The Buttoned Sky Part 16

"Let's see ... swing the front of the casket up, and unhinge it so that it comes off." They figured out what was meant, and did it. The front of the metal case, very light compared with the top, fell with a clang.

"Insert a crowbar under the gla.s.s that covers the man and lift it carefully away."

"Crowbar? Gla.s.s?"

"This almost invisible stuff covers him, it must be the 'gla.s.s'," said Jerran. "Let's try to lift it off."

It took Revel and Rack and two miners, but in a matter of five minutes, they had removed the plate of gla.s.s, the thin curved sheet that had protected this man of the Ancient Kingdom. "Next?"

"Provided that it is no later than the year 3284, Doctor Klapham should revive within an hour. If not, take the hypodermic from the white case below him and inject 2cc.... Do you understand this at all?" she asked.

"Only that the man, whose name is evidently Doctor Klapham, ought to wake up shortly." The Mink shook his great brown head. "If only we'd found this cave in a quiet time! If only the G.o.ds and the gentry weren't to be dealt with! Have we the time?"

"Your work is going on above-ground," said Jerran, rubbing his chin. "We can't be of more use anywhere else, it seems to me, than we may be right here."

They sat and watched the inert form of Doctorklapham, while two of their rebels went out into the mine to round up anyone who would join them. In something over half an hour they were back. "The mine's been cleared; nothing anywhere except this man, who was on the lowest level and hasn't heard a thing."

"They missed me, I guess," said the newcomer. "I was off in an abandoned tunnel sleeping."

"We're eight, then." The Mink scratched his head reflectively. "Not a bad fighting force. Provided they don't smear this whole valley, I think we can win clear--after we see what this fellow is going to do."

"I think I see him breathing," said the girl breathlessly. She was sitting with a book on her lap, trying to decipher the meaning of its words. "Look at his throat."

Doctorklapham made a strange sound in his chest, a clicking, quite audible noise, and unfolding his strong hands, sat up.

"Well," he said clearly, "didn't it work?" Then he took a closer look at the eight people standing beside him. "Oh, my Lord," he said, "it _did_ work!"

"He speaks...o...b..sh," said Rack, "but with a different accent. Could he be from the far towns?"

"No, you idiot, from the Ancient Kingdom," said Revel. "Your name is Doctorklapham, isn't it?"

"Roughly, yes." The sleeper worked his jaws and ma.s.saged his hands.

"Wonderful stuff, that preservative ... what year is this, my friend?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"What's the date?"

"Date?"

"G.o.d, this I wasn't prepared for." He hoisted himself over and jumped down with boyish energy. "Tell me about the world," he said. "I guess I've been asleep a long time."

"Yes, if you were put here in the time of the Ancient Kingdom." Revel was trembling with excitement. "Why are you still alive?"

"Friend, judging from your clothes and those picks, and the primitive look of those lanterns, which must date from about 2015, I'd say it'd be pretty useless to tell you how come I'm alive. Just call it science."

"What's that?"

"Science? Electronics, atomic research, mechanics, what have you--mean anything?"

"I'm sorry," said the Mink, "no."

"You speak quite decent English, you know. It's funny it hasn't changed much, unless I've been asleep a lot shorter a period than I figure."

"My language is...o...b..sh."

"It's English to me. What's the name of your country, son?"

"It has no name. Towns are named, not countries."

"Who are you, then?"

"I am Revel, the Mink," he said proudly. "I am the leader of the rebels, who are even now spreading through the land sending the word that the G.o.ds can die, and that the gentry's day is done. I am the Mink."

He half-expected the man to know the old ballads, but Doctorklapham said, "Mink? That was an animal when I was around last.... Call me John."

"John. That sounds like a name." Rack nodded. "Yes, this is better than Doctorklapham."

"Anybody have a cigarette?" asked John.

"What's that?"

"A f.a.g, boy--tobacco, something to smoke. You drag it in and puff it out."

"Your words make no sense," said Revel. "Drag in smoke?"

"This is going to be worse than I antic.i.p.ated," said John. "Look, can't we go somewhere and get comfortable? I have a lot to find out before I can start getting across to you what I was sent into the future for."

"We are besieged by the G.o.ds. We dare not leave this place."

"By the G.o.ds. Hmm. Let's sit down, boy. I want to know all about things here. Miss, after you." He waited till Nirea had squatted on the floor, then folded himself down. "Okay," he said, whatever that meant. "Shoot.

Begin. What are the G.o.ds, first?"

Lady Nirea listened with half an ear to Revel's speeches, but with all her intellect she tried to follow John's remarks. They were sometimes fragmentary, sometimes short explanations of things that puzzled Revel, and sometimes merely grunts and slappings of his thighs. Many words she did not know....

_My G.o.d, that sounds like extraterrestrial beings ... globes, golden aura of energy or force, sure, that's possible; and tentacles ... zanphs? describe 'em ... they aren't from Earth either; I'll bet you these G.o.d-globes of yours, which must be Martian or Venusian or Lord-knows-what, brought along those pretty pets when they hit for Earth...._

_Listen, Mink, those are not G.o.ds! They're things from the stars, from out there beyond the world! You understand that? They came here in those "b.u.t.tons" of yours--what we used to call flying saucers--and took over after ... after whatever happened. Your civilization must have been in a h.e.l.l of a decline to accept 'em as G.o.ds, because in my day ... oh, well, go ahead._

_Priests, sure, there'd be a cla.s.s of sycophants, b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who'd sell out to the extraterrestrials for glory and profit ... yeah, your gentry sound like another type of sell-out, traitors to their race and their world ... describe those squires' costumes again, will you?... Holy cats, eighteenth century to a T! Not a thread changed, from the sound of it! And a lower cla.s.s, you call it the ruck, which is downtrodden and lives in what might as well be h.e.l.l...._

_Yep, it sure sounds like h.e.l.l and ashes. The globes; then, as is natural to a conquered country, the top dogs, priests in your case, who run things but are run by the globes; then the privileged gentry--I'll have a look at those books of yours in a minute, honey--who pay some kind of tax, in money or sweat or produce or_ something, _for being what they are; then the ruck (I know the word, son, you've just enlarged its meaning) who have been serfs and peasants and va.s.sals and thralls and churls and hoi polloi and slaves since the Egyptians crawled out of the Nile. The great unwashed, the people. Let 'em eat cake. I'm sorry, Mink, go on._

_Your gentry sound about as lousy a pack of h.e.l.lions as the eighteenth century squires! Too bad you don't know about tobacco, they could carry snuffboxes and_ really _act the part...._