uproariously. They went back to their fruit, and Neil made a mental note to look into the Maya face symbols at a later date. It was while they were eating that he used his new-found knowledge to scrawl his age on the table top with a charred stick, using the bars and dots system that Rixal had taught him.

The weeks seemed to float by lazily. Neil was so busy with his sight-seeing and his absorption of the language that he'd almost forgotten about Dave, Erik, and the time machine. One day, he went down to the beach alone, walking through the forest, and making sure he marked a trail this time.

The machine stood on the white sand, its rotors still badly twisted, the surf whipping whitely onto the beach behind it. The ocean was a clear green, stretching as far as the eye could see. Neil stood on the edge of the forest, looking at the machine and the ocean, his heart suddenly filling with a terrible loneliness for home. He walked to the machine and opened the hatchway.

"Dave," he called.

"Yeah?" came the shouted answer.

"It's Neil."

"Hiya, stranger. Just a second, I'll be right down."

Neil waited while Dave climbed down the aluminum ladder. When Dave stepped out into the sunlight, he grinned in near-embarrassment and extended a grimy hand toward Neil.

Realizing that the hand was covered with grease, he withdrew it hastily and wiped it on the back of his dungarees.

He held it out again and Neil gripped it tightly.

"Long time no see," Dave said.

"They've been showing me around the city," Neil explained, feeling a little awkward. He was usually asleep by the time Dave returned at night, and Dave was up and gone long before Neil awoke. "I've been learning a lot."

"Good," Dave answered in earnest honesty. "You'll have a lot to tell your father when you get back." His face clouded. "If we get back," he added.

"Is it that bad?" Neil asked, looking at the rotors at the top of the machine.

Dave's eyes followed Neil's to the twisted rotors. "Oh, I can fix that, all right. I think. It'll just take a lot of heat and some steady pounding. I'm worried about the time mechanism."

"Has something happened to the crystal?" Neil asked, a faint touch of panic in his voice.

"That's just it," Dave replied. "I don't know. I've been over every inch of the panel and I can't find the trouble. She's as dead as yesterday, though; that's for sure."

Neil hesitated. "Think you can fix her?"

"I don't know," Dave replied slowly. He grinned. "How'd you like to spend the rest of your life in Chichen-Itza?"

Neil gulped hard. "I ... I ... is there a possibility we might have to?"

"A strong possibility," Dave said, suddenly sobering.

"Well... I suppose if we have to . . ."

Dave clapped Neil on the shoulder. "Say," he said, changing the subject, "I am glad you came down to the beach. I've been dying for a cigarette all morning, and you have my lighter." He held out his hand.

Neil dug into his back pocket and fished out Dave's lighter. Dave took a cigarette from a crumpled package and put it between his lips. He clicked the lighter and the top snapped up, but no flame appeared.

"Darn," he said.

He pressed down again, the top rising to expose the wick, a faint spark snapping momentarily into life.

"I really should throw this away," Dave said, "but I've had it since the Army."

"Sentimentalist," Neil joked.

"Yeah," Dave said, "just sentiment. I agree." He pressed down with his thumb again, and this time a weak flame sprang up. Quickly he cupped his hand around the flame and lighted the cigarette, dropping the top over the wick immediately to conserve fuel.

"Here you are, my boy," he said. "Keep it well." He gave the lighter back to Neil.

"Maybe you'd better hang onto it," Neil suggested.

"Nope. I've got about eight cigarettes left. If I had the lighter, I'd smoke them all in a few hours. This way, I can only afford that luxury when you're around."

"Okay." Neil pocketed the lighter again.

"Say," Dave exclaimed, "about time for chow, isn't it? Come on, I'll walk you back to the city."

They started back through the forest, Dave leading the way.

"I know this woods like the back of my hand now," Dave said. "I can even find my way back at night."

They walked in silence most of the way, while the monkeys swung in the trees overhead, gossiping noisily.

When they reached the edge of the forest, the city in plain view, Neil stopped and faced Dave. His face was serious, and his blue eyes looked into Dave's searchingly.

"Dave. Will we really have to spend the rest of our lives here?"

Dave squinted at Neil, concern on his features. He rubbed a hand over his broken nose as he said, "I don't know, Neil." Softer, then, "I don't really know."

They walked into the city, and Dave left Neil as he went to wash up. Neil saw Erik standing beside a tall tree, talking to Talu, or at least trying to talk to him.

Talu was shaking his white-thatched head vigorously when Neil approached. "What's the trouble?" Neil asked in Swedish.

Erik grinned and ran a big hand through his fiery beard.

"Nothing, Neil. I was just asking our friend if he would feel safer if my men and I gave him our weapons again."

"And?" Neil asked.

"You saw," Erik said. "He refuses. He thinks we need our weapons for protection in the woods."

"What's there to fear?" Neil asked Talu, switching tongues.

"Many animals," Talu said. "Jaguars . . ."

He stopped, his eyes glued in fascination to the branch of the tree overhead. His words seemed to catch in his throat, and they gave way to a slight intake of breath, an almost soundless cry.

Neil's eyes darted rapidly to the hanging branch.

Curled there, the powerful muscles of its body wrapped tightly around the branch, slithering downward, jaws opened wide, flat, ugly eyes dull, fangs pointed and bared, was an enormous green snake.

Neil gasped as the snake reared back and halted in its downward glide.

With a quick sideward motion, Neil threw Talu to the ground, tumbling on top of the priest.

"Erik!" he screamed. "Be careful! A snake!"

The flat, ugly head drew back like the taut string of a bow.

Then, without warning, its jaws stretched wide to reveal a yawning red chasm, its fangs gleaming whitely, it struck!

There was a dull sound and the ax connected with the flashing head. This was followed immediately by a slight squishing noise as the ax sank into flesh.

And then there was no more head threatening—only a great writhing, twisting body that hung from the branch, thrashing wildly, blood spurting from the severed end of the body.

On the ground the jaws of the severed head snapped open and shut in a convulsive last burst of energy. The muscles of the body shook in convulsion, tightened on the tree, seemed to squeeze the branch in a powerful grip, and then loosened completely.

The body dropped to the earth, writhing once in the dust and then it lay still, a pool of blood soaking into the ground beneath it.

Neil let out his breath.

Erik, his face covered with sweat, his eyes tired, dropped the ax to the ground and helped Neil and Talu to their feet. His arm tightened around Neil's shoulder.

"My friend," he whispered. "I thought I would lose you."

Talu was still trembling, his thin body shaking like a hollow tube in the wind.

He reached out and touched Erik's arm.

"Thank you," he said. He looked down at the still body of the snake. "You are mightier than the serpent, stranger." His body shook in a new spasm.

Neil tried to grin, but his teeth were still chattering.

"Let's eat," he suggested, but he didn't feel hungry.

» * * e #

It was four days later when Erik approached Talu about the food.

"How much food will you need?" Talu asked.

"Enough for my crew. That is all."

"And how long is your journey?"

Erik thoughtfully considered this. "Many months," he said at last. "At least eight."

Talu sighed deeply and said, "Come with me, friend."

He led him to a square stone building before which two soldiers stood. The soldiers touched their foreheads as Talu approached, admitting him to the building, along with Erik and Neil.

The room was dark, and a soldier inside hastily lighted a torch. Neil waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness, the single torch providing very little light.

Lining the walls of the room were baskets of food. Fruit, vegetables, jars of honey and crushed chili. Hanging from pegs set into the wall were cured meats and fowl. Neil thought he recognized a few monkeys.

"This is our storeroom," Talu explained.

"Then you will supply me?" Erik asked.

Talu sighed again. "My friend, you have saved my life, and I am eternally grateful to you. Anything you ask for, I will grant. Gold, fabric, water, weapons."

He paused, wrung his thin hands together, and added, "Anything but food."

Erik stared at him curiously.

"This is our entire stock until the harvest. We have not yet begun to plant, and the harvest is a long way off. Already my people are eating less, trying to prolong our food supply."

Neil looked around the room again, and noticed that there wasn't really as much food as he had first imagined. Not enough, at any rate, to keep an entire city alive for many months.

"How many men are there in your crew?" Talu asked.

"Twenty-seven, counting myself," Erik answered.

"Feeding twenty-seven men for eight months would require a great deal of food."

"But you feed us while we are here," Erik said. "What difference if we eat it here or if we take it with us?"

"We hunt daily," Talu answered. "And we add other foods to the storeroom in small numbers whenever we can. I would have to give you much meat from our storeroom, if you were to leave. If you stay, I can feed you from the small amount we bring in daily."

Erik nodded. "How soon will you plant?" he asked.

"A month, two months. When the fields are ready."

"And after the harvest?"

"If the gods are good," Talu said, "and if there is a good harvest, I will give you all the food you will need for your journey."

Erik stroked his beard. "I will have to wait, I suppose," he said.

"I know you are anxious to rejoin your own people,'' Talu said softly. "I hope it will be soon, my friend."

They left the storeroom, Erik silent as he walked beside Neil.

"I will tell my men," he said to Talu at last. "And you are not angry?"

"Your people come first. I understand," Erik answered simply.

Together, he and Neil went to join the waiting Norsemen. They sat at the edge of the forest, their faces anxious.

Erik stood in the center of the Norsemen and rested his foot on a boulder.

Without preamble, he said, "The Mayas have very little food. We must wait until after their harvest before we can sail."

The sailors began talking among themselves, their low grumbling reaching Neil's ears.

Olaf stepped forward as spokesman for the crew. His face was completely healed now, his eyes no longer puffed and discolored.

"When will the harvest be?" he asked.

"Several months from now," Erik answered.

"And we must wait until then?"

"Yes."

Olaf's mouth curled into a sneer. "Why?" he demanded, and the word was picked up by other sailors in the crew. "Why?" they wanted to know.

"I've already told you," Erik said patiently. "The Mayas have little enough food for themselves. They can hardly be expected to give us . . ."

"They are lying," Olaf snarled. "I have seen their food with my own eyes. An entire room full. There is everything . . ."

"I have seen the room too," Erik said, an edge to his voice now. "And I have heard the words of their priest. There is barely enough in that room to last them until the harvest."

"There is more than enough," Olaf protested.

A faint smile flicked at Erik's mouth. His hand dropped to the head of his ax and rested there. "Do you call me a liar?" he asked Olaf.

"No. I merely say there is enough . . ."

"And I say there is not. Do you doubt my word?"

For a moment Olaf seemed ready to rebel. Suddenly he changed his course of action. "What if there isn't enough for the Mayas? There is enough for us."

"Yes," the sailor with the patch over his eye spoke up. "What do we owe the Mayas?"

"They are savages," Olaf said, his eyes sparkling proudly.

"They are our friends," Erik replied softly.

"If they are our friends, why are we kept prisoners?"

"We are not prisoners. They've given us our weapons," Erik reminded the squat Norseman.

"And we should put these weapons to good use," Olaf said, twisting the logic behind Erik's words. "There are only two soldiers guarding the storeroom. We could easily overpower them and take what food we . . ."

"You would suggest, then," Erik said, the grin on his face once more, "that I turn captain of a band of thieves."

"I would suggest," Olaf countered, "that you lead your men home." Erik drew himself up to his full height and his big hand tightened on the head of his ax. "And I would suggest," he added, "and this is to be the final suggestion today, that you hold your vicious tongue.

"We are not sailing until we can sail with a full ship. That will be after the Maya harvest."

Olaf opened his mouth to speak again, but Erik cut him short. "I would hate to have to bury my second officer on alien soil."

The sailors laughed at this, their voices ringing throughout the little glade.

Olaf, somehow, didn't seem to think it was funny. He stalked off into the woods, his dark eyes smoldering.

That afternoon, Neil saw his first Maya basketball game. Or at least, he was always to remember it as a basketball game.

Rixal and Tela were bursting with enthusiasm when they came to usher him to the event.

"But what is it?" Neil asked, being rushed along by Rixal and Tela.

Tela, her pretty face shining with happiness, said, "The game. The nobles will play Tlaxtli! Hurry, hurry, they will have started."

She took one of Neil's hands, and with Rixal grasping the other, they rushed across the city.

Rixal said, "They will begin playing soon."

Hastily, they led him to a large court with small temples at either end of it. Lining the sides of the long court were two massive stone walls. Rixal and Tela brought Neil to the top of one of the walls, and there they sat and looked down at the court.

The top of the wall was at least three feet thick, and they sat there comfortably, Neil wondering what would happen next.

"I will explain briefly," Rixal said.

"Let me explain," Tela interrupted, her face split in a grin.

"Men do the explaining," Rixal said solemnly. Tela clasped her hands impatiently in her lap and waited for Rixal to begin.

"The court is 180 yards long," Rixal started.

"One hundred and ninety" Tela corrected.

"One hundred and ninety yards long," Rixal went on, "and forty yards wide."

"And these walls, this one and the one opposite, are very high," Tela said excitedly.

"Twenty-seven feet high," Rixal added.

Tela pointed to the wall opposite, "That is the eastern wall," she said.

"And that is a temple surmounting it," Rixal added.

"The Temple of the Jaguars," said Tela.

Neil looked across to the temple at the southern end of the opposite wall. It was neat and small, with a frieze work of stalking jaguars and shields on its front.

"But what's the game all about?" Neil asked.

"We're coming to that," Rixal said impatiently.

"Do you see those rings in the walls?" Tela asked.,

Neil looked to the place she was pointing. High on the side of each wall, midway between the ends, was a large stone ring fastened vertically to the face of the wall.

"Yes," Neil said, "I see them."

"Well, the object of the game is to . . ."

"Here come the players!" Tela burst out excitedly.

Twelve men stepped onto the court, touching their foreheads to each of the temples as they stood at attention. Then six men walked to one end of the court, while the other six went to the opposite end.

"There is the ball," Rixal said, pointing to a regally dressed Maya who stood on the wall and dropped a rubber ball into the court.

Immediately both teams burst into action. They raced for the ball, hitting it with their hands, slapping it high up on the wall.

"What are they trying to do?" Neil asked.

"They're trying to get the ball into the . . . oh! He almost did it," Tela cried. "He almost did it, Neil." She was pounding on his shoulders with her small hands.

"Into the what? What did he almost do?"

"They're trying to hit the ball through the ring. It is very difficult," Rixal solemnly said.

The players wore pads on their hips, and they hit the ball with their hands or their hips, sending it flying against the wall and bouncing madly around the court.

"They are not very skilful," Rixal said. "The better players are not allowed to use their hands at all. They must hit the ball only with their hips."

The game went on, and Neil felt himself rising from his seat in excitement every time the ball came anywhere near the ring.

At the end of the match, he had yelled himself hoarse, arid he was disappointed that neither side had succeeded in driving the ball through one of the rings.

"They are not very skilful," Rixal repeated.

"Besides," Tela said, "it is better that no one scored. It is very difficult, and a player who drives the ball through the ring is allowed to take the clothes of any of the onlookers."

"Really?" Neil asked.

"Yes," Tela said, nodding her head. "It is very difficult, you know."

Neil thought of basketball games back home, and wondered how it would be if the players demanded the spectators' clothes every time they scored a basket. He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.

"Why do you smile?" Rixal asked.

"I was thinking of a game we have in my land," Neil said. "A game similar to this one."

"Is it exactly like Tlaxtli?" Tela asked.

Neil smiled again, thinking of the clothes of the spectators. "No," he admitted, "it's a little different, I think."

That night, after supper, Neil started through the forest on his way to the beach. He was anxious to see Dave again, and to find out how work on the time machine was progressing.

Like Dave, he had come to know the forest well. There was no longer any need to mark a trail, and he padded through the woods at ease, listening to the monkeys, watching for tapirs, or peccaries, or an occasional fleeting deer.

He was startled to hear the sound of voices coming from a clearing in the woods.

Cautiously, he tiptoed closer, careful to avoid dead twigs or branches underfoot.

The voices were Swedish and Maya. First a man spoke in Swedish. Then another man translated into Maya. A third man answered in Maya which was rapidly translated into Swedish. This puzzled Neil. Apparently, some of the Norsemen were talking to a group of Mayas.

The sun was slowly sinking in the west, and the trees cast long shadows through the forest. All was silent except for the small noises of the insects and the voices from the clearing.

He crept closer and hid behind a huge boulder.

He was surprised to hear Olaf's voice, and he peeked over the boulder to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Olaf stood before ten or twelve of the Norse sailors, talking to a Maya soldier. Behind the Maya were several other soldiers, dressed in their customary quilted covering.

"Why do you keep us here?" Olaf asked. "What is there to gain?"

A Norseman translated, and the Maya answered.

"You are right. We gain nothing by your presence. But I do not follow your plan."

"There is no plan," Olaf said. "There is only a group of men lonely for the sight of their own land. Our captain would wait for the harvest. And do you know why?"

"Why?" the Maya asked.

"So that the fruits of your labor will go into our ship. So that new fruit, new vegetables, and fresh meat can be taken with us when we sail. Your labor will feed our men."

"I don't understand," the Maya said.

"It is simple," Olaf went on. "We would leave now, taking with us whatever stores you can spare. We do not ask for much, only enough to take us on our journey, safely home."

"We have very little food," the Maya answered.

"Yes, but if we take a large part of your harvest with us when we leave, how much food will you have next year at this time?"

The Maya shrugged. "Next year is next year," he said. "We will worry then."

"You will worry," Olaf said, "and you will starve too. Talu, your priest, refuses us food now because he knows the wrath of your people will descend on him if he squanders when the supply is low."

"So?" the Maya asked.

"So he waits until the harvest. But remember that our captain saved Talu's life when he slew the serpent. Talu is grateful. When there is food in abundance, he will shower our captain with it, not thinking ahead to the hungry days in the future."

"I did not think of this," the Maya said slowly.

"Here is what we want," Olaf said. "Enough food to see us home, not the food in surplus we would get after the harvest. Just enough, mind you. Not so much that you will be left starving. Just enough."

"But there is not very much," the Maya replied.

"There is enough for our small wants," Olaf insisted. "We would eat as much if we stayed right here in the city."

"Talu would forbid it," the Maya said.

Neil peered out over the rock, trying to see the face of the Maya. The man had his back to Neil, and it was already growing dark in the forest so he could not tell who it was.

"I know he would forbid it. He prefers to squander your food after the harvest. That is why I come to you." "I do not understand."

"You are a powerful warrior. We would like to enter your storehouse, take the food we need, and sail. We would like your help."

"How can I help?"

"By overpowering your own men. You are a captain. You can explain later that this was for the best. The people respect you."

"But Talu is a priest."

"He is a man, not unlike you. Except that you are stronger. And better liked."

Neil's eyes opened wide. This was incredible. Olaf was hatching a plot that could destroy the entire amiable balance they had achieved with the Mayas. He strained his ears as he waited for the Maya's reply.

"I am not that powerful," the captain said.

"You are," Olaf insisted. "The people love you. You have saved their homes many times. If you now save them from the starvation Talu would bring, you may be made a general."

"A general," the captain repeated.

"We only need your help. Will we have it?"

The captain hesitated, and Neil waited.

Then, at last, he said, "I will think it over. I will let you know."

"Soon," Olaf said. "We are anxious to sail."

"I will let you know," the Maya repeated.

He turned to leave then, and the last rays of the sun lighted his face in a subdued orange tone.

Neil gasped.

The Maya had a long scar down the length of his face; it crossed the ends of his lips and twisted his mouth sideways, in what appeared to be a comical grin.

Baz! Baz, the ferocious, murderous warrior who had led the rallying attack against the barbarians!

Baz! And Olaf.

"Yes, yes, Olaf. And the captain with the scar." "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, yes. I just heard them. Erik, we've got to do something."

Erik considered this. "Was Olaf alone?" he asked. "No. There were several of your crew with him." "Hm-m-m," Erik murmured.

Neil couldn't contain himself. "What are you going to do? You're not just going to sit there and say 'hm-m-m/ are you?"

"There's nothing I can do," Erik replied. "Olaf will deny it, and the crew he had with him will back him up.

"But you're the captain!" Neil protested.

"A captain must have a crew," Erik explained. "If Olaf convinces the rest of the men that I have unjustly accused him, the trouble will really begin."

"But you can't just sit back."

"Nor can I accuse Olaf until I have definite proof of what he is planning." "But I heard them . . ."

"That's not enough. If I had heard them, Olaf would now be dead."

"You mean you don't believe me?"

"Neil, Neil, of course I believe you. But can I confront Olaf with your evidence and have him deny it before the rest of the crew? Whom will they believe: you or Olaf?"

Neil grimaced disgustedly. "Olaf, I guess."

"There's nothing we can do but wait. We'll watch Olaf carefully, and as soon as he slips . . ."

Erik drew a finger across his throat and made a noise that sounded like "Kitssssk." "We just wait?" Neil asked. "We just wait," Erik answered.

They waited.

The week ended and another week went by, and still Olaf made no move, nor did Neil ever run across him in the forest again.

A third week, and a fourth, and still there was no evidence that anything was out of the ordinary.

Neil began to wonder if he'd actually seen the men that night in the forest. He also wondered if Erik still believed him.

And then Talu came to them with good news.

"We are ready to plant," he said. "Would you like to come to the fields?"

Erik readily agreed, and Neil went along with them, out past the city to the fields lying in wait for the seed.

"Today we shall plant in the fields that are ready," Talu said.

"How do you know when a field is ready?" Neil asked, unacquainted with agriculture.

Talu grinned. "I have given you the wrong impression. Much work has gone into the preparation, and now the work is finished. When the work is finished, the fields are ready for planting."

"What kind of work?" Neil asked.

"Well," said the priest, "first we find an area of virgin bush, not too far from the city, of course. We cut all the bushes and allow them to lie in the sun until they have dried sufficiently."

"Dried sufficiently for what?" Neil asked.

Talu smiled and shook his head at Erik. "Youth," he said. "Always impatient, always in a hurry. Dried sufficiently for burning. When all the vegetation is burned, the area is ready for planting."

"Will you plant all this land?" Neil asked, sweeping his arm in a wide arc.

"No, no," Talu replied, "of course not. A field is planted one year and then it must rest for from two to six years."

"And then?"

"And then the same process is repeated." "But that's no good," Erik said suddenly. Talu turned a surprised face toward the Norseman. "No good? Why not?"

"You are exhausting your soil," Erik said. "I do not understand."

"Why, with every planting your soil becomes poorer. Is your crop not smaller each time you plant in the same field?"

Talu considered this. "Why, yes, but what has that to do with the system we use?"

Erik looked out over the fields, and for a moment Neil thought a faraway look stole into the big Norseman's eyes—almost as though he were looking out over the fields of Sweden.

"I am a sailor," Erik said, "and I know little about the ways of the soil. I can only tell you what my people do. Perhaps that can help you."

"I still do not understand why the soil becomes poorer if ..."

"Let us say you will plant this field with tomatoes this year," Erik said pointing out to the field nearest them.

"Yes?" Talu asked.

"Well.. ." Erik paused. "In my land, there are three large fields. We plant two fields each year. The third rests. It rests to regain its fertility."

"But you are cutting your available farming acreage by one-third," Talu protested.

"True," Erik said. "But you plant all your fields and then allow all of them to rest for a long time. You must seek new fields for each planting every year."

Talu thought this over. "And how does your system work?"

"There are, as I said, three fields. Let us assume you are to .plant tomatoes, squash, beans, and potatoes." Yes, go on.

"We prepare field one in the autumn and plant it with tomatoes and squash. In the spring, we prepare field two and sow it with beans and potatoes. The third field, the one that is resting, is prepared twice, once in the autumn and again in the spring. In the fall it would be sown with tomatoes and squash."

"I understand," Talu said, nodding. "Go on."

"The rest is simple," Erik said. "Both fields one and two would be reaped in the autumn or late summer. Then, while fields two and three were being planted, one would be allowed to rest before again being prepared for sowing, but not sown."

"And this is better?" Talu asked.

"You will be preparing twice as many fields as you reap," Erik said. "But you will not have to search for new fields as often, and your soil will last longer. You see, the field that carried tomatoes and squash last year will be carrying potatoes and beans this year. You exhaust your soil quicker by planting the same crop in the same field, year after year."

"We will try it," Talu said. "And again, I am grateful to you."

They planted that day. There were six fields, and all were ready. Four, following Erik's advice, were planted, while two were left to rest.

There were four gods, Neil learned, to whom the Mayas prayed before sowing the fields. He listened as Talu explained, anxious for word of Kukulcan, the Feathered Serpent. But the lost god was not one of the four.

"They are earth gods," Talu explained. "One is the chief and ruler of all the rest. For each god tiiere is a direction: east, north, west, and south. And for each god there is a color: yellow, red, white and black. In Yucatan there are many forests, and Yumil Kaxob, lords of the forest, are lords of all the country.

"The earth is good," Talu continued, "and the earth is ancient. It was here before we came, ever since the beginning. The lords of the forest are old, too, and they are very wise. We are their grandchildren, and they look after us the way grandfathers do. They send the crops. They fill the woods with things to hunt, and they give us their permission to hunt them.

"They are gentle, and kind, and good. And they ask that we, their grandchildren, pray to them."

Talu paused. "They are also the gods of the rain, and the thunder, and the lightning. They send water from the skies to nourish our plants. When they are angry, they send thunderbolts among us to punish us.

"Each of the gods," Talu went on, "keeps water in a small calabash. He also carries a bag filled with the winds, and a large drum. When he would make it rain, he sprinkles water from the calabash, and the earth is blessed with rain. When he would send a wind, he opens the bag a little. When he would cause the wind to stop blowing, he forces it into the bag again."

"And what of Kukulcan?" Neil asked.

A puzzled frown crossed Talu's face.

"Kukulcan?" he asked.

"Is there no god named Kukulcan?"

"No," Talu said, shaking his head.

Neil felt a great disappointment wash through his body. No Kukulcan. A time trip wasted.

"We are about to pray," Talu said.

Neil looked out over the field where the laborers stood at attention, their eyes glued to the sky. Talu touched his hand to his forehead, then lifted his hand to the sky.

His voice rolled from his throat like a rich peal of thunder.

"Oh, god," he intoned, "my mother, my father, Yumil Kaxob, lord forest, be patient with me, for I am about to do as my fathers have ever done."

A Maya standing near Talu began to burn copal incense in a large cup. Talu took the cup and held it to the sky.

"Now I make my offering to you that you may know that I am about to trouble your very soul, but suffer it, I pray you.

"I am about to dirty you—to destroy your beauty— I am going to work you that I may obtain my daily food. I pray you suffer no animal to attack me nor snake to bite me. Permit not the scorpion or wasp to sting me. Bid the trees that they fall not upon me.

"And suffer not the spear or knife to cut me, for with all my heart I am about to work you."

He touched his forehead again, and the men in the fields did the same. They stood erect for a moment, the silence covering the land like a warm, heavy blanket. And then they began to work, one man walking with a stick and poking holes into the prepared field, the other following behind with seeds which he dropped into the holes.

"The gods will be good," Talu said, looking out over the fields, and watching the teams of Mayas walking rapidly along, sowing the land. "And soon you will be able to go home."

"Amen," Neil muttered under his breath.

They burst into his room that night, Olaf leading three Norsemen and a handful of Mayas.

Olaf seized Neil by his shirt front and yanked him to his feet. Neil shook his head, trying to ward off the sleep that still lurked behind his eyes.

There was no light in the room. The moon cast its dim rays through the window, and long shadows danced on the wall.

"Where is he?" Olaf demanded, his fist tightening in Neil's shirt.

"Who?" Neil asked, glancing from face to face, hard, drawn, desperate. Weapons were out, ready to do murder. The cards were on the table, and Olaf was making his play.

"Erik!" Olaf said. He spit at Neil's feet. "Our proud captain. Where is he?"

"I don't know," Neil said, looking around the stone chamber.

"We are sailing," Olaf boasted, "as soon as we get the food we need."

"You can't. . ." Neil started.

Olaf's open hand slashed across his face, and Neil tasted blood in his mouth.

"But before we leave," Olaf went on, "there are three people to dispose of: Erik, your friend, and you."

Neil lashed out with his fist, reaching for the point of Olaf's jaw.

The sword shaft came down with blinding speed, crushing against the base of his skull. He felt the strength drain out of his body, struggled to keep his feet for an instant, and then toppled to the stone, waves of blackness smothering his senses.

stopped. In the darkness he looked at the luminous face of his watch. Twenty minutes to one.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around the chamber for Dave and . . .

Erik!

A wave of remembrance splashed into his mind. Olaf had been here. He was raiding the storehouse! And he was going to kill Erik!

Neil jumped to his feet and sprinted for the door. He leaped down the steps, stumbling once, picking himself up, and running onward.

Where? Where did they go?

The storehouse! That's where they'd be.

He stopped momentarily, his head twisting from side to side in panic as he tried to determine his surroundings.

To the left. The storehouse was to the left.

Like a worried ant, Neil spurted off to his left. The streets were deserted. Night hung over Chichen-Itza like an inky cloak. The storehouse loomed ahead on its earthen platform, silhouetted against the moon.

Neil started up the steps, two at a time, his breath raging in his lungs. At the top of the steps he found the two soldiers sprawled out. One had a dagger jutting out of his chest at a curious angle. The other's head had been split down the middle.

Neil's heart leaped into his throat. Quickly he darted inside the building.

The place was a mess, baskets strewn all over the floor, meat lying in the dust, fruit rolling under his feet. He stepped on a tomato, squashed it, almost fell.

They had been there already. Where did they go? Where now?

The ship! The shore!

Turning immediately, Neil ran from the room and down the steps again. His footsteps echoed hollowly through the night as his boots clattered against the stones of the city. He ran fast, faster, through the city, in and out of the streets, into the forest.

His feet padded swiftly on the forest floor, the sounds of the insects around him. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the surf as it swelled against the beach.

Erik, his mind shouted. They're going to kill Erik.

He stopped just inside the forest, and ducked behind a tree. His eyes swept the beach. The time machine glistened in the moonlight, one of the rotors straightened already, the other still twisted. Bobbing gently with the waves was the Norse ship, a graceful curve of blackness against the moon.

His back to the ship, his hands behind him, sitting in the sand, was Erik.

Olaf hastily addressed a group of armed Norsemen.

"To the wells! Fill jugs, cups, bags, anything. Bring back water, all the water you can carry. Hurry! I shall stay with our captain."

He laughed maliciously and kicked Erik, then strutted before the helpless man. Neil watched from the forest as the Norsemen fled toward the city.

"We are sailing, my captain," Olaf said. His ax was drawn and in his right hand. "Do you remember when you said you would hate to leave your second officer buried here?"

Erik remained silent, and Olaf kicked him viciously.

"Do you remember, Captain? It was a joke. Everyone laughed. Do you remember?" he shouted.

"I remember," Erik said softly, his teeth clenched.

"It's still a joke," Olaf continued, chuckling a little now. "Only the joke is on you. It is the captain who will be buried on alien soil, and not the second officer."

Erik stared at Olaf, the hate in his face drawing his lips into a tight line.

"Laugh, Captain," Olaf commanded. "It is a joke."

Erik continued staring.

"Laugh," Olaf shrieked, and his hand came down in a powerful blow that caught Erik on the side of his face.

"Untie me, you scum!" Erik said. "Then we will see who laughs."

Untie! The word ran through Neil's mind like a blaze of fire. Quickly he picked a large stone from the forest floor. He stepped out from behind the tree and threw the stone with all his might. It arced overhead, clearing the deck of the Norse ship and splashing into the water on the side opposite Erik.

Olaf's head snapped back.

"What was that?" he shouted.

Neil picked another stone from the leaves at his feet, and waited.

"Who's there?" Olaf shouted at the water.

"A ghost," Erik taunted. "Are you afraid of a ghost, brave one?"

Olaf gripped his ax tightly and started to walk cautiously toward the spot from which the splash had come.

As soon as his back was turned, Neil darted out of the forest. He didn't look back. On silent feet he ran swiftly across the wet sand. He flopped on his belly at the water's edge, looking over his shoulder then for the first time.

Erik had seen him, and a smile covered his bearded face.

But Olaf was on the other side of the ship, searching for a stone in the Atlantic Ocean.

Noiselessly, Neil slithered into the water, holding his breath and swimming beneath the surface for a short distance.

When he came up for air, breaking water silently, Olaf was standing before Erik again.

"A fish," he said. "It was nothing but a fish, Captain." He laughed loudly. "Soon you will be food for the fishes."

Neil braced his feet on the bottom, reared back, and let the second stone fly toward the forest. It landed in the top of a tree, began dropping, and, in the stillness of the night, sounded like many men tramping through the woods. It rustled the leaves, cracked against the branches, dropped recklessly, and landed with a sharp crack on the forest floor.

Olaf turned quickly.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "Who's there?" "Your fish has moved into the forest," Erik said.

"Silence," Olaf commanded sharply. He took a step toward the forest. "Speak up!" he roared. "I am armed."

There was no sound from the forest.

As Olaf stepped closer, Neil ducked under the surface of the water, swimming toward Erik. Reaching the shore, he gripped the bottom with his hands and, still underwater, pulled himself up in the shadow of the Norse ship. He lifted his head. Erik was directly in front of him and Olaf, his back to the water, still walked toward the forest.

Quickly, without saying a word, Neil moved his fingers over the rope binding Erik's hands. He found the knot and tugged at it.

Olaf turned, and Neil ducked his head.

"Watch, Captain," he said, more to his unseen foe in the forest than to Erik, "I am about to cut off the head of an eavesdropper."

"A fish," Erik shouted back, as Neil worked on the knots. "A flying fish with his nest in the trees."

The rope fell from Erik's hands, and he moved his wrists behind him as Neil ducked into the water again.

Olaf swaggered back and stood before Erik. "It must have been a bird," he said.

"And did you not behead it, brave one?" Erik asked.

Olaf's face went solemn. "Do not joke, Captain. Right now my men are getting water. The Mayas have gone to gather up your unconscious Neil and his friend."

"And then?" Erik asked.

"Then I will have the pleasure of watching three beheadings."

"Yes," they shouted. "Yes," and their voices were loud and their eyes bright.

"Then to the city, and God be with you. To the city!"

They ran swiftly through the woods, Erik and Neil leading the way, with the battle-hungry Norsemen behind them.

The city was a scene of chaos. Fire leaped from every building, the flames dancing like painted maniacs. There was fighting everywhere, women screaming and running through the streets, snatching for their children to draw them into shelter. An old man clutched at his long skirt and fled in panic, a band of barbarians in close pursuit, screaming, hooting and roaring their blood cries.

This was psychological warfare at its best. The barbarians had utilized the element of surprise to its fullest, attacking in the dead of night while the city slept, their faces grisly masks of color—red, white, and black. They screamed, hissed and shouted. They shook rattles and pounded drums. The furor was as if a gigantic, wild beast had been loosed, striking terror to the heart of every Maya.

Shaken from their sleep by this noisy war machine, the Mayas fled in disorganized panic as the barbarians covered the streets and the buildings like swarming insects. Torches swinging in their hands lit up the night as they cut a bloody path through the city.

Neil's eyes took in separate details, his glance following one bloody scene to another. Here, a group of barbarians clawed at the garments of an old woman, throwing her to the ground and pinning her there with their spears. There, three Maya soldiers fell into the hands of a dozen barbarians, who quickly beheaded them and hoisting the heads aloft on spear points, ran shouting through the city.

A young Maya girl, her long black hair streaming behind her, blood gushing from her torn lip, screamed wildly as a barbarian threw her over his shoulder and ran triumphantly through the streets.

Baskets of food were thrown from the storehouse, the barbarians stamping their feet into the fruit and vegetables, overturning jars of honey.

Maniacally, like obsessed fire bugs, they put the torches to everything in sight, fire carrying its terror from building to building.

Erik's eyes flicked over the picture. And then, bellowing like a wounded bull, he charged out of the forest and into the midst of the battle. The Norsemen followed behind him, their voices raised thunderously.

From the other end of the city, almost simultaneous with Erik's rush, came a battle cry now familiar to Neil. It was Baz, the warrior and conspirator, fighting again for his homeland in a time of danger. He swung a sword at his side and led a band of Mayas into the fight, pushing them forward with the sheer drive of his own energy.

A barbarian snatched a golden necklace from a Maya woman, as a huge shadow fell across his body. His eyes opened wide in terror at the sight of the bearded giant that stood before him. He started to run, but the ax was too quick, descending with an ominous swish. His head rolled to the pavement.

Erik struck again and again, his fists and his ax lashing into the barbarians. He stood like a red-bearded fury, arms flailing, bodies falling to his right and left.

Neil hacked his way to Erik's side, and together they lashed out at the enemy. Now, forced back by overwhelming numbers, the Norsemen backed up against a stone wall in one of the courts.

From the other side of the city, retreating slowly under the weight of the pursuing barbarians, came Baz and his men.

Slowly, both forces joined in a semicircle against the wall. The barbarians withdrew, and Baz came to stand beside Neil and Erik. His quilted padding was slashed down the front and a line of red streaked across his chest.

"You are wounded," Erik said.

"Another scar," Baz laughed. "I collect them." He looked at the long gash Olaf had inflicted on Erik's arm. "And your arm?"

Erik returned Baz's laughter. "I am becoming a collector too."

"I prefer to collect barbarian heads," Baz said, the grin still on his face. Somehow, he looked handsome, in spite of the scar that twisted his features.

"You'll have the opportunity to collect plenty," Neil said solemnly. "Here they come."

The barbarians charged across the court, their rattles shaking wildly. Neil recognized the blast of a conch horn, and suddenly, the enemy was upon them, clawing, swinging, slashing.

A grisly-faced soldier reached for Neil's throat with grimy fingers. Neil kicked out, his foot connecting with the barbarian's stomach. He doubled over, and the head of Neil's ax came down on his skull. On his left another barbarian swung the flat of his sword against Neil's arm.

Neil wrenched his arm back in pain, the ax toppling out of his hands. The barbarian drew back his sword, ready to swing but Baz interceded, clutching the soldier's neck between his hands and lifting him above the bodies on the floor. With a deft snap, he cracked the man's back over his knee and tossed him aside like a broken matchstick.

Neil lifted a sword from the floor and holding it in both hands, swung it like a scythe before him. On his right, Erik swore in Swedish and swung his ax like a devastating sledge hammer, using now the blade, now the handle, and now the back of the blade, gouging, cutting, stoving in heads. The barbarians retreated to regroup, and the small band waited for the next charge.

"There are too many of them," Neil said.

Around them, fallen Mayas lay over fallen barbarians, their blood seeping into the stones like a muddy red pool.

"We can hold them for a little while," Erik said.

"Here they come!" Baz shouted.

Again the horn. Again the rattles. Again the painted faces and the swinging arms, the sweating torsos, and the gleaming axes.

Ax met sword, metal against obsidian, arms locked together, arching, straining bodies. The shouts went up again, and the screams and the gurgles of men who were losing arms and legs. And lives.

Two barbarians flung themselves at Erik's head, and he shook them off like flies. They charged at him again and this time Erik caught one with his ax against the side of the cheek, while Neil ran the other through with his sword.

"Baz!" Neil shouted suddenly. "Look out!"

A barbarian had leaped from the wall behind, his body poised in the air for a moment and then crashing down heavily on Baz's shoulders. Baz crumpled like a wet newspaper as the barbarian scrambled to his feet, a dagger flashing in his right hand.

Neil lunged with his sword, but not soon enough to prevent the dagger from sinking into Baz's chest. The barbarian pulled the dagger back, slapped Neil aside with his free hand, and plunged it into Baz's chest again. Baz jerked convulsively as Neil stumbled to regain his footing. Again the barbarian snapped the dagger back, and Neil recognized it for the first time as a retrieved Norse weapon.

The barbarian crouched and crept forward. Neil scrambled for his sword, his mind paralyzed with a sudden muscle-gripping, nerve-shattering fear.

Baz's legs lashed out, twining about the barbarian's waist, and twisting until the man fell to the stones, Baz's fingers went to his opponent's throat. He squeezed tightly, but then Baz's face went suddenly white as all life flooded from his body. His hands dropped limply, falling on his chest.

The barbarian jumped to his feet. But Neil had a sword this time, and it swung out in a whistling arc, catching the barbarian across his chest. A gaping hole appeared in his right side, and he stared at it in disbelief. The sword swung around again, and the barbarian collapsed beside Baz, the dagger rattling harmlessly to the stones.

"More," Erik shouted. "Careful, Neil."

They came again, a gigantic human steam roller that rumbled across the small court.

Neil fought beside Erik, his arms tired with the weight of the heavy sword. The barbarians pressed forward, pushing, thrashing, then falling back again.

"We can't hold out much longer," Neil said, glad for the momentary respite.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a minor skirmish on the other side of the court. Four barbarians were crowding around a figure with a sword. The figure lashed out, stepping in and felling one of the invaders. He turned, ran a few feet toward Erik and Neil, and then stopped again to face the pursuing barbarians. His sword flicked out, and another man fell. More barbarians joined the pursuers, reaching for the battling figure. It turned and ran for the circle of defenders again, and moonlight splashed on a broken nose.

"Dave!" Neil shouted. He slapped Erik on the shoulder. "It's Dave."

Erik leaped over the pile of bodies that formed a barricade before them, and Neil was just a step behind him. They ran across the yard, joined their weapons with Dave's and plowed into the barbarians.

Then, turning swiftly, they ran back to the barricade.

Neil saw it was pitifully manned. Half a dozen Norsemen and a handful of Mayas had dragged benches and tables with them and piled them up behind the fallen bodies. They crouched behind these now, waiting for the next barbarian assault.

"This is it," Neil said. "This is the last one."

"I've been searching high and low for you," Dave said. "This lone wolf business doesn't appeal to me." He wiped a bloody hand over his torn shirt. "These guys are all over the city."

Erik looked across the court where the barbarians were rallying their strength.

"What are they doing now?" Neil asked.

"They're waiting," Dave said. "They're taking no chances this time. They're waiting until the rest of the boys in the city join them. Then there'll be one last rush."

"And if it succeeds," Erik said, "there will be no more resistance. The city will be theirs."

They glanced nervously across the court. Barbarians poured in from the streets, joining their fellows and waiting for more men and more arms. They began pounding on their drums and shaking their rattles.

"What can we do?" Neil asked. "We'll never survive another charge."

"Look at them. There must be hundreds of them. What are they waiting for?"

"Probably an omen from the skies to . . ." Neil stopped short, his mouth hanging open. He gripped Dave's shoulder. "The machine!" "What?"

"From the skies! We'll drop down on them with the machine, Dave."

"What! Don't be ridiculous, Neil. The machine needs repairs. We'll never get home if . . ."

"We'll never get home if those men take over the city, either."

"But I don't even know if she'll fly. One of the rotors is still pretty badly twis . . ."

"We've got to try it, Dave."

"Neil, I tell you it's crazy."

Across the court, the drumbeats grew louder.

"They're getting ready," Neil whispered. "Can you hold them, Erik?"

"Where are you going?" Erik asked.

"We've got a powerful weapon." Neil started.

"They charge!" a Norseman shouted. "They charge again."

Across the court, the barbarians leaped to their feet and shouted wildly. Spilling across the court like rolling time bombs, they rumbled onward.

Neil leaped over the barricade and shouted, "Come on, Dave!"

Dave cleared the barricade and rushed after Neil as the barbarians swarmed against the few remaining men.

Neil glanced back over his shoulder to see Erik,

tall and proud, his beard blazing defiance, smash out at the attackers viciously.

Then he ran as swiftly as he could until he reached the forest. He didn't even turn to see if Dave was behind him.

"Hurry up, hurry up," Neil shouted.

"She's got to warm up," Dave complained.

"How much longer? Please, Dave, hurry."

They were in the control room of the time machine, and far off in Chichen-Itza the cries of the barbarians rose in exultant fury.

The machine coughed, trembled.

"There it is," Dave said. "You set?"

"For crying out loud, get this . . ."

"Relax," Dave snapped.

He twirled a dial on the panel before him.

Slowly the machine began to rise, leaving the beach far below it. With infinite patience, Dave steered it over the trees and toward the city.

"I don't like this," he said. "This baby is sick, and we're only making her worse."

As if in protest, the machine shuddered again.

"Can't you go any faster?"

"Sure. If you want to land up in those treetops."

The battle noises sounded nearer now, and Neil could see the city from one of the portholes.

"That way, Dave," he shouted anxiously. "They're over that way."

He strained his eyes through the porthole as the machine began to drop.

There, far below, his beard fluttering like a red-gold banner, was Erik. The barbarians plowed into him and he pushed them back. The ring was a tight circle now, and the men fought back to back. The barbarians no longer withdrew. When one man dropped, another jumped into his place.

It would be only a matter of minutes before the tide of bodies would completely overwhelm the small band of defenders.

"Faster," Neil pleaded, "faster!"

The machine dropped with startling speed. Neil headed for the ladder and dropped down into the lower bubble. He threw the hatchway open and shouted wildly.

"Up here! Up here! Hey, you filthy murderers! Up here."

One man saw the machine. His eyes widened in terror, and he screamed and pointed upward. Heads snapped upright, and Neil could see their faces now as they strained their necks, their eyes wide in panic.

Weapons dropped and the barbarians began to disperse.

The machine dropped lower, lower.

"Pull her up, Dave," Neil shouted. "They're beginning to scatter."

There was no answer from the control room.

Below, Neil could see Erik's face raised in wonder and surprise.

"Pull her up, Dave, pull her up."

The barbarians stopped, stared upward. The initial shock was beginning to wear off.

They saw again the blond-headed boy who had fought so desperately on the ground. He was shouting wildly, and they sensed somehow that this strange new weapon was in trouble.

"Dave! We're getting too close. Pull her up!"

"I can't," Dave shouted down from the control room. "I can't budge her, Neil."

Neil peered from the hatchway. Below, the barbarians raised their weapons and shouted angrily as the machine slowly drifted toward the ground.

A loud coughing filled the air as it began to sputter. A frightened bellow escaped the lips of the threatening horde, followed immediately by the sound of backfiring as the machine struggled to stay in the air.

The shots thundered out like the roar of a heavy cannon. Again, and again, blasting into the night, sparks showering from the motor's exhaust.

Immediately there was panic below. The barbarians threw their weapons into the air and scrambled away from the machine, climbing over one another, stumbling, falling, shrieking frantically, as they hurried to escape this monster that bellowed and showered fire.

They ran from the court, and behind them was Erik, his ax slicing away at their backs. And now Mayas began to appear from doorways and from streets.

The barbarians were in full retreat, and the blond giant was chasing them! Surely these were not men to fear, the Mayas reasoned. Surely these were not the bloody murderers who had overrun their city.

With new courage they flooded the streets, taking up the chase, their weapons joining Erik's as the barbarians fled in wild disorder.

Neil watched them flee, the Mayas in close pursuit. He wiped his brow and grinned. Dave dropped the machine to the ground and slowly came down the aluminum ladder.

Together, they stepped through the hatchway into the coolness of the night. In the distance the shouts of the barbarians still pierced the night in terror.

"Well," Dave said, "that's that."

"That's that," Neil agreed. But his mind was troubled with the persistent thought that the barbarians would return some day. And next time there might not be a time machine here to save the city.

All at once he felt terribly sorry for the Mayas.

Dawn came quickly. The sun poked long red fingers into the blackness of the sky, chasing the shadows, chasing the fear that had lurked in every corner the night before.

But the spoils of war remained, a sickly reminder of what had happened during the long night.

There were the sick and the lame. And the dead. There were the women, wailing women who covered themselves with soot in mourning for their loved ones. The men were buried along with their possessions: a spear, a favorite garment, a piece of jewelry, a bowl of food. In some cases dogs were killed and buried with their masters.

And the city mourned.

There was much to do. The streets were a mass of tangled bodies and drying blood. The women worked hard, scrubbing the stones of the city on their hands and knees, while the men carried the bodies of the dead barbarians to a common burial ground beyond the city.

Fires still smoldered in many of the buildings, and the Mayas persistently fought the flames, carrying jugs of water, stamping at the fires with twigs and blankets.

Neil ran across Talu once. The priest was busily scurrying about the city, supervising the removal of the dead, the extinguishing of the fires, the washing, the cleaning, everything.

"They did a good job," Neil remarked dryly.

"We are thankful to the gods," Talu replied in a strangely solemn voice. "We could have been destroyed."

Neil smiled. "We're still here," he said.

"The gods must be thanked," Talu said, and then he was rushing away again, like a nervous bird with white feathers.

Neil continued walking through the city, watching the Mayas hard at work. He found Erik seated on a low stone step.

The Norseman held one of the barbarian rattles in his big hands, turning it over slowly.

"Loafing?" Neil asked, conscious of the hurried activity around them.

Erik grinned. "Yes," he admitted, "just loafing."

"You deserve a rest," Neil said.

Erik turned the rattle over in his hands. "A curious thing," he said.

"They sure raised hob with those last night."

"Yes. A very effective trick. Yes."

"Psychology," Neil murmured, basking in the sun, feeling the warmth seep into his tired bones.

"Hm-m-m?" Erik asked, his eyes intent on the rattle.

"Psychol . . ." Neil hesitated and shook his head, remembering that this was a concept unknown to the Norseman. "Never mind," he added.

Erik shook the rattle, as if to test its powers.

"You worked greater magic than theirs," he said softly. He paused and turned his piercing blue eyes on Neil. "You can fly, my friend."

"Not I," Neil said. "My vessel does the flying. It only carries me."

"Powerful magic," Erik whispered.

Neil wondered if he should tell Erik about time travel and the twentieth century and America, and ... No. Erik wouldn't understand. It was better to leave such things unsaid.

"In my land," he explained weakly, "we have many such vessels. They are not strange."

Erik's eyes moved to the sky. "To fly," he said softly. "To be able to fly."

"Your people will fly some day too," Neil promised.

Erik's eyes sparkled. "Will they, Neil?"

"They will fly," Neil said. "I promise."

Erik's hands tightened on the rattle, and it split into a hundred brittle pieces. It was, Neil saw, a dried-up squash, hollow, and filled with what appeared to be tiny pebbles. These pebbles clattered to the stone now, spilling from the hollow shell of the rattle.

Erik reached down and held one between his thumb and forefinger.

Neil looked at it closely. It may have been yellow in color once, as parts of it still seemed to be, but it was now more a deep, brownish hue.

"Looks like a corn kernel," Neil exclaimed.

Erik turned the morsel over in his fingers. "Maize," he said simply. "This is maize."

Neil realized that corn was probably still called maize in Erik's time and land. He shrugged and agreed.

"They probably filled the inside with these dried maize kernels to produce the noise."

Erik seemed to be thinking. Suddenly, he said, "The Mayas have no bread." He seemed to remember Neil, turned to him, and added, "Had you noticed, Neil? They have no bread."

"Yes, I had noticed. But what . . ."

"And I'll bet they have no maize, either." Quickly, he stooped and gathered the kernels from the ground into the palm of his hand.

"We must find more of these rattles, Neil. They will help our friends a great deal. Come."

Neil followed Erik, lazily getting to his feet.

They found fourteen rattles and then they searched for Talu. Erik stopped the priest and showed him the kernels in his hand.

"What are they?" Talu asked.

"Maize," Erik replied.

"And what is that?"

"You will plant it," Erik said.

"But why? What does it grow?"

"You plant it, and when its yield is collected at harvest time, I will show you how to use it."

Talu was apparently very busy. He agreed hurriedly. "Yes, yes. All right." His arm darted out and stopped a running Maya. "Get some men," he ordered, "and follow our friend to the fields. He will show you how to plant these seeds."

He smiled at Neil. "I am sorry," he said, "but I must go. There is much to do."

He was off again, fluttering through the streets in great haste. Erik took his Maya workers and headed for the fields. Neil, time on his hands, strolled through the city again.

He met Rixal rounding a corner, and was surprised to see his young guide without Tela. Rixal, too, was in far from high spirits.

"Hi," Neil said, "what's new?"

Rixal bowed his head quickly and continued walking.

"I am busy, Neil," he said.

Neil scratched his head and looked at the retreating Maya. Now, what on earth, he wondered. Why was everyone so busy? The city was fast becoming clean and orderly again. And yet, everyone was running around frantically.

Neil shrugged, then shook his head. Perhaps he would never understand the ways of the Maya. He wandered through the city, observing with wonder the undertone of excitement that seemed to radiate from every passer-by. It was as if ... as if some great preparation were being made.

But for what, Neil wondered.

He was surprised to find himself beside a large well in front of one of the temples. He remembered this as what Rixal and Tela had called "The Sacred Cenote."

He remembered, too, how they had described it in their unique running patter.

"This is The Sacred Cenote," Rixal had said, pointing to the large well. "It is very large."

"One hundred and fifty feet across," Tela had added, nodding.

"And very deep." This from Rixal. "The water level is sixty feet below the ground." "And the depth of the water is thought to be almost as much."

Neil smiled now as he thought again of his enthusiastic guides. On the steps of the temple, just before the gaping mouth of the cenote, several Mayas were working furiously.

Neil's brow creased in curiosity, and he walked closer to the workmen. They seemed to be constructing a platform made of wood. The platform was long and narrow and rested on four stout logs. The workmen bustled about the logs, seeing that they were firmly wedged against the steps. Then one Maya climbed onto the platform, sat there stiffly, and gripped the sides with his hands. Two other Mayas walked to the back of the platform and slowly tilted it upward so that it formed a sort of slide-upon. The lower end of the platform was just above the mouth of the cenote.

Golly, Neil thought. If that man weren't holding on, he'd slide right into the well. He'd better be careful.

At that moment, apparently satisfied that they'd done a good job, the Mayas lowered the platform onto the logs again, and the man Neil was worried about leaped to the ground.

Then, methodically, they began to pile straw and twigs onto the platform, lashing them to the wood with long pieces of braided lianas or vines. The twigs covered the straw and held it in place on the platform. The men tilted the platform again, apparently testing it to see if the bed of straw and twigs would slide off into the well. They rested it on the logs again, after they saw the mat was securely lashed to the platform. Then they began picking up the stray bits of wood and straw that had dropped onto the temple steps.

Neil yawned, suddenly aware of the fact he'd been awake most of the night.

He walked lazily across the city, leaving The Sacred Cenote and the industrious Mayas, and seeking the dark quiet of his own chamber.

He dropped onto the straw mat on the stone floor and was asleep almost instantly.

It was almost dark when he awoke. He glanced at his watch, then rubbed his eyes. Through the small window, the sky was painted a dull gray as twilight reluctantly gave way to night.

He got to his feet and shook the sleep from his body, stretching luxuriantly. Then he walked out of the chamber and down the steps that led to the street.

The city was strangely quiet.

Sleepily, Neil looked down the street to his left. Then to his right. The street was deserted.

Neil scratched his head, a frown beginning to work its way across his face. He looked at his watch again, supposing he'd made a mistake in the time. No, it was only a little past seven. He held his watch to his ear, thinking it had stopped. But the watch ticked away noisily.

Then why were the streets deserted? Perhaps the nobles were playing another basketball game.

But in the dark? Or perhaps . . .

Neil's thoughts were interrupted by the steady thump of a drum. Ra-bohm, it sounded. Ra-bohm. A long pause. Ra-bohm. Pause. Ra-bohm.

In the distance, winding their way through the city like little sparks of light scattered on the streets, Neil could see the glow of many torches.

A mournful dirge rose in the distance, and Neil was alert now, his eyes and ears straining into the darkness.

The torches came closer, and Neil saw the solemn faces of many Mayas, their wailing voices reaching his ears like the sound of a wounded animal. He watched as they filed past, solemn, slow, their faces pale in the light of the torches. Leading them, his long white robe flowing behind him, was Talu.

Slowly they twined through the city like a great snake, step by step, in time with the monotonously slow beat of the drum. Ra-bohm. Ra-bohm.

Neil watched with interest, wondering exactly what was happening. The procession circled the city and stopped at one of the thatched huts on its fringe.

Neil walked down the steps and into the street. He ran to the spot where the procession had halted, and sought out Talu in the crowd. "What's happening?" he asked.

The old priest's face looked like wrinkled parchment. His eyes reflected pin points of light from the torches.

"We are thanking the gods," Talu explained.

Neil nodded. He had learned not to interfere with the religion of the Mayas. It was far different from his own, but they were honest and sincere about it, and he accepted it without question.

He was surprised to see Tela, the young native girl who'd been his guide, step out of the thatched hut. She was dressed in flowing white, and her hands were folded and tightly clasped over her chest. Her eyes were lowered as Rixal led her through the door.

Two men lowered a wooden platform covered with straw and twigs, and two others lifted her and placed her on it gently. She lay back stiffly, her hands still folded on her chest, her eyes closed.

Two men went to the front of the platform and lifted it, as two others did the same at the rear.

"What's Tela doing?" Neil asked Talu.

Again Talu said, "We are thanking the gods."

"But why is Tela dressed in white? Is she part of the ceremony?"

Talus face was emotionless as he said, "The gods have demanded a sacrifice."

"Well, what's that got to do with Te . . ."

Neil's voice caught in his throat. His mind flitted back to the Mayas on the temple steps that afternoon. They had been tilting a platform toward the well— the very platform that Tela was stretched out on now.

They were going to throw Tela into The Sacred Cenote!

Neil gulped hard. Sixty feet down and sixty feet deep!

"Talu," he gasped. "Tell me. Tell me!" he put his hand on the priest's arm. "Is she to be the sacri . . ." Ra-bohm, the drum sounded. Ra-bohm. Ra-bohm.

Talu was silent. He raised his hand, dropped it to his side again, and the procession began moving toward The Sacred Cenote.

Torches gleamed. Faces were drawn and taut. On the platform, gently resting on the shoulders of the Mayas, Tela lay with her eyes closed and her arms folded.

The procession marched past Neil to the beat of the drum. He stared in horror as they wound their way through the city, a glowing spiral of chanting humans.

A cry tore itself from Neil's throat. "Erikl" And then he began to run, sweat bursting out on his body, to leave him cold and damp.

His own voice echoed around the empty stone chamber. "Erik." he called again.

Swiftly he turned and ran out of the room, out of the building, into the street again, pausing before the building, turning his head frantically to look up and down.

Where? Which way? Where, where is he?

In desperation, he shouted, "Erik!" And again there was no answer.

He turned to his left and began running again, his long blond hair whipping over his forehead, his breath struggling into his lungs. "Erik," he called. "Erik."

He ran down a long alley-like street, his shadow thrust before him like an inquisitive, sniffing hound.

Deserted.

He stopped short, whirled around, reversed his direction, and began running again. He stopped in front of a temple, looked to his right and left, and then behind him.

Where was he? Where was he?

"Erik-k-k-k," he screamed, arid his scream came back to him, bouncing from a hundred stones.

Where would I go if I were Erik, he wondered? Where!

The ship! Erik would be down by the beach near the ship.

Stopping only long enough to locate his position in the city, Neil began sprinting for the beach. He was almost at the edge of the forest when a new thought struck him.

The maize. The crops. Erik might be at the fields.

He stopped, forced to make a decision that might cost Tela her life. The beach or the fields. Which?

His mind made the decision rapidly, and he fled toward the city again, over the stones, past the temples, past the palaces, past the basketball court and the Temple of the Jaguars, past the storehouse, running all the way, running, past one well, and then another, past the thatched huts on the fringe of the city.

The clatter of his boots stopped abruptly as his feet dug into earth, his knees pumping, his lungs ready to burst. He ran with the swiftness of the wind, for the life of a girl was hanging in the balance, like a leaf poised to drop from a tree.

The fields stretched ahead, black in the glow of the moonlight.

He stopped at the edge of the nearest field and scanned the entire area. His breath came in short, agonized spurts as his eyes swiftly moved from field to field.

A tall figure was standing far across the field, looking over the land. The moonlight touched a reddish-gold beard and a strong nose.

It was Erik!

Neil tore across the field, leaping over the young plants. Erik's name tore from his lips, and the Norseman looked up curiously.

Neil covered the distance rapidly and stood panting before the blond giant.

"Erik," he gasped. "Hurry. Tela. Sacrifice. Hurry, please."

Erik grinned and playfully mussed Neil's hair.

"A little at a time, my friend. And slowly."

Neil tugged on Erik's arm. "Please, please! We've got to stop them."

"Stop who? What's happening?"

"A sacrifice. A blood sacrifice. We've got to hurry."

Erik grinned, and a horrible dread ran through Neil's body as the Norseman spoke. "What's wrong with a blood sacrifice?" he asked.

Neil's mouth fell open. "Wh... wh... what's wrong? What's wrong?" He gripped Erik's arms, ready to carry the Norseman if he had to. "Don't joke, Erik," . he said in a dull voice. "Don't joke."

"You're getting excited about nothing. In my land we often sacrifice animals. There is nothing wrong with . . ."

"This isn't an animal," Neil shouted, almost frantic now. "It's a girl, Tela. They're going to throw her into the well."

Erik's brows shot up. "What?"

"The girl, the girl," Neil said. "Tela. Hurry, Erik, please."

Erik tore off in the direction of the city, Neil following behind him. The big Norseman had long legs, but Neil kept up with him all the way. They didn't say a word as they tore through the quiet, moon-splashed streets.

Erik stopped suddenly. "Where?"

"That way." Neil's voice was tense as he pointed.

They ran noisily down the street leading to The Sacred Cenote.

The Mayas were bowed in prayer, their backs rounded into little humps as Talu stood on the temple steps and spoke.

Neil and Erik drew up breathless, paralyzed for a moment by the solemn scene before them.

The platform had been replaced on the wooden logs, and Tela rested there, her eyes still closed, her hands folded on her chest. The cenote yawned darkly before the platform, and Tela's head faced the watery chasm.

"... that you may know our thankfulness," Talu was saying, "and that you may cause not our enemies to attack again, O gods .. ."

"We're just in time," Neil said in a whisper.

". . . we offer a sacrifice. It is nothing, O gods, and worthless in your eyes, but we offer it in humbleness and sincerity, and . . ."

Erik's voice sliced throug the solemn air. "Stop!" he bellowed. He ran through the sea of bowed figures, followed by Neil, and leaped to the temple steps.

Talu turned inquisitive eyes toward his guests.

"You disturb the ceremony," he said, fainty puzzled. "Why?"

"This is wrong," Erik said.

Talu's white brows lowered over his eyes. "What is wrong, my friend?"

"This girl. You must not offer her to your gods."

"Why not?" There was a slight edge to Talu's voice, and the Mayas around the cenote began to lift their heads and stare at the figures on the steps.

"The gods do not approve of murder."

"This is not murder. The gods demand a blood sacrifice. We are giving them blood."

"But you are killing the girl."

"She will not die. We do not kill her."

"But to give blood?" Erik said, his face puzzled.

Talu was becoming angry now. "The blood is warm. The girl goes into The Sacred Cenote alive. She does not die."

"But it's sixty feet down to the water," Neil protested. "And the water is that deep too. You can t expect her to survive that."

Talu set his lips stubbornly. "She will not die," he said. "The gods are waiting."

"Let the gods wait," Erik said, and an angry murmur went up from the Mayas.

Talu turned on Erik. "My friend, this is not your affair."

"I want to know more," Erik said.

"There is no time," Talu answered.

"Your memory is short," Neil said quickly. "I recall a snake poised to strike and . . ."

Talu sighed in resignation. "There is no need for an explanation," he said. "What must be . . ." he paused and shrugged his shoulders, apparently remembering his debt to Erik. "Tela will be sacrificed to The Sacred Cenote," he began.

"You mean she'll be dropped into the well to die," Neil interrupted.

"She will go into the well, but not to die."

"Will she come back?" Erik asked.

"No. But she will live. When the waters are calmed again, we will fire the sacrificial platform. There will be another prayer, then. A prayer for the gods, and a prayer for Tela."

"And you insist she will live?"

"Yes," Talu said. He turned again to his people. "We will pray," he said, "to the gods, in thankfulness."

His voice began intoning the ritual, and the Mayas bowed low again. The well looked black and hungry, and a Maya with a torch stood behind the platform.

Erik hurriedly took Neil aside and whispered something into his ear. Neil nodded, his eyes brightening.

"Hurry!" Erik shouted, and Neil ran off as Talu's voice went on and on. He darted down the steps and across the silent city again.

When he returned, it was to an angry mob that bellowed and stormed below the temple steps. Erik held Talu tightly in his arms, and his ax was drawn.

"Touch the girl," he was bellowing, "and your priest follows her."

Neil rushed up the temple steps, almost stumbling under his burden.

"Erik," he shouted. "I've got them."

He climbed the steps rapidly and dropped his load at Erik's feet. Erik held Talu with a stout arm and reached down for the basket at his feet. It was full of ripe, red tomatoes, fat, red plums, flowers brilliant in various shades of red and pink. There were red beans, and red roots, and a variety of red leaves. The basket seemed to overflow with a sea of redness.

"You wanted blood," Erik shrieked, his voice ringing out over the open well. "Here is your blood. Look at itl Blood red, and grown with your hands and the approval of your gods. This is the blood they want. Offer it to them."

Talu struggled in Erik's grip.

"The gods will refuse," he said. "The gods will refuse this sham sacrifice."

Below, the mumble of the crowd rose menacingly.

"Offer it and see," Erik roared. "Your gods do not desire the fruit of your womanhood. They desire the fruit of your land. This is their sacrifice. This is all they demand of their faithful grandchildren."

"No," the crowd shouted. "No!"

And suddenly, Neil stepped before Erik and raised his voice over the shouts below him.

"Yes! Yes! Your gods only demand this. Throw it into The Sacred Cenote. Allow Talu to offer this basket to the gods. If they approve, the sacrificial platform will burst into flame. The gods will have given you a sign." ^

"No!" the crowd shouted in return.

"Try it," Neil roared over their voices. Quickly, he lifted Tela from the platform and stood before her. He gestured for Erik to release Talu.

Erik's arm left the priest's neck, and Talu stepped forward to lift the basket of bright red fruit and flowers, beans, roots, leaves.

A silence hung over the crowd, like the silence before a summer storm.

"You should not have promised that," Erik whispered. "The platform cannot possibly . . ."

Slowly, Talu lifted the basket and stared down at its contents, shaking his head sadly.

At the same moment, Neil reached into his back pocket for the cigarette lighter Dave had put in his trust.

Talu walked down the steps, the basket held before him. The crowd below was silent, as silent as death.

Neil stepped closer to the pile of tinder on the platform, standing behind it so that the spark of the lighter would not be seen. There would be a sudden burst of flame after Talu threw the basket into the well. And Tela would be saved.

Impatiently, he waited.

His long white robe trailing behind him, his head held high, his back straight and proud, Talu walked down the steps in front of the temple.

He paused before the gaping jaws of The Sacred Cenote, the basket held before him. The crowd's eyes shifted from their priest to the platform piled with straw and twigs.

Neil's fingers began to sweat around the lighter. He kept his thumb pressed on the trigger, ready to snap it.

Talu put the basket down at his feet. He touched his hand to his forehead, as if in apology for the abomination he was about to offer the gods. The crowd followed his example, still silent, expectant.

Then, he reached down, lifted the basket, and threw the contents into the well. The fruit and flowers spilled from the basket like a stream of blood, into the black maw of the pool.

This is it, Neil thought.

Rapidly, his thumb snapped down over the trigger.

Wet with sweat, it slipped off the trigger, and the wick remained covered.

Neil wet his lips as he immediately put his thumb back on the trigger and snapped down with all his might. The covering on the wick moved back, and there was a faint spark.

But there was no flame.

Frantically, Neil released his thumb and the lid clamped over the wick again. He pressed down, heard the faint click as the wheel rubbed against the flint. There was a spark again.

He looked down at the wick.

No flame.

All eyes were fastened to the platform now. Talu, the empty basket in his hands, had turned to face the temple, a faint smile of triumph on his lips.

With sweat covering his body, his shirt clinging to him wetly, his hair sticking to his brow, Neil took a deep breath and snapped his thumb down on the trigger again.

Neil covered the lighter with the palm of his hand and tried the trigger again. With his thumb flat against it, he examined the wick. It was short, so short that hardly any part projected beyond the metal circle around it.

Talu turned to his people.

"The gods are dissatisfied with this mock sacrifice," he said.

A roar of approval went up from the Mayas.

"The gods demand the girl," one man shouted.

"Give them the girl," the cry was taken up.

Erik turned a hasty glance toward Neil. Neil was deep in concentration, trying to pluck the wick between his fingernails and yank it up higher.

"The gods are confused," Erik said. "They will give their sign soon."

"There will be no sign," the crowd bellowed. "The gods are displeased."

"The gods are considering your gift," Erik said, his fingers nervously touching his ax. "Be patient."

Neil plucked at the wick with ragged fingernails. He gripped the fiber between his nails and pulled. It moved a fraction of an inch, and then slipped from between his fingers.

"Hurry, Neil," Erik said. "Hurry."

Below, the Mayas were moving slowly toward the temple steps.

"There is no sign," Talu said. "I am asking you to leave the temple. The sacrifice will go on as planned."

Erik drew his ax. "No one moves onto the steps," he commanded. "We will wait for a sign."

Neil plucked at the wick again, pulling out at least a quarter of an inch. He breathed a deep sigh, and dropped the metal lid in place again.

"You are extending the bounds of hospitality," Talu said menacingly. "There is such a thing as . . ."

Now, if only there were enough fuel. And if only the flint were working.

Neil snapped the trigger.

There was a click, and a spark.

And a flame!

It licked out at the straw, caught, hung like a red curl of silk, and then flared up as it spread to the surrounding straw.

Neil put his hand quickly into his pocket, the lighter clutched in his trembling fingers.

The flame spread, licking at the straw, dancing a brilliant orange, yellow, and red adagio.

A fearsome gasp went up from the Mayas when they saw the platform burst into flame. Talu backed away several steps, his eyes wide in awe.

"There is your sign," Erik shouted. "The gods have spoken."

The Mayas dropped to their knees as the straw ignited the twigs and the entire platform became a great torch that blazed into the night.

Talu dropped to his knees, too, and touched his hand to his forehead.

"The gods have spoken," he intoned in a solemn voice.

Erik put his arm around Neil's shoulder. "And I'll never know how," he said softly.

» « O O ft

Later, when the Mayas had heaped bushel upon bushel of fruit and flowers onto the temple steps and then sacrificed them to the well, Talu approached Erik.

There was wisdom in his eyes and a gentleness to his hand as he took Erik's hand in his own.

"My friend," he said, "you have taught us much this night."

"It is bad to destroy," Erik said, "unless you are destroying your enemies."

"Forgive us our ignorance," Talu went on. "We thought the gods ..."

"The gods are just," Erik interrupted. "They would not have their grandchildren destroy themselves to appease their whims. They are satisfied with the fruit."

"I shall pray they never have another human sacrifice," Talu promised.

"It will be better that way," Erik replied.

The time of harvest was slowly growing nearer. The fields began to burst with green, and Erik proudly supervised the care of the maize plants. Neil, meanwhile, was engrossed in the work Dave was doing on the time machine. The engineer was a tireless worker, up long before Neil stirred. He would eat a hurried breakfast and then go to where the time machine now stood in the city, resting on the stones before one of the temples.

After finishing his breakfast Neil would often join his friend and usually found him deep within the controls of the machine, fumbling with the wires, tightening here and there, his hands grimy and his face covered with sweat.

Several weeks after the near-sacrifice of Tela, Neil joined Dave. "You're really giving your all to the old girl, aren't you?" he asked.

Dave spoke very seriously. "Neil, I'm not sure she'll take us back," he said. "I like Yucatan all right, but I'm for our own time and place."

Neil agreed heartily. From that moment he took an active interest in the welfare of the machine. His stay here had been interesting and full of adventure, but he was of the present and this place could never truly be his home. At best this was a sort of extended vacation into the past, and one from which he expected to return. He would never cease to marvel at the accomplishments of the Mayas. They were an astonishing race, and he would have much to tell his father when and if they did return.

One day Neil suddenly remembered Kukulcan, and again asked Talu about the Feathered-Serpent god.

"There is a god by this name?" Talu asked.

"I... I don't know," Neil stammered, unable to explain the time angle of his travels. "I thought you would know."

"The Feathered Serpent?" Talu asked.

"Yes," Neil replied hastily. "Do you know of him?"

"Kukulcan," the priest said softly, and Neil waited expectantly.

"No," Talu answered. "I do not know of any such god. What makes you ask?"

"I... I heard there was such a god in Yucatan."

'We have many gods and we serve them well. But there is none called Kukulcan. There is no Feathered Serpent, my friend."

It was then that the futility of the whole trip struck Neil like a sharp blow to the pit of his stomach. No Kukulcan. All his father's work, all the years he had spent developing the temporium crystal, planning the time machine, all wasted.

Apparently there was no Feathered Serpent. Somewhere along the line someone had make a mistake. The information was false. Not satisfied, he began checking for himself, studying the sculpted facades of the temples and the pillars, searching in vain for a figure that would resemble a feathered serpent, or even a serpent without feathers.

There was none. Nothing. The time trip had been a fool's errand. All the dangers, all the anxieties, were for nothing.

Likewise Arthur Blake and Dr. Manning had given their lives at sea for a will-o'-the-wisp.

Neil buried his despondency by helping Dave on the time machine. Hour after hour they worked silently, straightening the still damaged rotor and then plunging into the intricacies of the operating mechanism.

"We should never have used it that night," Dave said.

Neil, because he had less to do, grew more restless now than he had ever been.

Talu came to him one day. "We have gathered in the maize," he said. "Will you and Erik now show us what to do with it?"

They went down to the beach, where the Norse ship was beginning to look brand-new, its planks scrubbed clean, its shields glistening.

Erik was anxious to explain the use of the maize and, together, they walked into the city where bushels upon bushels of maize were being accumulated.

Erik held several grains in the palm of his hand.

"This is good maize," he said, grinning happily.

"But how do we eat it?" Talu asked.

"You must first shell it and then allow it to soak overnight."

"In water?"

"Yes," Erik replied. "Water mixed with a little lime." "And then?"

"In the morning have your women rinse the grain in fresh water."

"And then can we eat it?"

"You do not understand," Erik said. "This is not something to be eaten as a tomato or a bean."

"How then?" Talu wanted to know.

"It is to be eaten with tomatoes or with meat or with your other foods. It is nourishing and filling and it will solve many of your food problems."

"How do we prepare it?" Talu asked.

"You must secure a flat stone, preferably one with a concave surface. Place the maize grains on this and, with anodier stone or a piece of rounded wood, grind the maize until it becomes a fine paste." "I still do not understand."

"Your women will make this paste into thin cakes, kneading it with their hands. You will then put these on a thin, flat stone—any of your pottery will do—and bake them over a fire. Take care that the flame is a slow-burning one."

"And the taste?"

"The taste is somewhat flat, but you can dip them in chili pepper. And then, you can always eat maize cakes with your other foods. You will see how it supplements your meals."

Talu nodded sagely. "We will try it. If it does as you say, we will plant it again. We can use all the food we can get."

"It will be important to you," Erik said. "Try it."

The next day the Mayas began carrying food to Erik's ship. They streamed onto the beach, handing basket after basket of food to the Norsemen. The baskets were lifted over the side of the ship: potatoes, squash, beans, pears, plums, tomatoes, papaya, chili. Jars of honey, sides of the cured meat of deer, wild boar, turkeys, and small birds.

And along with the stock of food, Talu brought something for Erik to taste.

It was flat and a pasty white color, and it looked very much like a pancake.

Erik bit into it and rolled it around on his tongue.

"Excellent," he said.

"This is the cake we prepared from the maize. As you say, it is excellent. My people thank you, Erik."

"And may we have some for our journey?" Erik asked.

Talu grinned. "They are being basketed now. You will have plenty, my friend."

Water came next. The Mayas struggled onto the beach with enormous jars and hoisted them over the side of the ship.

These were firmly lashed in place, fore and aft, along with the stock of food that the Norsemen had taken aboard.

"Is there enough?" Talu asked at last.

"More than enough," Erik replied. His face split into a wide grin. "Your people are good, Talu. I wish there were some way to repay you."

"You have already repaid us," Talu said.

Neil watched silently as the last of the food was loaded. The Norsemen began climbing aboard, and the Mayas now brought gifts to the ship, jewelry, pottery, fine ornaments of beautifully wrought gold, highly polished semiprecious stones, robes brilliantly embroidered, feathered capes and headdresses, weapons, and small stone carvings.

Erik accepted all these gifts graciously. He stood ready to board his ship, ready to sail to his own land, far across the sea.

Slowly his hands moved to the helmet on his head. He lifted it gingerly and brought it down to hold it before his chest. The sunlight glanced off the shining metal, and the wings on either side of the helmet seemed poised to fly.

"I have accepted your many gifts," Erik said to Talu, "for which my humblest thanks. And now, I would have you accept a gift from me, a gift you refused when first we met." He held out the winged helmet.

"Take this, my friend, and keep it well. Let it serve as a reminder, perhaps, of the sacrifices your gods will accept."

Talu's old eyes studied the kindly face, the stalwart figure of the big Norseman.

"It will remind us of many things, my friend," he said. He took Erik's hand and shook it. "May the gods be with you on your long voyage."

"Thank you," said Erik. His eyes sought Neil's, and he turned to his young friend. He took Neil's hand and held it firmly.

"Neil," he said simply.

Neil bit his lip. It wouldn't do to cry. He was going to miss this big Norseman.

"It was a lucky wind that threw us together," Erik said. "I have enjoyed knowing you."

"I... I have too," Neil stammered.

A sudden inspiration seemed to strike Erik.

"Would you like to sail with us, Neil? Visit my homeland? Stay with us for a little while?"

Neil hesitated.

"Only for a little while," Erik coaxed. "You can go home to your own land after that."

If only it were that simple, Neil thought.

"No, Erik/* he replied. "My parents are waiting for me. And I too am anxious to see my own home/'

Erik sighed. "Perhaps, then, we shall meet again sometime/' He squeezed Neil's hand. "You will always have a friend in Erik, Neil."

With that he slapped a big hand onto the head of his ax and whirled suddenly. "Prepare to sail," he shouted.

He turned again to Neil and seized him by the shoulders with his big hands. "You're sure, Neil?" "I'd like to, Erik. But. . ."

"Well, enough, then," Erik said, a smile brightened his face. "A man has his own duties. Get home safely, my friend."

"Good luck, Erik."

The Norseman whirled and clambered up the side of the ship. Several sailors on the beach put their shoulders against the bow of the ship, pushing hard against it until the vessel floated free in the water. They scampered up the sides as the oars lifted into the air and pulled against the sand in the low water.

Slowly the ship edged away from the beach. The Norsemen shouted good-bys at the Mayas, and the Mayas wished them well, waving at them, bidding the gods to treat them gently.

Erik stood in the glare of the afternoon sun, his head bare, his hair and his beard glistening like molten gold. He stood tall and erect, a proud figure in command of a valiant crew.

He waved once at Neil as the ship moved away.

Then the oars pulled against the water and the sail billowed out, and the ship became smaller and smaller, until it was lost at last in the blue expanse of limitless ocean.

Neil stood watching the sea long after the ship had disappeared beyond the horizon.

The days were lonelier now that Erik and his Norsemen were gone. Neil wandered aimlessly about the city, watching the Mayas in their daily chores. Dave, he knew, was busy on the time machine, and he didn't want to disturb him.

The thought of getting home had become a pressing weight that he carried on his back, for under it all was the recurring thought that they might never reach home. Considering this deeply and anxious to see how the machine was coming along, Neil went to the place where Dave was working.

The machine looked much better now. The twisted rotors were straight, ready to carry the machine into the air. Dave had patched the shattered part of the lower bubble with deerskin, and the control room had taken on a semblance of unity and efficiency again.

Dave, however, looked sad.

"What's the trouble?" Neil asked. "Something can't be fixed?"

"That's just it," Dave answered. "I've fixed everything that can be fixed. The machine should be ready to leave any time."

"Well, that's wonder . . ."

"I said it should be ready."

"I don't understand. You said you'd fixed everything that could be fixed."

"That's just it. There's a part missing."

"A . . . part . . . missing," Neil repeated blankly.

"Look, Neil, I don't know how much you understand about the operation of the machine."

"Not very much," Neil admitted.

"Well, I'll try to give you a quick briefing. You see, when your father discovered the temporium crystal, he also discovered that it had rather peculiar qualities.

"To explain these qualities briefly, let's just say that a high frequency, low voltage current of electricity, when applied to two opposing facets of the crystal, will cause the crystal to travel in time."

"I'm afraid you lost me back there," Neil admitted.

Dave wiped his hand across his forehead. "Let's look at it this way. We'll assume, and this is all guesswork you understand, that time is really alternating, or oscillating back and forth at a high rate of speed. Do you follow?"

"I think so."

"All right. Let's assume further that all normal matter—you, me, a house, a rock—has a slight resistance in one direction to this oscillation. Something like the crystal detectors of the first radios had to alternating current."

"I think I understand. Go on."

"This resistance allows matter to be pushed slowly through time in one direction; the direction being from past to present to future."

"I see," Neil said. "This has nothing to do with the time machine, really. It's just a theory on time and matter."

"Well, yes and no. It's a theory, yes, but it also can help explain the time crystal." "Go on."

"Well, we've discovered that with the iodine salt of temporium—with temporium iodide, in other words— we can control this resistance of matter to time. In other words, we can make matter move through time more swiftly."

"Now we're getting down to the time machine."

"Right," Dave said. "We've found that by applying electricity to the facets on the short sides of the crystal we can move the crystal forward in time. If the crystal's long sides are given the juice, it will move backward. In short, the crystal will travel."

"But what about the machine? How does that travel?"

"Well, the effect of the crystal seems to spread out beyond the crystal. It's sort of like a sphere with the crystal as a nucleus. Incidentally, that's why the machine has helicopter rotors."

"Why?" Neil asked.

"If we took off from the ground, the crystal would try to take the ground with it. It isn't powerful enough to lift that much weight, though, so it would simply blow a fuse."

"I get it," Neil said. "This way, we go into the air first, and then activate the crystal. It doesn't matter if we carry air along with us."

"Exactly."

"So what's the problem?" Neil asked.

"Just this," Dave replied. "I'm missing an oscillator coil. Without that, I can't supply high-frequency current to the crystal."

"Well, why don't you make one?"

"With what? I haven't a piece of copper in the entire machine that can be used. Remember, it's mostly aluminum. We planned it that way so it'd be lighter."

"Is copper the only thing we can use?"

"No, there are other good conductors of electricity. But you can bet your boots these Mayas haven't got any of them."

Neil thought silently for a moment.

"What about gold?" he asked.

"Gold?"

"They've got plenty of that," Neil said. "Will it con . . .

"Gold!" Dave threw his arms around Neil and hugged him tightly. "Of course! How could I have missed it?"

"It'll do?" Neil asked.

"Will it do? Gold is a much better conductor than copper, Neil." He began to laugh. "But who can afford it?"

The Mayas could afford it.

Neil and Dave watched carefully as the gold was heated. The Maya jeweler looked at the oscillator coil curiously and then shaped the gold into an exact duplicate.

Dave could hardly wait for the jeweler to dip the coil into a jar of water. A sizzling spurt of steam shot

"Neil! Look at that!"

. . . instruments hadn't been calibrated correctly? Suppose, suppose, suppose they were really and truly back in Yucatan again, far from . . .

"Neil, are you listening to me?"

Neil snapped out of his gloomy thoughts. "I . . . I'm sorry, Dave. What did you say?"

"Look at that! A light, Neil. An electric light! A good, old, one-hundred-percent American electric light bulb!"

"What?"

"Yes! There, right ahead. It's a house and a light."

Neil stared, hardly willing to believe his eyes. "It is! It's a light." He looked closer. "Well, for crying out loud!"

"What's the matter?" Dave asked.

Neil began laughing, his raucous bellow splitting the night air.

"What is it?" Dave demanded.

"That house," Neil said between gales of laughter. "It's Student Hall. We're right on the campus, Dave. We've been right here since we landed."

Dave stared around him in bewilderment. Then he slapped one hand against the other and started laughing. "You're right! We've been floundering around in the woods behind the stadium. We're home, boy! Home!"

They broke into a run, dashing out of the woods and onto the paved streets of the campus.

The campus looked exactly as they'd left it. Student Hall, proud and austere, covered with ivy. The street lamps glowing. The twisted walks covered with autumn leaves.

Autumn! It had been the beginning of summer when they left. Autumn!

They ran past the Exchange, past Crane Hall, past Examination Walk and into Faculty Row.

The little red brick house stood at the end of Faculty Row, a light glowing in the front room. They ran down the street, clattered up the front steps and hastily rang the bell.

"Just a minute," came a voice from inside.

"My father," Neil said breathlessly.

They heard the shuffle of slippers against a rug, and then the door opened. Doctor Falsen stood there, his head high, the neat, black beard covering the point of his chin.

He was standing! No cast, no cane.

He peered out into the darkness, his eyes squinting.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Neil bit his lip and grinned broadly. Doctor Falsen snapped on the porch lights. He was turning, his hand still on the switch, when he saw his visitors for the first time.

"Neil!" He shouted. And then as if uncertain this was really his son standing there, he asked, "Neil?"

Neil rushed into his father's arms. "Dad, Dad."

The two men stood on the steps, father and son. Doctor Falsen mumbled, "Neil, my boy, Neil. We thought you'd been . . ." His eyes saw Dave, and he extended a welcome hand to him. "Dave! My, I don't know what to . . ." Tears rushed into his eyes.

He broke away from Neil and shouted, "Motherl Get down here, Mother. Neil is homel"

And then, in an outburst that seat of learning would remember for a long time, Doctor Falsen shouted to Faculty Row, "My son is home! My son is home! Come in, Neil. Come in. Don't stand out there. Come in, come in!"

The Falsen household was a festive place that night. The faculty came and went, and Mrs. Falsen rushed here and there, serving her guests, hardly able to keep her eyes off her son. How he had grown! Students dropped in, and Neil talked for hours, explaining the trip, relating all the experiences he and Dave had known, telling all about Erik and Talu and the city of Chichen-Itza.

At last everyone was gone, and Neil sat in the quiet of his living room, talking to his father.

"You see, Dad," he said, "we never did find Kukul-can. The trip was a failure."

"Was it?" Doctor Falsen asked.

"Why, yes," Neil said. "I just told you. There was no Kukulcan. The Mayas never heard of him."

Doctor Falsen stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You didn't know very much about Kukulcan, Neil," he said. "Unfortunately, I didn't tell you more before you left. But then, I didn't know that Doctor Manning and Arthur Blake would . . ." His voice trailed off.

"I don't understand, Dad."

"Unless I'm greatly mistaken," Doctor Falsen said, "the trip wasn't such a failure, after all."

"How do you mean?"

"We know very little about Kukulcan, but I'm sure you'll be able to tell us a lot more about him now."

Neil shook his head. "Dad, you don't understand. We didn't find Kukulcan. There was no such . . ."

"Kukulcan," Doctor Falsen interrupted, "is described as a tall, white man with blond hair and a blond beard"

"Well, what's that got to . . ."

"It is believed that he greatly influenced the agricultural habits of the Mayas."

"Agricultural habits?" Neil asked, a faint glimmer of understanding beginning to seep into his mind.

"Yes. And it is further believed that he outlawed human sacrifice, substituting fruits and flowers in its

"Erik!" Neil shouted. "Holy jumping jehosophat! Erik!"

"Yes," Doctor Falsen replied, smiling. "Erik was Kukulcan."

"But that's impossible. I knew Erik. I mean, I was his friend. We ... I mean, we were friends." "It all adds up. You say he killed a serpent." "Yes. Yes, he did."

"And his helmet. It was a winged helmet." "Yes."

"Perhaps they came to know him as the feathered serpent slayer, or the feathered slayer of serpents. And perhaps this was later shortened to the Feathered Serpent. I'm guessing, of course."

"It's too far-fetched," Neil said.

"It might be—unless there were something that really convinced the Mayas he was a god. Sometning that convinced them beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"But what could that have been?"

Doctor Falsen lifted an eyebrow. "Put yourself in the place of a Maya, Neil. Your friends are leaving you. They have been very close to the blond giant who slays serpents and who works wonders with their agriculture. They step into a transparent bubble, climb a ladder . .."

"Holy cowl" Neil said.

". . . and their vessel begins to rise in the air. And then it disappears completely."

"The time machine. I'd forgotten all about that. But I told Talu not to be frightened. I told him, Dad."

"There's no doubt in my mind, son, that you really found Kukulcan. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you, as a person, are intricately wound up in the Kukulcan legend."

"I couldn't be. You mean me?"

"Perhaps, Neil. Erik, certainly. And you, to some extent."

Neil passed a hand nervously over his face.

Doctor Falsen smiled. "You not only found a god, Neil. You helped create one."

"Think of it," Neil said. "Erik a god." He paused, thinking of the Norseman again. "He was a swell guy, Dad. I'd like to see him again. I really would."

"That's not impossible, Neil. You've a lot to learn yet and a lot of work to do. But you can learn more about the time machine, and then . . ." he winked, "who knows where it might take you?"

He grinned and put his arm around Neil as they started up the steps to their rooms.

"And maybe next time you'll take your old man along? How about it?"

Neil went to sleep in his old room that night, the wind lifting the curtains and the moonlight glancing off the pennants on the wall.

But before he drifted off to sleep, he saw a picture of a tall, proud Norseman, the sun lighting his golden hair and beard as he stood in silhouette on the bow of his ship. Erik.

Kukulcan.

There was a smile on Neil's face when at last he gave way to weariness.

"You've a lot to learn . . .lot of work to do . . . learn more about the time machine ... and then who knows where it might take you?"

Happily, peacefully, Neil dropped off to sleep.