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The Cave and Peter Targa

New Fiction, By William Angle

      AN INFERNO wasrising in the east. Shadows shifted among dunes scoured bya cold wind, and dawn spilled over the bleak Sahara.

     An old man the color of charred woodemerged from the back of the tent, warming his knotted hands on a copperteapot. Although Targa took no notice, the Arab tipped a bit more teainto his cup and then backed away like a ghost.

     Peter Targa slouched on a bench drawnclose to the rough wooden table. The flapping canvas overhead creakedover a few splitting sticks lashed together with wire. The source ofthe wood was a mystery — as far as Targa knew, there was no treewithin a hundred miles. He sat with the collar of his scuffed leatherjacket turned up, his face puffy from spending the night in the back ofhis land rover. A couple of dessicated dates lay on a ceramic dish,but Targa left them untouched. He sipped warmth from the bitter tea,chewed a couple of granola bars, and watching the tricky shapes of thedunes slowly materialize. Behind him, the hunched foothills of theAkakus mountains emerged from the sand sea, their shadows melting underthe blaze of the new day.

     As the temperature rose, Targa unzippedhis jacket and slapped away the biting flies. It was not so easy toignore the doubts that nibbled at his mind.

     Forty-eight hours ago Targa hadbeen enjoying the plush Mediterranean comforts of a tourist hotel inAlgiers. The international conference had deteriorated into a boozyparty on the hotel roof top where tired physics professors slakedtheir tropical thirst with warm beer, fanned themselves with menusand sketched pictures of Calabi-Yau manifolds in their notebooks.As the conversations dwindled and the lights began flickering on thevine-covered slopes below the hotel, Targa shared cigars and a bottle ofexpensive wine with an Libyan colleague eager to practice his English.The Mouton-Rothschild '82 proved a good investment — Faud's fatherwas a high-ranking general. Lubricated by alcohol and flattery, the newacquaintance had made a few phone calls that resulted in a special visaand a free ride aboard a Ilyushin-76 Libyan transport plane to Sabha.Targa's handwritten letter of recommendation and a few high denominationDinar were effective passports through military barricades, and Targasoon found himself driving a battered land rover over an empty gravelroad deep into the Marzuq desert.

     It was a region few white men had everseen, or would want to see. But Targa was not an ordinary man.

     Although he was still only in his earlythirties, Peters Targa's work in theoretical physics was often comparedto Einstein's — a sudden burst of brilliant papers that rocked thescientific community, and shook the foundations of accepted theory.But Targa — like Einstein — seemed to have peaked in hislate twenties. In recent years, Targa's work became more abstractand difficult. Few openly challenged Targa's strange ideas, but themainstream of the physics community was more interested in projects thatcould be tested with particle accelerators, telescopes, space probesor other expensive government experiments. Targa became eccentric.Then he became isolated. Ultimately — forgotten.

     The scimitar dunes had many shadesand textures that caught the rays of the rising sun, creating visionsof bizarre beauty. The Sahara was vast beyond all human description,its scalloped roads drifted over in places by crescents of rippled sand.Targa's cargo consisted of two dozen plastic gasoline cans and twobig cans of water. For food he had taken a couple of sandwiches andcandy bars. On the outskirts of Sabha he had eaten his last meal —a western-style hamburger cooked in a tidy restaurant near the desert'sedge. He drove past a few tethered camels. A few hours later —it was hard to say exactly how long — he passed a 12th centuryslave trading post of Moorish architecture — a ruined shell ofmulti-storied dwarf arches opened like a piece of rotted honeycomb inthe sea of sand. Beyond — the empty desert.

     Time stretched as Targa drove throughsterile landscape that seemed to have a shifting, ever-changing lifeof its own. A few centuries or a few minutes — they were all thesame out here. His eyes were teased by the jittering distant dune-topsdistorted through waves of heat. In the late evening, he finally spiedthe ancient spine of the Akakus mountains looming like some prehistoricskeleton through the Muzark desert, and had known he had reached hisdestination.

     The old man advanced upon him againwith the copper teapot, but Targa waved him away.

     "How long much longer?" demanded Targa.He reached into his wallet and pulled out a thick wad of Dinars, andspread them out in a fan over the table top. He put the plate of datesover it to keep the money from blowing away.

     The old man did not appear to understandEnglish, but grinned anyway revealing a blacked and incomplete dentition.Then he raised a gnarled finger in the air as though pointing at somethingbetween them. Targa scowled at him, but then a minute later he heardit too. The sound of an engine.

     It proved to be an black smokingmotorcycle, pistons scored by years of breathing dust. A young man cutthe engine and began tearing off a dusty plastic raincoat. He was plump,dark-skinned, with slight cheeks. He pulled a dusky rucksack off theback of the motorcycle, and gave Targa a friendly smile that showed twosilver chipmunk teeth.

     "Good morning sir, I am Housam."

     Targa did not offer his name in return."Do you see this money?"

     Housam smile grew and gestured atthe rucksack. "Perhaps you are interested in buying some heroin. I canget it in large amounts in almost pure state."

     "No."

     "Perhaps this then." Housam reachedinto the sack and removed a small object covered in newspaper. Unwrapped,it proved to be a small and surprisingly heavy skull of tiny perfection."This monkey fossil is very old. It would be worth a great fortune inthe west."

     "No," said Targa, glancing at the skull."Not that either."

     "Perhaps this," he said, removinganother package. "A fragment of a meteorite that fell in the desert— it sticks to steel like a magnet, and is filled with tiny greengems."

     "No," said Targa. "I want somethingelse."

     Housam shrugged helplessly.

     "I want to see the cave."

     Housam and the old man exchangedglances, but neither appeared surprised. Housam allowed a respectfulmoment to pass, then said: "You must tell no one."

     "I promise," said Targa.

     Housam picked up the bills, slowlycounted them, and placed them into a money belt under his shirt.

     Housam piloted the land Rover witheasy skill of a taxi driver, continuously prodding Targa with friendlyquestions. He inquired about what kind of shoes Targa preferred, andsolicited his opinion of different American automobiles. He asked ifTarga had ever visited Hollywood, and what he thought of country-westernmusic. Targa tried to deflect some of the questions by asking a few ofhis own.

     "Do you have a family?"

     "No," confided Housam. "Not evena wife. The Sahara is bigger than your whole country, but all ofLibya contains only five million. In the desert — there are buta handful."

     "It looks pretty desolate, "Targaagreed.

     "Once it was different," Housam said."Soon you will see for yourself."

     "You like it here?"

     The silver teeth vanished as Housam'sready smile turned to a frown. "I dream of other places,"he admitted."But you cannot eat dreams."

     "You can't eat sand either. What areyou doing out here? You seem like an intelligent guy."

     Housam's teeth winked on again ina smile. "I speak seven languages," he said. "But I cannot evenwrite one."

     "The old man," asked Targa," —your father?"

     "My Uncle." Housam shook his head."My father and mother are dead. One day soon I will leave this place."Now it was Housam that seemed eager to change the subject. "You are ascientist?" Housam asked. "What do you study?"

     "Time," said Targa, wiping dust offhis forehead. "I study Time."

     "History, you mean?" asked Housamdoubtfully.

     "History is only part of time," saidTarga. "There are also the many futures that spring like hydra-headsfrom every instant."

     Housam listened carefully. "Like athrow of the dice?" he offered. "The gambler may win or lose?"

     "They win and lose at the same time,"said Targa. "That's quantum uncertainty."

     "So which world is real?" asked Housam."The one where you win, or where you lose?"

     "They are both real," said Targa.

     "It is too bad you cannot turn the clockback, eh?" said Housam. "Flip the coin again? Choose the other world?"

     Targa stared at him. After glancinghis face, Housam suddenly switched the conversation off.

     They were now driving into a windingcanyon filled with rubble. Plateaus of rock were worn into yardangs bythe wind. One nearby cliff had slumped upon itself into a cascade ofenormous boulders. The wind had eroded jagged rocks into shapes as roundas eggs. They parked the Rover at the top of the hill and gathered theirequipment. When he saw Targa's camera, Housam snatched it away from him.

     "Hey," said Targa. "Give that back."

     "I cannot," Housam pleaded. "Nopictures. That must be understood."

     Targa let him keep the camera.He clipped a flashlight around his forehead, pulled on his backpack,and filled his canteen from one of the cans. Housam was already waitingon the rock above them. Targa followed, using his elbows and kneesto negotiate his way between the rocks. They drifted down betweenthe interstices of the huge boulders, where it quickly became dark andvery cold. He was thankful that he had not removed his long pants in theearly heat of the morning. Targa switched on his head lamp, and saw themore jagged boulders deeper down had never been dulled by the desert wind.A fine dust surrounded them. Slipping between two boulders, Targa landedon a fine flat bed, and watched Housam wiggle deeper underground. How hecould find his way in this maze of passage ways was a mystery to Targa.With grunts and occasional hops through the darkness, Housam led them ata more horizontal angle into the base of the mountain. After an thirtyminutes of heavy physical labor, they began to feel a strong current ofair, and Targa knew they had reached the cave.

     BEFORE THEM wasan opening only a foot or two across. A stiff breeze wasblowing out the hole, carrying a strange cold smell. Housam spread hishands, offering to let Targa go ahead. Targa shook his head.

     "You first," he said.

     Housam squirmed through the hole,until only his kicking feet were visible. A few seconds later theywere gone too. Targa found himself alone underground — a veryunpleasant feeling.

     It was also unpleasant crawling intothe hole. The opening seemed to be come tighter and tighter until itseemed his shoulders were wedged solidly in the rock. Finally, with ahuge struggle, he pushed his way, gasping, into a sizable chamber wherethe air seemed suddenly damp. He gathered himself upright and shone hishead lamp around as he regained his breath. Spidery insects everywhereretreated before the spot of light.

     "Cave crickets," said Housam. "Theyare harmless." In the total silence, his voice seemed loud.

     Targa shuddered slightly at the dankair and at the thought of the millions of tiny insects crawling throughthe darkness all around him. He shook the feeling off, pushed Housamaside and took the lead, walking deeper into the cavern.

     Then he stopped short. Framed in thecircle of his head lamp was a figure on the wall. It was a sad-eyedgiraffe, scratched with exquisite skill into the blackened wall.

     "What's that doing here?" he asked."There are no giraffes in North Africa."

     "There were once," said Housam softlyat his elbow. "That picture is older than the pyramids of Egypt —much older. Come — there is more."

     Beyond the giraffe was a bird,sitting on a tropical tree. The head and body were delicately etchedwith scratches, and traces of color still clinging to the rock under aglittering coat of calcite.

     "How old?" asked Targa

     Housam shrugged. "Ten thousand years?Fifteen — maybe more."

     Next was a crocodile, leering from theedge of a river over hung by tall trees. A rhinoceros browsed nearby.There was another animal that was less easy to identify. "What's that,"asked Targa.

     Housam shrugged again. "Who is to say?Their kind is gone forever."

     "Rivers and trees included."

     Housam ducked under a low overhand,and like an usher, waved him into the cavern that lay beyond.

     Targa did not immediately grasp thesize of the room until he played his light down the walls, and realizedthat one side had no wall — it was a room, with arched ceiling thatran high overhead. His foot disturbed a rock, and Targa heard the faint,liquid echoes vanish into the darkness.

     One wall held a gallery of figures.

     "I knew there were cave paintings,"murmured Targa at length. "But I never imagined anything like this."

     "Look at this," said Housam quietly.He reached down at Targa's foot and raised a handful of dust. "These wereonce fine fern branches. They crumble to dust at a touch."

     Targa cautiously approached the muralto study it more closely. Human figures are rare in cave paintings,but this was done with unusual skill. A huge multitude of humans wereshown on a richly forested hillside. They were all face-down, as thoughsuddenly fainting. Above the hill were two figures, drawn much larger.The woman was magnificent, her face perfectly formed with a beauty thattranscended time. The man — the king — stood next to her.But his face was indistinct. Somebody had clumsily beaten out theexquisite etching of the head with a cobble, leaving an area of chippedrock.

     "Do you recognize it?" asked Housam,his voice still a whisper, but easily understood in the intense silence."That is the valley outside, but instead of sand, it is full of treesand rivers. The top of the mountain has since collapsed,covering upthe cave entrance."

     "It looks like somebody defaced thepicture," said Targa.

     "My uncle says it was always like this.It is almost as though they were trying to send us a message. Then —there is the other half."

     Targa followed Housam's headhight,andsaw, faintly illuminated, a second mural. Or it only seemed faintlyilluminated — it was the same valley and mountains, but was drawnmore indistinctly, as though the artist had been in a hurry. There wereno details of trees, and only a few human figures were lying on theirstomachs. And there were no two figures at the top. Between the twomurals was a stone box.

     "Looks like a sarcophagus. Have youever looked inside?"

     "I am not a grave robber."

     "You never even peeked?"

     "Nothing must be touched," said Housamwith uncharacteristic sharpness. For an instant Targa saw a glint ofsomething stronger beneath the smiling personality. Then Housam returnedto normal. "Perhaps you can explain the drawings— for example,what is that?"

     He pointed at the top, where a strangehalo surrounded a black spot.

     "Total solar eclipse," said Targa."Nineteen thousand years ago —19,235 BC. August fifteenth at 2 PM,to be exact."

     House's head lamp turned to Targa'sface, temporarily blinding him. "How do you know that," he asked."You could not have known that. Or are you joking?"

     "I'm not joking," said Targa,and pulledoff his backpack. "You see, Housam, your dream world is real."

     Housam watched in stupefaction as Targahauled the time machine out of his backpack. His mouth open in thatdead-cod look people always got when they saw it for the first time.It was fully charged, and shimmered with a soft glow that was plainlyvisible in the darkness. Targa grabbed Housam's shoulder and pulledhis nose close to a dial on the machine. "See? No joke. The dial isalready set."

     "You — you," sputtered Housam."You will become their god? Marry the beautiful lady of the valley."

     "No," said Targa, thrusting the machineinto Housam hands. "You will."

     Housam reeled as though he had beenpunched. He was too confused to resist as Targa began hooking the strapsto him.

     "What's wrong," asked Targa. "Don'tyou feel like making the trip?"

     "I don't understand . . ."

     "Time travel," said Targa. "Myspecialty, remember? Push the button and you can take a one-way tripto the past. Make your dream come true."

     "One way?"

     "That's all the machine will do.No coming back. Of course, you could never return to your own timeanyway. As soon as you arrive in the past, you change the future.So you and I will never meet again. This is good-bye."

     Housam was a quick learner. He tooka couple of gulps of air, but Targa was impressed at how quickly heregained control. Housam sat on the stone sarcophagus.

     "But— what if I wereto. . ." Housam groped for a moment ". . . accidentally kill one ofyour ancestors. You would never be born — you would cease to exist."

     "I'll skip the math," said Targa. "Youwouldn't understand it anyway. But we live in one version of reality,like one card in a deck. We're just shuffling the cards a little bysending you back to the past. For all I know you can recreate the worldwith yourself as eternal savior. You will have the advantage of arrivingbefore a solar eclipse — one of the most awesome natural phenomenonthat humans can witness. The natives will be impressed. Don't worry— the date is right. I checked it with a computer program."

     "How will I be able to talk to them— to communicate . . . "

     "You speak seven languages,remember?" said Targa. "You are a very adaptable and intelligent man.You will have many advantages — your knowledge of fire, the wheel,smelting steel."

     "It is true," murmured Housam."I know these things.

     "If you can survive in the desert,"said Targa, "you can probably survive anywhere. Better take thisstuff." Targa handed over the backpack, stuffed with granola bars andsmall plastic containers of orange juice. He threw in his canteen forgood measure. Wordlessly, Housam handed Targa his rucksack in return.Targa dug around inside it.

     "Here," he said. "Keep the heroin.It might come in handy. And take these." He dropped in a handful ofplastic butane lighters. Targa stuck the monkey fossil onto a nearbyrock shelf — a interesting puzzle for future archaeologists. "OK,"he said. "That's it. Push the button and go twenty thousand yearsinto the past, and leave your starving miserable life here forever.Anything you want to to say to your Uncle?"

     Housam's finger hovered over the redbutton, but he hesitated. "Push it and walk out out of the cave intoa new world," advised Targa. "Where the ferns are fresh."

     Housam was not listening to him.He was staring at the girl on the mural, his expression transformed bysublime vision.

     "Will there never be a way to thankyou?" he whispered finally.

     "I'm sure you'll think ofsomething,"said Targa, and watched him push the button.

     AFTER HE fadedaway, in the silence that followed, Targa wondered if itwas his own ears he heard ringing, or the chirping of cave crickets,undisturbed for twenty thousand years.

     His headlight turned back to thesecond mural as he mused over the drawing. Housam had never understoodthe picture. The trees and extra human figures were missing — notbecause the artist was rushed. It was because they no longer existed.The outlines of the valley were bare, the hills stripped of trees, theland grown barren from over-farming. Housam's technology introducedto a primitive people who were not ready for it would prove explosiveand instantly destructive — a torch that would scorch the land sointensely that twenty thousand years later it was still desert. But,Targa smiled to himself — that was the necessary part of the plan.

     It might have taken generations forthem to realize what was happening. Perhaps even Housam himself hadrealized what was happening too late to stop it. His portrait had beenselectively destroyed — was it out of guilt, or perhaps rage?But by that time he would have lived a long life as a wealthy king.Housam would always remain personally grateful, even if he was a cat'spaw for Targa — an unwitting tool for destroying a whole culture.

     The "hurried" mural on the other sidewas actually a accurate view of eco-disaster. But that disaster wasnecessary in order to wipe out any trace of Housam's appearance —to keep him from affecting the main river of time. Targa wanted thatriver to flow uninterrupted back to the vicinity of his own time-line.Housam was willing to abandon his world, but Targa was not yet ready tomake a big jump.

     Targa began sliding the rocks off thestone sarcophagus. They were heavy, and Targa went slowly. He had allthe time in the world.

     Somewhere in the universe of time andprobability, Housam was going to have a very busy few weeks. But someday,he would stop and wonder how Targa had engineered the whole thing —how he had strung together the coincidences that had sent him to the past.Targa chuckled as he lugged the last stone block off the sarcophagus.Fortunately he had all the main points copied down on a piece ofengineering paper in his pocket — scribbled down two days ago inan Algerian hotel when he had gotten a long-distance phone call fromhimself — placed from his own home in New York. Targa alwaysenjoyed talking to himself on the phone. It was always such a reliefto talk to someone intelligent — made even more intelligent in thiscase by two weeks hindsight.

     Underneath the stone, he found a dustyskull, still recognizable with two silver chipmunk teeth. Although,Targa observed, they had been the last to go. Housam had lived to aripe and satisfied old age.

     Below that, he found the gold.

— THE END —

Like this story? Get more of Engle's work (including another "Targa" episode) in "The Package" at the FreeLook Bookstore!