By Keith Laumer
Armchair fiction offers the easiest in vintage technology fiction novels. “A hint of reminiscence” takes you all of the means from Stonehenge to outer area. while 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 anticipate to cower within the historical Druid pits…nor struggle for his lifestyles within the nice corridor at Okk-Hamiloth, on a planet many galaxies away. the writer, Keith Laumer used to be one of many technological know-how fiction world’s grasp storytellers. the following he sweeps you thru the some distance reaches of time and the vastness of outer house during this novel of retribution.
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Extra resources for A Trace of Memory
He ran a finger over the globe. "North of London, but south of Birmingham. " I said. I rummaged, came up with a cheap tourists' edition, flipped the pages. "Here's England," I said. " Foster put a finger on the map. "Here," he said. " "Large is right," I said. "It would take years to find a stone cairn on that. We're getting excited about nothing. We're looking for a hole in the ground, hundreds of years old—if this lousy notebook means anything—maybe marked with a few stones—in the middle of miles of plain.
Foster went over to the skull, stood looking down at it. "There was a disaster here," he said. " "It's creepy," I said. " "The long-dead pose no threat," said Foster. He was kneeling, looking at the white bones. He picked up something, stared at it. " I went over. Foster held up a ring. "We're onto something hot, pal," I said. " I shook my head. "If we knew that—and who killed him—or what—" "Let's go on. " Foster moved off toward a corridor that reminded me of a sunny avenue lined with chestnut trees—though there were no trees, and no sun.
The Pit of the Hunters," Foster said. "If you say so," I said. " "I feel something coming on that I'm not going to like," I said. I handed him the light and he flashed it into the tunnel mouth. I saw a polished roof of black glass arching four feet over the rubble-strewn bottom of the shaft. A stone, dislodged by my movement, clattered away down the 30° slope. "Hell, that tunnel's man-made," I said, peering into it. " "Legion, we'll have to see what's down there," Foster said. "We could come back later, with ropes and big insurance policies," I said.
A Trace of Memory by Keith Laumer