Atlantis and Other Places by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online

came close enough for him to spot it. Ground owls were hen-sized, more or less. They could fly, but not well. They hunted frogs and lizards and the outsized katydids that scurried through the undergrowth here. Nothing hunted them—or rather, nothing had hunted them till foxes and wild dogs and men came to Atlantis. Like so many creatures here, they couldn’t seem to imagine they might become prey. Abundant once, they were scarce these days.
    This one’s call got farther and farther away. Audubon thought about imitating it to lure the ground owl into range of his charge. In the end, he forbore. Blasting away in the middle of the night might frighten Harris into an apoplexy. And besides—Audubon yawned—he was still sleepy himself. He set down the shotgun, rolled himself in his blanket once more, and soon started snoring again.
     
     
    When Audubon woke the next morning, he saw a mouse-sized katydid’s head and a couple of greenish brown legs only a yard or so from his bedroll. He swore softly: the ground owl had come by, but without hooting, so he never knew. If he’d stayed up . . . If I’d stayed up, I would be useless today , he thought. He needed regular doses of sleep much more than he had twenty years earlier.
    “I wouldn’t have minded if you fired on an owl,” Harris said as he built up the fire and got coffee going. “We’re here for that kind of business.”
    “Good of you to say so,” Audubon replied. “It could be that I will have other chances.”
    “And it could be that you won’t. You were the one who said the old Atlantis was going under. Grab with both hands while it’s here.”
    “With the honkers, I intend to,” Audubon said. “If they’re there to be grabbed, grab them I shall. The ground owl . . . Well, who knows if it would have come when I hooted?”
    “I bet it would. I never knew a soul who could call birds better than you.” Harris took a couple of squares of hardtack out of an oilcloth valise and handed one to Audubon. The artist waited till he had his tin cup of coffee before breakfasting. He broke his hardtack into chunks and dunked each one before eating it. The crackers were baked to a fare-thee-well so they would keep for a long time, which left them chewier than his remaining teeth could easily cope with.
    As he and his friend got ready to ride on, he looked again at the remains of the giant katydid. “I really ought to get some specimens of those,” he remarked.
    “Why, in heaven’s name?” Harris said. “They aren’t birds, and they aren’t viviparous quadrupeds, either. They aren’t quadrupeds at all.”
    “No,” Audubon said slowly, “but doesn’t it seem to you that here they fill the role mice play in most of the world?”
    “Next time I see me a six-legged chirping mouse with feelers”—Harris wiggled his forefingers above his eyes—“you can lock me up and lose the key, on account of I’ll have soused my brains with the demon rum.”
    “Or with whiskey, or gin, or whatever else you can get your hands on,” Audubon said. Harris grinned and nodded. As Audubon saddled his horse, he couldn’t stop thinking about Atlantean katydids and mice. Something had to scurry through the leaves and eat whatever it could find there, and so many other creatures ate mice . . . or, here, the insects instead. He nodded to himself. That was worth a note in the diary whenever they stopped again.
    They rode into a hamlet a little before noon. It boasted a saloon, a church, and a few houses. BIDEFORD HOUSE OF UNIVERSAL DEVOTION, the church declared. Strange Protestant sects flourished in Atlantis, not least because none was strong enough to dominate—and neither was his own Catholic Church.
    But the saloon, in its own way, was also a house of universal devotion. Bideford couldn’t have held more than fifty people, but at least a dozen men sat in there, drinking and eating and talking. A silence fell when Audubon and Harris walked in. The locals stared at them.