By Keith Laumer
Armchair fiction offers the simplest in vintage technological know-how fiction novels. “A hint of reminiscence” takes you all of the means from Stonehenge to outer house. whilst a guy named Legion signed on as a soldier of fortune he didn't anticipate to finish up because the grasp of a personal island. Nor did he count on to cower within the historical Druid pits…nor struggle for his existence within the nice corridor at Okk-Hamiloth, on a planet many galaxies away. the writer, Keith Laumer used to be one of many technology fiction world’s grasp storytellers. right here he sweeps you thru the a long way reaches of time and the vastness of outer house during this novel of retribution.
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Additional info for A Trace of Memory
He said. "I'm no expert on stone-age relics," I said. " I sat down in the single chair before the dusty control console, and watched a red blip creep across the screen. Foster stood behind me. "We owe a debt to that ancient sinner," he said. " I said. " "Look at the symbols on the machines," Foster said. " "All pot-hooks look alike to me," I said. "It's this screen that's got me worried. " "Modern aircraft operate at great heights," Foster said. "Not at this height," I said. "Give me a few more minutes to study these scales…" "There are a number of controls here," Foster said, "obviously intended to activate mechanisms—" "Don't touch 'em," I said.
I wondered if the pub owner would come back, now that the lights were gone—or if he'd tell someone what had happened, bring out a search party. Somehow, I doubted it. He didn't seem like the type to ask for trouble with the ghosts of ancient sinners. Foster groaned opened his eyes. " he muttered. "Take it easy, Foster," I said. " "Legion," Foster said. He tried to sit up. "The Hunters…" "OK, call 'em Hunters if you want to. I haven't got a better name for them. I worked them over with the flashlights.
C. Foster took the book and I sat on the window sill and looked out at a big Florida moon over the ragged line of roofs with a skinny royal palm sticking up in silhouette. It didn't look much like the postcard views of Miami. I lit a cigarette and thought about a man who long ago had crossed the North Atlantic in a dragon boat to be a god among the Indians. I wondered where he came from, and what it was he was looking for, and what kept him going in spite of the hell that showed in the spare lines of the journal he kept.
A Trace of Memory by Keith Laumer