Time of the Great Freeze (12 page)

These were a very sturdy folk, Jim realized, shivering in his warm garments. But they had had generations to adapt to the brutal conditions of the ice-world. They knew nothing warmer.

None of the Jerseys seemed at all elderly-none of the men gathered round the sleds appeared to be as old as forty, nor were any of the women middle-aged. Jim wondered about that. Were the old ones still in the igloos? Or were there simply no old ones? Life might be short here in the ice-world, Jim realized darkly. Once a man had ceased to serve his function as a hunter, he would only be a burden on the tribe. Jim suspected that among the Jerseys the aged did not meet a natural death, and he shuddered a little at the thought.

The seven men from the sleds entered the circle of igloos. Women and children crowded round, now and then boldly coming forward to touch the arm or the shoulder of one of the strangers. Jim heard them whispering, and caught snatches of sentences. "City under the ice," he heard. "How pale they look!"

"They come from the west!"

Kennart led them toward the centermost igloo. "You must meet my father," he declared. "Then there will be a feast in your honor. Wait here a moment."

They waited outside what was obviously the chiefs dwelling, while Kennart entered to bear the news to the head of the tribe. He emerged, minutes later, and gestured for them to enter.

The igloo's entrance was low, and Jim ducked going in. He was surprised to find, once he was inside, that the roof was comfortably high, allowing him to stand erect. One after another, his comrades followed him in.

By the dim light of flickering oil lamps, Jim made out three figures sitting against the far side of the igloo. Here, then, were the old ones of the tribe, or at least a few of them. They looked as ancient as Mayor Hawkes, looked like men ninety years old or more. Yet one of them was Kennart's father, and Kennart could be no more than thirty. Men aged rapidly in this harsh world, Jim thought.

"You are welcome among us," the most commanding-looking of the three ancients said in a dry, cracking voice. Although he sat wrapped in furs like an invalid, he was regal and imposing in presence for all his appearance of age, and from the breadth of his shoulders Jim guessed that the chief had been a giant among men, perhaps close to seven feet in height. "I am Lorin of the Jerseys," the chief went on. "My son tells me you are of the New Yorks. I know not this tribe."

One of the old men at Lorin's side whispered something to him in a brittle, rasping voice. The chief frowned, ran a shaky hand through the still flourishing mane of white hair that topped his head, and peered at the strangers in curiosity.

The chief said, "You have told my son you come up from out of the ice. Garold here says New York is the name of a lost city of the Great Ones. Are these things true?"

Dr. Barnes stepped forward. "They are true," he said. "We come from New York, which lies under the great ice mountain to the west. We journey eastward toward another city in the ice called London."

"How many are you, of this New York tribe?"

Dr. Barnes hesitated. "Eight hundred thousand," he said finally.

Lorin looked blank. In a whisper that was clearly audible, he asked his two venerable advisers, "What number is that?"

Garold, to his left, shrugged and looked confused. But the other old man, mumbled to himself for a moment, turned finally to the chief and said, "It is eighty hundred hundreds, sire."

"Eighty hundred hundreds," Lorin repeated slowly. "Eighty hundred hundreds?" Suddenly a look of wrath came into his eyes, and he seemed to be struggling to get to his feet, only to fall back as weak legs failed to support him. "Kennart!" he roared, in a voice charged with fury. "Have you brought them to mock me? Eighty hundred hundreds in their tribe! I am no fool, Kennart!"

Kennart said softly, "I have reason to believe they speak truth, father."

"Eighty hundred hundreds!" Lorin muttered. "It cannot be! There are not eighty hundred hundreds in the entire world, and they say they have so many in their tribe alone!"

"Our city is great," Dr. Barnes said. "It is built in passageways many miles long, one above the other. I speak the truth when I tell you how many folk there are there. Once there were many more people than that in New York-before the ice came. Once eighty
hundred
hundred of hundreds lived in New York, and even more. But that was long ago."

Lorin conferred with his two sages again. Finally, looking up, apparently satisfied, he said, "You will be our guests, then. You will tell us about your city of eighty hundred hundreds. You will share our food. Kennart! Ready the feast!"

Jim had feared another meal of raw meat. But his apprehensions were needless. The Jerseys cooked their food.

The whole tribe assembled out of doors, though by now night had fallen and the temperature was rapidly dropping toward the zero mark. Blankets of hide were spread on the ice, round a blazing oil fire.

Jim saw that the only aged members of the tribe were the three in Lorin's igloo, the chief and his two advisers. They were crippled, bowed down with age and disease, and younger men helped them to their place by the fire. Evidently one had to be very wise to survive to a ripe old age in this tribe! There was no room for those who could not contribute strength or wits to the needs of the Jerseys.

The seven guests were favored with a place of honor-near the fire, next to the chief himself. Kennart sat with them. Boys of the tribe served them, so that they did not have to rise to get their food.

The feast commenced with a dark drink, served in cups fashioned from the skulls of small animals. It was a grisly touch, Jim thought, wondering what small creatures of the ice packs had given their lives so that men might drink. Yet he had to admire the ingenuity of the Jerseys, of all these ice-worlders. Without metal, without stone, without wood, without clay for pottery, without building materials of any sort, they had somehow managed to make do with bone and hide alone, meeting all their domestic needs.

Just what it was they were drinking, Jim never knew. It was dark red, and oily, and cold, and the taste was sweet and faintly sickening. He hesitated only a moment, and then, seeing his father drain his cup, put his own to his lips. It was only fitting. The Jerseys were making a great sacrifice, sharing their hard-won food with these strangers. A guest must be a guest, then, and welcome gladly whatever was offered.

The second course was fish, served on flat plates of leather. Each of them got a foot-long fish, head, tail, scales and all. They were given no utensils but a bone knife.

Ted Callison nudged Jim in the ribs. "You wanted to see what a fish looks like? Here's your chancel"

Jim grinned sourly. He picked up his fish, wondering how to attack it. He glanced at Kennart, who was busily slitting the fish down the back, splitting it in half the thin way, and peeling the fragile bones out of the meat. Seeing that he was being watched, Kennart grinned heartily, and demonstrated for Jim by picking up the fish and taking a healthy bite. Jim went to work with the knife, clumsily slicing the fish in imitation of what Kennart had done.

Kennart said, "How eat you fish in New York?"

"We have no fish there," Jim said. "No fish, no animals of any kind."

Kennart looked shocked. "What do you eat, then?"

"Hydroponically raised vegetables and synthetic protein," Jim said. "Algae steak and-" He paused. "None of that makes any sense to you, does it?"

"They are strange words," Kennart admitted. "Hydro-verge-synthe… I know not those words. They are city words. New York words. Your world must be a strange one."

"Not to us," Jim said.

"No. Not to you."

Jim managed to eat the fish without serious difficulty, not even swallowing any of the tiny bones. Almost before he had finished, along came the next course-roasted meat of some sort. A leather platter was placed before each of them. Jim eyed its contents doubtfully, but did not hesitate to dig in.

"You eat the heart of the walrus now," Kennart told them. "It is your right, as guests, to have the courage-part."

Jim gulped, but went on eating. They had filled his cup again, he noticed, and he took a deep drink to wash down the meat. It struck him that what he was drinking was very likely blood, mixed perhaps with melted ice. Doggedly he ate on. A guest must be a guest, he reminded himself.

The feast seemed endless. There was more roast meat, and then what seemed to be chunks of pure fat, and after that a course of dried meat with a pungent, tangy flavor and a consistency approximately that of chunks of iron. Round and round went the serving-boys, offering food with a generosity that was almost terrifying. Dr. Barnes set an example for the others, devouring the food with a voracity Jim had never seen in his father before. Jim wondered whether it was really right to eat so much of the Jerseys' food, but the more the visitors ate, the more delighted the Jerseys seemed to be.

At last the meal was over. At last!

Jim felt stuffed to the bursting point. He was laden with strange foods, swollen and bloated, and he felt that a sudden poke in the ribs might have disastrous consequences. He was flushed from overeating, so that he scarcely noticed the sharp cold, hardly minded the cutting wind that swept across the ice plain from the east. It was dark now. The full moon had sped its course, and tonight only a bright sliver, the last quarter, remained. Jim was baffled by that The night before, Dave Ellis had tried to explain something to him of the phases of the moon, but it had all been too abstract, too theoretical for easy understanding. One who has lived all his life in a cavern beneath the surface of the earth does not readily grasp the subtleties of astronomy.

When the remains of the meal had been cleared away, the whole tribe fell silent. It was time for after-dinner speeches, Jim thought, and he was right.

Lorin, the chief, lifted one hand. Without rising, he declared, "We are with guests tonight. From the west they come, from New York, a city under the ice. Eighty hundreds of hundreds live in their city." A murmur of disbelief swept through the tribesmen. Lorin glared at them. "
Eighty hundreds of hundreds
!" he repeated vehemently. "Of them, seven come tonight. We bid them welcome among us for as long as they care to stay."

Lorin signaled, and two young Jerseys rose and came forward, burdened with things wrapped in a hide.

The chief said, "We offer gifts to show friendship, men of New York."

The hides were unwrapped, and one gift after another was laid at the feet of Dr. Barnes, the "chief' of the visitors. Two long spears of bone, elegantly carved with incised abstract patterns; a superb bone knife; a robe of fur; fine sandals over whose stitching some Jersey woman had labored long and hard. When the gifts had been bestowed, Dr. Barnes nodded solemnly toward the chief, then toward his advisers, toward Kennart, and finally toward all the tribe.

"I offer my thanks," he said humbly. "We will treasure these magnificent gifts as memories of our stay with the Jersey folk. We can offer little in return, since we are but wanderers, but we beg you take our poor offering."

Dr. Barnes gestured, and it was Jims turn to rise. Dr. Barnes had shrewdly guessed that the feast would include an exchange of gifts, and the New Yorkers had come prepared.

Jim advanced and stood before the chief to present the gifts. One by one he laid down an ice hatchet of tempered steel, a keen metal hunting knife, one of the extra parkas, a burned-out power tube from the sled, and several other small things which could be of no conceivable use to the Jerseys except as trophies to display and ponder, but which made fine gifts all the same.

Lorin examined each gift with evident delight. He nodded finally. "It is well. You are truly generous, men of New York, and your kind is welcome among us forever."

The gifts were carefully bundled up and placed to one side. Then attention turned to one of the chiefs advisers, the venerable and withered Garold, who launched into a chant that was obviously a formal part of every tribal feast.

It was hard for the visitors to understand what he was saying, partly because of the difference in the pronunciation of the Jersey people, partly because Garold's voice was weak and quivery with age, and partly because of the singsong intonation he used. For the first few moments, Jim thought Garold was speaking in some language other than English. Then he caught a phrase or two that he could understand, and, fascinated, strained to hear.

What Garold was reciting was an epic poem of historical events-an
Iliad
of the Ice Age. In a world without writing, Jim realized, this was the only way history could be transmitted from generation to generation-through the oral tradition, an old man chanting by the fireside after the tribal feast. The Jerseys seemed to know Garold's poem well, for as he went along, Jim heard them quietly murmuring the words to themselves, though Garold spoke rapidly, slurring over his syllables as though the recital were a mere ritual, a conveying of things long familiar to everyone.

He began, apparently, by talking of the world before the ice came-the great cities with their "hundred hundreds" of people. He mentioned names, distorted and altered through the retellings, Nyok and Chago, Filelfa, Bosin. "The land was green with trees," he chanted, "and grass covered the plains, and on the highway was the car, in the air flew the airplane."

"
In the air flew the airplane
," muttered the tribesmen like a responding congregation.

What could they know, Jim wondered, of trees and grass, of highways and cars, of airplanes? These things were only hazy blurs to
him
, and he had studied history in school, had seen photos of the world as it once had been. To these people, the words they mumbled could have no possible meaning. Why, even the color
green
must be a mystery to them, in this land of white and blue and black!