Gordon R. Dickson by Time Storm Page A

I had two
ideas about weapons I might be able to make. I had rejected the thought of a
bow and arrows. I was a mediocre-to-poor archer; and no bowyer at all. Making a
really effective bow was beyond me. Other alternatives were, first a homemade, muzzle
loading gun using a length of metal water pipe wrapped with wire, if I could
find any, and using match heads for the explosive element. In short—a zip gun.
Second, a crossbow using a leaf from one of the springs of the Model A. There
was enough gas to let me run the generator and get the wood and metal-working
power tools operating in the pole barn.
    In the end, I chose the crossbow,
not because it was simpler, but because I couldn't find any wire; and I had a
vision of the water pipe blowing up in my face. I found a dry chunk of firewood
that looked to me to be maple or oak, sawed it roughly to shape and then worked
it on the lathe to an approximation of a stock and frame for the crossbow. I
cut a slot across the frame, sank the leaf spring (the smallest of the leaf
springs) into it crosswise and did as good a job of gluing it there as I could.
Modern glues were miracle-workers, given half a chance. I glued a separate,
notched bar of hard wood along the top of the frame for the cord of the
crossbow, and set up a lever-crank to allow me to tighten the bow cord, notch
by notch.
    I had more trouble making the short,
heavy arrows—quarrels— for the thing than I did putting together the crossbow
itself. It was not easy to make a straight shaft from a raw chunk of wood, I
discovered.
    But the day came when I had both
crossbow and quarrels. Both had been tested. There was no lack of power in the
crossbow. The problem was with my quarrels. Their shafts broke too easily when
they hit something hard. But, they would do on any flesh and blood target. The
morning came when we mounted the two bikes, the girl and I—happily she had
evidently ridden a bicycle before, and the skill came back to her quickly—and
wearing backpacks, we started off down the empty road, away from the lake, with
Sunday footing it alongside us.
    The weather was pleasant, with the
temperature in the high sixties, Fahrenheit, and the sky was lightly spotted
with occasional clouds. As we got away from the water the humidity began to
fall off sharply, until the day was almost like one in early autumn up near the
Canadian border. We made good time, considering—considering Sunday, that was.
Dogs are generally content to trot steadily alongside the bikers they belong
to; but Sunday had a cat's dislike of regimentation. Sunday preferred that the
girl and I travel at the equivalent of aslow walk, so that he could make short side excursions, or even take a
quick nap and still catch up with us. When we did stop finally, to give him a
break, he lay down heavily on top of the girl's bike and would not be moved
until I hauled him clear by sheer muscle-strength and a good grip on the scruff
of his neck.
    In the end we compromised with him,
riding along at hardly more than a walking speed. As a result, it was not
surprising that I got more and more involved in my own thoughts.
    The road we were on had yet to lead
past any sign of civilization. But, of course, we were not covering ground at
any great speed. Eventually our route must bring us to someplace where we could
get the weapons and wheels I wanted. Then, once more mobile and protected, as
it were, I meant to do a little investigating along the thought I had come to,
lying on the lizard raft, nights. If the world was going to be as full of
potential threats, as we had just seen it, it was high time we set actively
about the business of learning the best ways to survive in it....
    We hit no signs of civilization that
day, but late afternoon, we crossed a creek hardly larger than a trickle,
running through a culvert under the road. In this open territory it looked as
though it probably contained clean water; but I boiled it to make sure, and we
set up camp for the night