Children of the Gates by Andre Norton Page A

one of us, men, animals, trees, grass, everything—really electrical devices, we vibrate somehow. Though most of us don’t know it. Then he went on to say as how we have been using more an’ more electricity an’ how now some small thing like a radio or such can throw out force enough to stop a much larger power source without meanin’ to.
    “He was warnin’ us, said we were usin’ forces we didn’t fully understand without carin’. An’ something might just happen to lead to a big blowup some day. Maybe these places we come through work that way. The Vicar, he thinks a lot about it, an’ he said that once.”
    “But we’ve been using electricity only close to a hundred years, and people disappeared this way before that. Right here.” Nick pointed to the trapped jeep. “We had records of people disappearing here going as far back as when the white men first moved in, and that’s about one hundred seventy years. According to your Vicar it goes much farther back in your country.”
    Stroud shrugged. “Don’t know what works the traps. But we’re here, ain’t we? An’ we’ll probably stay, seein’ as how we ain’t goin’ to get back across the ocean by wadin’. An’ what about you, Shaw, any chance of your findin’ a way back from here?”
    Nick shook his head. The solidity of the tree he could touch, the scene about him, was manifest. And no one had ever returned from the Cut-Off once they had gone. The sudden realization of that closed in on him as it must have on Linda earlier. He wanted to scream, to run, to allow his panic some physical expression. Somehow he did not dare, for if he lost control now, he was sure, he could never regain it.
    His fingers dug into tree bark. No—he was not going to scream—was not going to break!
    There was a sharp sound from the jeep. Stroud threw himself flat on the seat. Crocker went to earth as quickly. Nick stared, not understanding. Then he saw it lying on the ground. A spear—They were under attack. He crouched, sought cover.
    Nick listened for another sound, warning of an outright attack. He had no weapon, not even a stone, with which to defend himself. The quiet was absolute, no birdcall, not even a rustle of breeze in the foliage above them. Stroud and Crocker had their slingshots—but what use were those here?
    Nick studied the spear. It had made a dent in the side of the jeep. That he could see. But the weapon was outside his own experience. In the first place the shaft was shorter than he would imagine it should be. The point was metal with four corners united. He knew next to nothing of primitive weapons but he thought it was not American Indian—if Indians did roam this world.
    The spear, the silence—Nick found himself trying to breathe as lightly as possible. This waiting—when would come the attack? And from which direction? They could be completely surrounded right now. His back felt very naked, as if at any moment another of those weapons might thud home in his own body.
    He could see neither Stroud (who must have squeezed himself to the floorboards of the jeep), nor Crocker. The pilot must have had training in such warfare, he had gone to earth so well. What did they do, just sit here and wait for death to come out, either silent, or in a wild roaring charge they could not counter with bare hands?
    Nick’s mouth was dry, his hands were so sweaty he wanted to wipe them on his shirt, yet dared not move. What were They waiting for?
    What did break the silence was the last thing he expected to hear—laughter.
    So this enemy was so sure of them it could laugh! That cut through his fear, made him angry. Funny was it?
    Laughter and then a voice calling out in some incomprehensible tongue. A demand for their surrender, a listing of what would happen to them when they were overrun and taken? It could be either, but Nick noted that neither of his companions made any response to it. He could only follow their lead, hoping that their hard-learned