He stood by the fire, listening to the familiar crackle of the logs. The wood sputtered and hissed with its newness, and Chuck thought of autumn fires in his own century, with the woods blanketed in yellow and red leaves, and the air knifed with the tang of approaching winter. He thought of Halloween and juicy red apples, crisp and cold to the palate, sharp against the teeth. He thought of his brother smoking a pipe on their long walks through the woods, with the leaves shifting and rasping underfoot, with nature dressed in a pretty party frock. He thought of pork roasting on an outdoor grill, with the fat dripping into the fire, the flames leaping with each fallen drop and the tangy aroma of the meat flooding the cold, clear air. He could almost feel the touch of a tweed collar against the back of his neck, the friendly, rough warmth it gave, and the clothy smell of the coat when it was taken out of the closet after a long seasonal rest. There was always a bitter-sweetness about autumn-the memory of a summer dying, the cast-iron skies overhead forecasting the approaching winter. He thought of home now, and an overwhelming nostalgia swept over him. Familiar things and places, familiar faces. His own time. Home.
He was deep in his thoughts.
So deep that the ground beneath his feet was trembling violently before he realized anything was wrong.
At first he thought he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Then he looked down at the ground, and his heart leaped into his mouth. Three feet from where he was standing, the ground was tearing apart in a wide slit that opened like a grinning mouth.
He started to move just as the land beneath his feet jerked violently into the air, knocking him to his knees. He struggled to his feet again, tottering on the brink of the chasm that was opening wide before him. Without looking down into the cleft, he leaped across it, falling to his knees on the other side.
“Wake up!” he shouted. He yanked back the bolt on his rifle, slammed it home and triggered a shot into the air. He knew what was happening now, all right. He knew only too well. He clambered to his feet again, was knocked down almost instantly as the ground writhed convulsively. “Wake up!” he bellowed, and he heard Arthur boom, “What in blazes…”
Masterson was awake now, and Chuck heard his raucous voice shout, “Good gravy! An earthquake!”
Then the voices of other members of the party joined the chorus, voices that had sprung from throats tight with the snugness of sleep. It was dark, and darkness always adds confusion-and fear. Not that darkness was necessary; anyone waking from a sound sleep to find the ground shivering beneath him would be confused and frightened. Add to that the fact that the party was in a strange time, in what was virtually a strange land, and the result was chaos.
Chuck stumbled forward, the ground leaping under his feet.
“Chuck!” Dr. Perry shouted.
Chuck recognized the voice in the darkness. He groped forward, trying to locate the paleontologist.
“Here, Chuck. Here.”
In his haste he almost knocked the doctor over. Dr. Perry gripped Chuck’s shoulder and said, “An upheaval, Chuck, not at all uncommon in these times. Ever run across one?”
“No, sir. I…” His sentence was strangled in his throat as the ground slammed up against his feet, knocking him off balance. From out of nowhere, Dr. Dumar was suddenly standing beside him. The little Frenchman’s voice was strangely soft, mildly accented.
“Chuck, we have to get out of here at once. These upheavals are very bad, very bad. The earth will be bending in upon itself, folding over, opening, slipping. It may be only a local upheaval, so let us try to get away from it.”
“All right,” Chuck said. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Everybody here? Better sound off!”
There was a brief lull. For a moment Chuck thought the upheaval was exhausted. In the silence, the voices of the party sounded strangely loud.
“Arthur here.”
“Pete here.”
“Masterson.”
“Gardel.”
“Dr. Perry.”
“Dr. Dumar.”
Chuck waited. The silence hugged the earth tightly. It was an ominous silence, deathly still, forbidding,
“Where’s Denise?” he asked.
Again the silence.
Chuck’s voice rose, almost breaking. “Where’s Denise?”
“She was sleeping near…” Pete never had a chance to finish his sentence. The entire party was suddenly knocked over like a batch of bowling pins. Chuck felt himself sail into the air, the rifle clutched tightly in one hand, his other hand reaching out for the ground as he came down heavily. He landed solidly, and then the ground threw him into the air again-and everything seemed to come apart at the seams.
He wanted to run.
His first reaction was a blind, unreasoning one bred of terror.