by Will Hubbell
9
THE PATH JOE AND RICK FOLLOWED WAS LIKE THE ONE
leading from the time machine's landing site. It, too, was carved in places from solid stone and ended at a circular depression. Placed in the center of the circle was an object that Rick first thought was a sculpture. It appeared made from crystal and onyx. "That's our plane," said Joe. Rick realized that the graceful object before him was not an artist's expression of flight, but an engineer's means to achieve it. The "crystal" portion of the plane consisted of a clear bullet-shaped tube. Within the tube floated three pairs of seats, with a seventh single seat in the front. There was a sloping panel, no thicker than a pane of glass, in front of that seat. From the panel protruded switches leading Rick to as-sume it was the pilot's controls. Behind the transparent por-tion of the fuselage was the "onyx" portion of the plane. It was less the color black than the absolute absence of light, without highlights or shadows. This part of the plane in-cluded a stubby set of wings, tipped in silver, and a graceful V-shaped tail. Under the wings were swellings that Rick guessed were the plane's engines although it was hard to see them against the fuselage. The aircraft rested on a tripod of delicate-looking legs, which ended in broad, flat disks.
"Ain't she a beauty," said Joe.
"It looks like it's already flying," said Rick. "I've never seen anything like it."
"She's one of a kind," replied Joe.
"Why is it so black?" asked Rick.
'Touch it," answered Joe.
Rick walked over to the wing and placed his hand on it. "It's cold," he said in astonishment.
"Its surface is a kind of solar panel, a damn efficient one. It absorbs more than the visible spectrum. That's why it's cold"
"Do you mean this plane's solar-powered? What if we fly into clouds?"
"It runs on stored energy," answered Joe. "The panels just keep it charged."
"This is amazing technology!" said Rick. "Why doesn't Mr. Green ..."
"Do you want to fly or ask questions?" asked Joe sharply.
"Fly," said Rick meekly.
"Right answer." Joe walked over to the black part of the fuselage. An opening appeared, and a broad silver ribbon emerged. When the ribbon touched the ground, it changed shape and became a set of steps. Rick watched this in aston-ishment, but said nothing. Joe turned, and said, "She recog-nizes me. Before we leave, I'll set her to recognize you, too." Joe partly climbed the steps and reached in the plane to re-trieve two objects. He handed one to Rick. "Ever use a rifle?"
"No," replied Rick. "Couldn't afford a permit."
"No matter," said Joe. "These almost shoot themselves."
Rick examined the weapon in his hand. It felt light and only vaguely resembled a rifle. It was in the shape of a cyl-inder two inches in diameter and about thirty inches long. There was no muzzle, but one end of the cylinder was open. There were two pistol grips on the cylinder, one at the end opposite the opening and another in die middle. No triggers were visible. A second, shorter and thinner cylinder was mounted atop the rear of the larger one. Rick assumed this was a kind of scope. The grips and the scope were made from a dark gray plasticlike material, as were portions of the main cylinder. The rest of the weapon was the same shadowy black as the rear of the plane.
"This button turns on the gauges and the targeting mech-anism," said Joe, demonstrating. Three rows of different-colored lights appeared on the side of the weapon and a silver-colored trigger and trigger guard formed in front of the first grip. "You try it."
Rick pressed the button, and the trigger and the lights ap-peared.
"The line of red lights indicates your charge," continued Joe. "The yellow lights show the power setting, I'll explain that latter. The blue lights show your ammunition level. The fewer the lights, the lower the reading. Now look in the scope. See that yellow circle and a red dot in the center?" Rick looked and nodded.
"Fix that dot on something," said Joe, "and pull the trig-ger." Rick located the dot on a tree trunk and pulled the trigger. The dot started blinking and the gun immediately felt differ-ent in his hands. Rick looked up from the scope to see if Joe had gripped the gun's barrel. He hadn't.
'Try to move the gun," said Joe.
Rick complied. Some force kept the weapon pointed at the tree.
"Didn't I say it almost shoots itself?" said Joe, grinning at Rick's startled look. "Pull the trigger again." Rick did so and the force gripping his weapon relaxed instantly. "What does this thing shoot?" he asked.
"Laser beams?"
Joe pulled a lever on his gun. The rear cover of the cyl-inder popped open and a clear tube slid partly out. He re-moved the tube and handed it to Rick. It felt very heavy for its size. Rick examined it and saw it was filled with what appeared to be loose, metallic-colored sand.
"It shoots that silvery stuff," said Joe.
"Just sand?" said Rick incredulously.
"Just sand? You watch." Joe took the tube, inserted it into his gun, then flicked another lever. A trigger formed in front of the rear grip. "That was the safety," he explained. He sighted through the scope and aimed at a small pine tree. After pulling the trigger on the forward grip, he stopped aim-ing. The weapon remained pointed at a tree. Joe squeezed the rear trigger. The gun did not recoil, and the loud "crack" Rick heard seemed to come not from the barrel opening, but from several feet in front of it. The upper portion of the tree disintegrated into a powdery mist. The gun stopped pointing at its vaporized target.
"Damn!" exclaimed Rick.
"That's just one of its tricks," said Joe. He made some adjustments on the gun, then aimed at a boulder. This time, Joe kept his eye on the scope and moved the gun slightly as he pulled the rear trigger. There was a sharp hiss, and a thin, glowing line appeared near the top of the boulder. Rick ap-proached for a closer look.
"Don't touch it!" said Joe. "It's hot." He picked up a rock and used it as a hot pad to push the boulder. Its top slid back. The rock had been neatly sliced through. Rick immediately understood how the pathway had been carved.
"I'll show you the rest of the controls, then you can prac-tice a little before we head out," said Joe. "The hardest part is getting down which trigger's which. You don't want to confuse them in a tight spot."
"Been in any tight spots?"
Joe smiled ruefully. "Plenty." Then he added, "But none here." Joe demonstrated how to adjust the force and the width of the blast, how to fire single shots, controlled bursts, or con-tinuously, and how to use the targeting system. Rick was amazed to learn that the gun could also track a moving target. Joe answered all of Rick's questions except those about the weapon's technology. Those he tersely rebuffed by saying, "proprietary information." The instruction and following practice lasted much longer than Rick wished. He was impatient to be off. Eventually, Joe was satisfied with Rick's marksmanship and took his gun. Joe entered the plane, followed by Rick. Joe set the guns in their charging stations before taking his seat behind the control panel. Rick looked at the panel. The controls, like those in the time machine, were labeled with plastic tape. Another prototype, Rick thought.
"Grab any seat," said Joe.
Rick sat behind Joe so they could talk easily. Except for floating in air, the seat was identical to the ones in the time machine. Joe flicked a switch, and the control panel lit up. Simultaneously, Rick's seat grasped him. "Here we go," said Joe.
There was no sound of engines revving, just a noise like wind. Dust and bits of gravel flew up from the landing plat-form as if blasted by jets. Rick noticed that any debris that landed on the plane flowed off like water on greased metal. The sound of the wind increased, and the plane began to rise straight up. The clear fuselage offered a perfect view of the beach and the sea beyond. As they gained altitude, the view expanded. Rick could see the drowned landscape of the sea's depths and shallows. Its larger denizens were visible also. A plesi-osaur gracefully glided through a submerged ravine. Three immense ammonites, probably several feet in diameter, hung suspended in the clear water. They
rose just below the top of the island's mesa; then, Joe touched the controls, and the plane halted its ascent. For a moment, it remained still while the silver tips at the end of the plane's stubby wings expanded outwards until they formed the long, graceful wings of a glider. With another touch of Joe's hand on the panel, the plane soared forward. The floating seats compensated for the plane's every move-ment.
This technological marvel was lost on Rick. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was in a state of absolute bliss, barely able to contain his excitement. He was about to live his wild-est fantasy. He was going to explore the past.
Joe had to shake him to get his attention. "Where to, Mr. Guide?"
CON LAY ON her bed, paralyzed by the tumult within. She wished the drawn curtains could black out every-thing, obliterate even the sounds and smells from outside. She had just experienced the most traumatic event in her life, and she felt sure no one here would really care. Why bother telling Daddy?
He'll barely listen before giving me a lecture. This trip was her father's idea, and Con knew he wouldn't accept responsibility if something went wrong. That wasn't his style. It would be all my fault. Or maybe he'll blame the guide, thought Con. That would serve him right! The Peeping Tom! Yet, even in her dark mood, Con realized that wasn't completely fair. He had saved her life. Still, she didn't have to like him. It was more than his spying that bothered her. He's like so many people. People who judged her without knowing her. People who assumed, because she was Constance Greighton, she was spoiled and snobbish. They're the real snobs! Even though the guide hadn't said anything, he had given her that look at dinnertime. Con was all too familiar with it. Forget the guide . .. forget Daddy . . . and then there's Sara. Con wrinkled her nose at the very idea of confiding in her. Sara's already acting like she's my stepmother. Con suspected the closeness in their ages drove Sara to treat her like a kid. In her relations with Con, Sara would take her cues from Con's father. There would be no sym-pathy from her.
The rest of the people were strangers. James, Pandit, and Joe, like the guide, were merely help. They would be polite and guarded in their responses, that's all. As for Peter Green . . . The very idea of talking to him made Con uneasy. He reminded her of too many of her father's friends—polished on the outside, but cold and calculat-ing.
That was everybody. How strange, thought Con. Only seven other people in the world. She felt very lonely. She missed her friends, people she could talk to. Con was desperate to talk and express her fears
. . . her relief. . . her embarrassment... to someone who would listen and care. That would be impossible for two weeks.
Con remained in her quarters, melancholy and lethar-gic, until lunchtime. The smell of food lured her out. Regardless of her mood, Con always kept her appetite. Sometimes, it seemed like she was constantly hungry.
The fresh air bore the tantalizing aroma of Indian spices. As Con arrived at the dining pavilion, Pandit opened a covered dish to reveal several kinds of warm pastries. Her father and Sara helped themselves. Sara looked up at Con. "Done moping?" she asked in a perky voice.
Con flashed Sara a saccharine smile, grabbed a pastry, and wolfed it down.
THE AIRPLANE FLEW slowly, following the river. Rick stared at the riverbank with rapt attention. Despite their low speed and altitude, it was difficult to spot animals. The trees grew right to the bank, hiding the creatures almost as soon as they were sighted. They had mostly seen crocodiles. Some of those had been immense, well over thirty feet long. The high point, so far, had been a small group of hadrosaurs, duckbill dinosaurs, drinking at the river's edge. By the time they had circled back to see the animals again, they were gone.
"If we're going to see much, we'll have to find some open ground," said Rick. "Were you flying when they recorded the ceratopids?"
"The what?"
"That herd of horned dinosaurs, you know, like Tri-ceratops."
"Oh sure," replied Joe. "We're headed there now. Far-ther upriver, the trees thin out." Joe guided the plane higher and increased its speed. Gradually the trees below became sparser. They flew un-til they spied a herd of gray dinosaurs approaching the river. Joe descended to just above tree top level as they neared the herd.
The view was breathtaking. Over a hundred animals moved together in a loosely defined group. They were massively built quadrupeds with medium-sized tails held above the ground and the bizarre heads of the ceratopids. The largest individuals were twice the height of a man, with heads that measured, from the tips of their beaks to the edges of their frills, over eight feet long. Two long, wicked-looking horns rose behind their eyes, and behind the horns extended a broad, long frill, like a rigid cape covering almost half the animals' backs. A third, stubby horn grew behind their nostrils.
"What are those?" asked Joe. "Triceratops?"
"No," answered Rick, "although they're related. Judg-ing from the size of the frill, I'd say they were a species of Torosaurus."
"Is that frill some kind of shield?"
"Maybe," answered Rick. "It's not solid bone, though.
More like skin stretched over a bone framework. Until now, we could only guess its purpose." They circled back for a second look. Rick discerned a pattern in the herd's formation. Most of the larger ani-mals walked at the perimeter of the group, encircling its smaller members. "Look," he said to Joe,
"they protect their young."
Even flying at its lowest speed, the plane quickly passed over the herd. Rick sighed in frustration. "Joe, this is driving me nuts! I've got to see them from the ground."
"You mean land? Are you crazy?"
"Don't worry, I'll be invisible."
"You don't look invisible to me," retorted Joe.
"These creatures have never seen anything like human beings. We won't register as friends or foes."
"How about as food?"
"Same thing. We'll be ignored."
"When did you make up this theory?"
"It's a documented fact," replied Rick. "Whenever hu-mans entered a new environment, the animals paid no attention to them. Darwin wrote that he could lift birds off their perches on the Galapagos Islands."
"Those were birds," retorted Joe.
"The first Native Americans were able to wipe out the mammoth, the mastodon, the giant ground sloth ... doz-ens of large mammals and the big predators too—saber-tooth cats, dire wolves, lions ... and they did it with stone tools."
"These are dinosaurs, man. Don't you go to the mov-ies?"
"They're animals. They'll behave like other animals. Please, Joe, this may be my only chance."
"Your chance to become dinosaur shit."
"I've got that gun ..."
Joe remained silent for a while, then suddenly banked the plane "Oh, what the hell," he said. "Just make sure your gun's settings are at kick-ass levels."
Joe landed in a spot about one hundred yards down-stream from the herd. The ground was open, except for an occasional tree, and covered with a combination of ferns and other low plants. The herd's lead animals had reached the riverbank and halted. Those behind them continued to march, grazing as they walked. Eager for a closer look, Rick was up as soon as his seat released him. He grabbed a gun, turned it on, and adjusted the settings. "I promise I won't be long."
"There's no way you're £oing by yourself," said Joe. "Even an invisible man can use some back-up."
"You don't need to, Joe. I'll be okay."
"Then so will I."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure," said Joe in an ironic tone.
Despite what he had told Joe, Rick was nervous as they approached the dinosaurs. Viewed from the ground, the animals' huge size made a much stronger impression. The largest ones were twenty-five feet long and massively built. Rick could have walked underneath one and scarcely ducked his head. Rick and Joe continued their advance without any reaction from the herd. Finally, they were so close they could smell the herd's musky scent, hear them snort and pant, see the faint pattern of greenish brown stripes on their
thick gray skins, and feel their footsteps shake the earth. The herd was beginning to bunch up at the shore. "What are they doing?" asked Joe.
"My guess is that this herd is migrating. They're prob-ably about to cross the river."
"Then why don't they do it?"
"River crossings are tricky. See how they're milling about? I suspect none of them is anxious to be the first one in the water. Up in Alberta, there's a fossil bed with hundreds of horned dinosaurs drowned or trampled crossing a river."
Rick was totally absorbed in watching the herd. It was Joe who first spotted the carnivores. He jerked up his gun and whispered loudly, "Look at those!"
Rick turned to spot a group of five, mottled green, bi-pedal dinosaurs following the herd. They appeared to be about ten feet long and five feet high. They held their torsos and stiff tails nearly horizontal. Folded against their torsos, like the wings of birds, were long arms that ended in three-fingered hands, tipped with large curved, claws. Their long, flexible necks were held upright. Their quick head movements reminded Rick of birds. The heads were terrible to behold, with large mouths filled with curved, pointed teeth and fierce yellow eyes peering above deep, rounded snouts.
" Dromaeosauruses," whispered Rick, "relatives of the Velociraptor."
"Are they as mean as they look?"
"Meaner. You can't see their toe claw. It's extra big and shaped like a curved sickle."
"Let's get out of here."
"We don't look like their prey; we shouldn't act like it either. Better to stay still."
"That's not so damn easy," Joe whispered back.
"Just remember—to them, we're invisible."
"I don't feel invisible. Besides, what are they doing here? They can't take on one of those big, horned mon-sters."
- "One theory is they're pack hunters. They might be following the herd looking for an opportunity, an animal that's vulnerable in some way."
The herd appeared to be aware of the carnivores, but not panicked by their presence. The Torosauruses occa-sionally lowered their horns to warn the pack of Dro-maeosauruses to keep their distance. Each group followed its part in the dance of life and death that had been performed for millennia. Rick and Joe warily watched the Dromaeosaurus pack until it moved to the other side of the herd and was out of sight. The pressure of the herd finally forced the lead animals down the bank and into the river. The water was brown and swollen by spring rains, but not deep. Near the shore, it only reached the ceratopsids' calves. Once the first an-imals entered the river, the herd followed. A peninsula of flesh extended into the river disrupting its flow. A sound resembling rapids arose as the current broke against the trunklike legs of the dinosaurs. Toward the farther shore of the river, the channel was deeper, and only the dinosaurs' broad backs and huge heads were above the water. The crossing at that point became more chaotic as the animals struggled against the current. One of the smaller individuals was swept downstream. The herd ignored its bellows and continued to cross.
