We had a rough time after that, with the bad publicity and all, though we did collect a fee from James’s estate. Luckily for us, a steel manufacturer turned up who wanted a mastodon’s head for his den.
I understand these things better now, too. The disaster hadn’t been wholly James’s fault. I shouldn’t have taken him when I knew what a spoiled, unstable sort of bloke he was. And if Holtzinger could have used a really heavy gun, he’d probably have knocked the tyrannosaur down, even if he didn’t kill it, and so have given the rest of us a chance to finish it.
So, Mr. Seligman, that’s why I won’t take you to that period to hunt. There are plenty of other eras, and if you look them over I’m sure you’ll find something to suit you. But not the Jurassic or the Cretaceous. You’re just not big enough to handle a gun for dinosaur.
THE DEADLY MISSION OF PHINEAS SNODGRASS
Frederik Pohl
This is the story of Phineas Snodgrass, inventor. He built a time machine.
He built a time machine and in it he went back some two thousand years, to about the time of the birth of Christ. He made himself known to the Emperor Augustus, his lady Livia and other rich and powerful Romans of the day and, quickly making friends, secured their cooperation in bringing about a rapid transformation of Year One living habits. (He stole the idea from a science-fiction novel by L. Sprague de Camp, called Lest Darkness Fall.)
His time machine wasn’t very big, but his heart was, so Snodgrass selected his cargo with the plan of providing the maximum immediate help for the world’s people. The principal features of ancient Rome were dirt and disease, pain and death. Snodgrass decided to make the Roman world healthy and to keep its people alive through twentieth-century medicine. Everything else could take care of itself, once the human race was free of its terrible plagues and early deaths.
Snodgrass introduced penicillin and aureomycin and painless dentistry. He ground lenses for spectacles and explained the surgical techniques for removing cataracts. He taught anaesthesia and the germ theory of disease, and showed how to purify drinking water. He built Kleenex factories and taught the Romans to cover their mouths when they coughed. He demanded, and got, covers for the open Roman sewers, and he pioneered the practice of the balanced diet.
Snodgrass brought health to the ancient world, and kept his own health, too. He lived to more than a hundred years. He died, in fact, in the year A.D. 100, a very contented man.
When Snodgrass arrived in Augustus’ great palace on the Palatine Hill, there were some 250,000,000 human beings alive in the world. He persuaded the principate to share his blessings with all the world, benefiting not only the hundred million subjects of the Empire, but the other one hundred millions in Asia and the tens of millions in Africa, the Western Hemisphere and all the Pacific islands.
Everybody got healthy.
Infant mortality dropped at once, from ninety deaths in a hundred to fewer than two. Life expectancies doubled immediately. Everyone was well, and demonstrated their health by having more children, who grew in health to maturity and had more.
It is a feeble population that cannot double itself every generation if it tries.
These Romans, Goths and Mongols were tough. Every thirty years the population of the world increased by a factor of two. In the year A.D. 30, the world population was a half billion. In A.D. 60, it was a full billion. By the time Snodgrass passed away, a happy man, it was as large as it is today.
It is too bad that Snodgrass did not have room in his time machine for the blueprints of cargo ships, the texts on metallurgy to build the tools that would make the reapers that would harvest the fields—for the triple-expansion steam turbines that would generate the electricity that would power the machines that would run the cities—for all the technology that 2,000 subsequent years had brought about.
But he didn’t.
Consequently, by the time of his death conditions were no longer quite perfect. A great many were badly housed.
On the whole, Snodgrass was pleased, for all these things could surely take care of themselves. With a healthy world population, the increase of numbers would be a mere spur to research. Boundless nature, once its ways were studied, would surely provide for any number of human beings.
Indeed it did. Steam engines on the Newcomen design were lifting water to irrigate fields to grow food long before his death. The Nile was damned at Aswan in the year 55. Battery-powered street-cars replaced ox-carts in Rome and Alexandria before A.D. 75, and the galley slaves were freed by huge, clumsy diesel outboards that drove the food ships across the Mediterranean a few years later.
In the year A.D. 200 the world had now something over twenty billion souls, and technology was running neck-and-neck with expansion. Nuclear-driven ploughs had cleared the Teutoburg Wald, where Varus’ bones were still mouldering, and fertiliser made from ion-exchange mining of the sea produced fantastic crops of hybrid grains. In A.D. 300 the world population stood at a quarter of a trillion. Hydrogen fusion produced fabulous quantities of energy from the sea; atomic transmutation converted any matter into food. This was necessary, because there was no longer any room for farms. The Earth was getting crowded. By the middle of the sixth century the 60,000,000 square miles of land surface on the Earth were so well-covered that no human being standing anywhere on dry land could stretch out his arms in any direction without touching another human being standing beside him.
But everyone was healthy, and science marched on. The seas were drained, which immediately tripled the available land area. (In fifty years the sea bottoms were also full.) Energy which had come from the fusion of marine hydrogen now came by the tapping of the full energy output of the Sun, through gigantic ‘mirrors’ composed of pure force. The other planets froze, of course; but this no longer mattered, since in the decades that followed they were disintegrated for the sake of the energy at their cores. So was the Sun. Maintaining life on Earth on such artificial standards was prodigal of energy consumption; in time every star in the Galaxy was transmitting its total power output to the Earth, and plans were afoot to tap Andromeda, which would care for all necessary expansion for—thirty years.
At this point a calculation was made.
Taking the weight of the average man at about a hundred and thirty pounds—in round numbers, 6 x 104 grammes—and allowing for a continued doubling of population every thirty years (although there was no such thing as a ‘year’ any more, since the Sun had been disintegrated; now a lonely Earth floated aimlessly towards Vega), it was discovered that by the year 1970 the total mass of human flesh, bone and blood would be 6 x 1027 grammes.
This presented a problem. The total mass of the Earth itself was only 5.98 x 1027 grammes. Already, humanity lived in burrows penetrating crust and basalt and quarrying into the congealed nickel-iron core; by 1970 all the core itself would have been transmuted into living men and women, and their galleries would have to be tunnelled through masses of their own bodies, a writhing, squeezed ball of living corpses drifting through space.
Moreover, simple arithmetic showed that this was not the end. In finite time the mass of human beings would equal the total mass of the Galaxy; and in some further time it would equal and exceed the total mass of all galaxies everywhere.
This state of affairs could no longer be tolerated, and so a project was launched.
With some difficulty resources were diverted to permit the construction of a small but important device. It was a time machine. With one volunteer aboard (selected from the 900 trillion who applied) it went back to the year 1. Its cargo was only a hunting rifle with one cartridge, and with that cartridge the volunteer assassinated Snodgrass as he trudged up the Palatine.
To the great (if only potential) joy of some quintillions of never-to-be-born persons, Darkness blessedly fell.
OF TIME AND KATHY BENEDICT
William F. Nolan
Now that she was on the lake, with the Michigan shoreline lost to her, and with the steady cat-purr of the outboard soo
thing her mind, she could think about the last year, examine it thread by thread like a dark tapestry.
Dark.
That was the word for it.
Three dark, miserable love affairs in twelve dark, miserable months. First, with Glenn, the self-obsessed painter from the Village who had worshipped her body but refused to consider the fact that a brain went with it. And Tony, the smooth number she’d met at the new disco off Park Avenue, with his carefully tailored Italian suits and his neurotic need to dominate his women. Great dancer. Terrific lover. Lousy human being. And, finally, the wasted months with Rick, God’s gift to architecture, who promised to name a bridge after her if she’d marry him and raise his kids—three of them from his last divorce. She had tried to make him understand that as an independent woman, with a going career in research, she wasn’t ready for instant motherhood at twenty-one. And there was the night, three months into their relationship, when Rick drunkenly admitted he was bisexual and actually preferred males to females. He’d taken a cruel pleasure in explaining this preference to her, and that was the last time they’d seen each other. Which was … when? Over two months ago. Early October now, and they’d split in late July.
She looked ahead, at the wide, flat horizon of the lake as the small boat sliced cleanly through the glittering skin of water.
Wide.
Timeless.
Serene.
What had Hemingway called it? The last ‘free place’. The sea. She smiled. Lake St Clair wasn’t exactly what he’d been talking about, but for her, at this moment, it would do just fine. She did feel free out here, alone on the water, with the cacophonous roar of New York no longer assaulting her mind and body. The magic peace of the lake surrounded her like a pulsing womb, feeding her hunger for solitude and silence. This assignment in Michigan had been a true blessing, offering her the chance to escape the ceaseless roar of the city…
‘Dearborn? Where’s that?’
‘Where the museum is … in Detroit. You can check out everything at the museum. They’ve got the car there.’
Her boss referred to ‘999’—the cumbersome, flat-bodied, tiller-steered vehicle designed by Henry Ford and first raced here at Grosse Pointe, just east of Detroit, late in 1902. The newspaper she worked for was planning a special feature piece celebrating the anniversary of this historic event. Old 999 was the car that launched the Henry Ford Motor Company, leading to the mass-production American automobile.
‘The museum people restored it, right down to the original red paint. It’s supposed to look exactly like it did back in 1902,’ Kathy’s boss had told her. ‘You go check it out, take some shots of it, dig up some fresh info, then spend a few days at Grosse Pointe … get the feel of the place.’
She’d been delighted with the assignment. Autumn in Michigan. Lakes and rivers and hills … Trees all crimson and gold … Sun and clear blue sky … Into Detroit, out to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, a look at Ford’s birthplace, a long talk with the curator, some pictures of ridiculous old 999 (‘… and they named her after the New York Central’s record-breaking steam locomotive’) and on out to Grosse Pointe and this lovely, lonely, soothing ride on the lake. Just what she’d been needing. Balm for the soul.
As a little girl, she’d vacationed with her parents in Missouri and Illinois, in country much like this—and the odours of crushed leaves, of clean water, of hills rioting in autumn colours came back to her sharply here on the lake. It was a reunion, a homecoming. Emotionally, she belonged here, not in the rush and rawness of New York. Maybe, she told herself, when I save enough I can come here to live, meet a man who loves lakes and hills and country air…
Something was wrong. Suddenly, disturbingly wrong.
The water was gradually darkening around the boat; she looked up to see an ugly, bloated mass of grey-black clouds filling the lake sky. It seemed as if they had instantly materialised there. And, just as suddenly, a cold wind was chopping at her.
Kathy recalled the warning from the old man at the boathouse: ‘Wouldn’t go too far out if I was you, miss. Storm can build up mighty fast on the lake. You get some mean ones this time of year. Small boat like this is no good in a storm … engine can flood out… lotsa things can go wrong.’
The clouds rumbled—an ominous sound—and rain stung her upturned face. A patter at first, then heavier. The cold drops bit into her skin through her skirt and light sweater. Lucky thing she’d taken her raincoat along ‘just in case’. Kathy quickly pulled the coat on, buttoning it against the wind-blown rain.
Time to head back, before the full storm hit. She swung the boat around towards shore, adjusting the throttle for maximum speed.
The motor abruptly sputtered and died. Too much gas. Damn! She jerked at the start rope. No luck.
Again.
And again.
Wouldn’t start. Forget it; she was never any good with engines. There were oars and she could row herself in. Shore wasn’t far, and she could use the exercise. Good for her figure.
So row. Row, row, row your boat…
As a child, she’d loved rowing. Now she found it it was tougher than she’d remembered. The water was heavy and thick; it seemed to resist the oars, and the boat moved sluggishly.
The storm was increasing in strength. Rain stabbed at her, slashing against her face, and the wind slapped at the boat in ice-chilled gusts. God, but it was cold! Really, really cold. The coat offered no warmth; her whole body felt chilled, clammy.
Now the lake surface was erupting under the storm’s steadily increasing velocity; the boat rocked and pitched violently. Kathy could still make out the broken shoreline through the curtaining rain as she laboured at the oars, but it grew dimmer with each passing minute. Her efforts were futile: she was rowing against the wind, and whenever she paused for breath the shoreline fell back, with the wind forcing her out into the heart of the lake.
She felt compelled to raise her head, to scan the lake horizon. Something huge was out there. Absolutely monstrous! Coming for her. Rushing towards the boat.
A wave.
How could such a mountain of water exist here? This ravening mammoth belonged in Melville’s wild sea—not here in a Michigan lake. Impossible, she told herself; I’m not really seeing it. An illusion, created by freak storm conditions, unreal as a desert mirage.
Then she heard the roar. Real. Horribly, undeniably real.
The wave exploded over her, a foam-flecked beast that tossed her up and over in its watery jaws—flinging her from the boat, taking her down into the churning depths of the lake.
Into blackness.
And silence.
‘You all right, miss?’
‘Wha—what?’
‘I asked if you’re all right. Are you hurt? Leg broken or anything? I could call a doctor.’
She brought the wavering face above her into focus.
Male. Young. Intense blue eyes. Red hair. A nice, firm, handsome face.
‘Well, ma’am, should I?’
‘Should you what?’ Her voice sounded alien to her.
‘Call a doctor! I mean, you were unconscious when I found you, and I—’
‘No. No doctor. I’m all right. Just a little … dizzy.’
With his help, she got to her feet, swayed weakly against him. ‘Oops! I’m not too steady!’
He gripped her arm, supporting her. ‘I’ve gotcha, miss.’
Kathy looked around. Beach. Nothing but water and beach. The sky was cloudless again as the sun rode down its western edge, into twilight.
‘Guess the storm’s over.’
‘Beg your pardon, miss?’
‘The wave … a really big one … must have carried me in.’
For the first time, she looked at this young man clearly—at his starched shirt with its detachable collar and cuffs, at his striped peg-top trousers and yellow straw hat.
‘Are they doing a film here?’
‘I don’t follow you, miss.’
She brushed sand from her hai
r. One sleeve of her raincoat was ripped, and her purse was missing. Gone with the boat. ‘Wow, I’m a real mess. Do I look terrible?’
‘Oh … not at all,’ he stammered. ‘Fact is, you’re as pretty as a Gibson Girl.’
She giggled. ‘Well, I see that your compliments are in keeping with your attire. What’s your name?’
‘McGuire, ma’am,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘William Patrick McGuire. Folks call me Willy.’
‘Well, I’m Katherine Louise Benedict—and I give up. If you’re not acting in a film here then what are you doing in that get-up?’
‘Get-up?’ He looked down at himself in confusion. ‘I don’t—’
She snapped her fingers. ‘Ha! Got it! A party at the hotel! You’re in costumeV She looked him over very carefully. ‘Lemme try and guess the year. Ummmm … turn of the century … ah, I’d guess 1902, rightT
Young McGuire was frowning. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive, Miss Benedict, but what has this year to do with how I’m dressed?’
‘This year?’
‘You said 1902, and this is 1902.’
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she spoke slowly and distinctly: ‘We are on the beach at Lake St Clair, Grosse Pointe, Michigan, United States of America, right?’
‘We sure as heck are.’
‘And what, exactly, is the month and the year?’
‘It’s October 1902,’ said Willy McGuire.
For another long moment Kathy didn’t speak. Then, slowly, she turned her head towards the water, gazing out at the quiet lake. The surface was utterly calm.
She looked back at Willy. ‘That wave—the one that hit my boat— did you see it?’
‘Afraid not, ma’am.’
‘What about the storm? Was anyone else caught in it?’
‘Lake’s been calm all day,’ said Willy, speaking softly. ‘Last storm we had out here was two weeks back.’
She blinked at him.
‘You positive certain you’re all right, ma’am? I mean, when you fell here on the beach you could have hit your head … fall could have made you kinda dizzy and all.’
Time Travelers Page 17
