Island in the Sea of Time

Island in the Sea of Time

S. M. Stirling

Language: English

Pages: 608

ISBN: 0451456750

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


It's spring on Nantucket and everything is perfectly normal, until a sudden storm blankets the entire island. When the weather clears, the island's inhabitants find that they are no longer in the late twentieth century...but have been transported instead to the Bronze Age! Now they must learn to survive with suspicious, warlike peoples they can barely understand and deal with impending disaster, in the shape of a would-be conqueror from their own time.

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the Mycenean palaces—flush toilets. Which we don’t, anymore. Plus we can get the natives to build what we want. Plenty of places a bunch of us could pretty well write our own tickets.” “If the locals didn’t punch our tickets,” Cuddy said. “Timid?” Walker asked, a slight edge of mockery in his tone. “No, just cautious. We don’t have any fucking tanks, man.” “Yeah, that’s a point. That’s why it’d have to be done in a group, with some organization.” “And you to head up the organization?” He

bacteria might, of course, but Lisketter seemed to have been very careful about that. Instead Martha switched back to practical matters. “Do you really think you can get away with it? Think, will you? The Eagle is probably on our track right now.” “Unless they’re following that . . . that . . . Walker to Europe,” she said. “In any case, what can they do? We took the guns.” “Those that Walker didn’t hijack to Europe,” Martha said with malice aforethought. There was a certain satisfaction in

moved among the villagers, pushing and shoving them into silence, shouting, haranguing, slapping faces. Men dashed off to their huts, returned with spears and other weapons she couldn’t make out. They moved down to the shore. Despite herself, Martha leaned forward in fascination. Among the crowd on the riverbank, circles opened up, and men were swinging lines around their heads. From them came a whirring, thuttering roar that shivered down into the bass notes and back up again, each a little out

back, Maltonr—he was the senior Fiernan on that end—going whooping in for glory and vengeance, real redhead stuff. Then the enemy turning out in the open where the Fiernan archers couldn’t mass their fire, turning the fight into a melee, sweeping back up the ridge and into the rear of her line . . . Just like Senlac. And Harold Godwinsson led an army of militia from Wessex too, and the Norman commander was named William. God, I know You’re an ironist, but isn’t this going a bit far? “Enemy

way, buckra boy. The professor and Rosenthal were at the table, along with the two locals, as guests of the ship, which made things a little crowded. A cadet came up to the table as she was shaking out her linen napkin, another of the ship’s old-fashioned touches. “Good morning, Captain. The officer of the deck sends his regards and announces the approach of noon. Chronometers have been wound. Request permission to strike eight bells.” “Make it so,” Alston said, with a mild enjoyment of the

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