by Will Hubbell
, he thought. He was the pos-sessor of a complete, unfossilized dinosaur skull and a set of limbs, also—the first, he was certain, of many ex-traordinary specimens. Everything else paled in signifi-cance. The festive mood of the dining pavilion was reflected at the staff dinner. Green's good disposition had affected his subordinates. James was particularly happy with the way things were going. He produced a bottle of cham-pagne, declaring, "All of you deserve a toast." He poured the wine into plastic cups and passed them around. Then he stood and raised his cup high. "To a fine beginning!" When everyone sipped the champagne, James offered a second toast. "To Rick and his taming of a difficult client."
Joe emptied his cup, then said with a grin, "I'd say the Greighton girl's tamed him."
"What do you mean?" asked Pandit.
"On today's trip back to the island," said Joe, "I thought I detected infatuation." James looked at Rick's crimson face, and said, "We don't need a romance complicating things."
"There's no romance," said Rick quickly. "I admire her ... her daring."
"There," said Joe, "you heard him say it—he's her ad-mirer."
"I'm her guide," said Rick, speaking more to James than to Joe. "She's interested in going on tours. The only client who is, I might add. That's all there is to it."
Joe turned to James. "I was just ragging him. Rick's more interested in wildlife than women."
"I'm glad to hear it," said James.
As dinner commenced, it quickly became apparent why there was so much leftover dinosaur. While his staff picked at their food, James refilled their cups and re-sumed his cheerful tone. "If things continue to run smoothly," he said, "we'll have a proper safari operation in no time. More staff, proper equipment..."
"Proper food?" asked Joe. "Rick, can't you shoot something that tastes more like chicken?"
"That dish was a severe test," admitted Pandit.
"To bad you got an V on it," quipped Joe.
"I think a herbivore might be more palatable," said Rick. "Perhaps a Hypsilophodontid."
"I prefer food I can pronounce," said Joe.
"I brought some fishing gear," James said. "Just hand lines, because of the weight limitations. Perhaps we could try some seafood."
"An excellent idea," said Pandit.
"Here," said Joe, pushing his plate forward. "You can use this for bait." James, who had already eaten, went to check on the guests. When he returned, he said to Pandit,
"Please get out the best cognac and two snifters and take them to Mr. Green's quarters." Pandit left his dinner to get a crystal decanter and two large bulbous glasses.
"I'm done eating," said Rick. "I can run it over."
He found Peter Green and John Greighton sitting in wicker chairs, finishing off their wine.
"Here we are, John," said Green, "one of the rarest and the finest." Rick set down the decanter and the two snifters. Though he disliked playing the servant, he asked, "Do you need anything else?"
"Pull the curtain," said Green.
Rick pulled the curtain as he left. He was about to return to the staff tent when two small pterosaurs alighted not ten feet from where he stood. They were behaving oddly, and Rick stopped to watch them. One of the pter-osaurs assumed the usual quadrupedal stance, but the other reared up to balance awkwardly on its hind feet. While it was upright, the pterosaur puffed out a pouch in its neck like a small balloon. It pranced about for a few seconds in this posture, then dropped to a normal stance, rested, and repeated the display. Rick thought he might be witnessing courtship behavior. He assumed the pter-osaur with the pouch was the male and wondered how the female might respond. He remained still to find out. The two pterosaurs performed their ritual in silence; the only sound was Peter Green's and John Greighton's con-versation from the other side of the curtain.
"... 2047, that was a good year, and not just for cham-pagne ..."
Snob talk, thought Rick absentmindedly. He focused on the pterosaurs ignoring the drone of talk until a deri-sive laugh caught his attention. "Twenty-nine?" said Greighton's voice in a condescending tone.
"Where's your taste? All that stuff was crap."
"Not 2029," responded Green's voice, "I mean 1929."
"Expensive vinegar," sniffed Greighton, "if it even ex-ists."
"Oh it exists, all right," said Green. "In the year 1929. That's when I'd stock up—at bargain-basement prices."
"You'd use your time machine to buy wine?" Greigh-ton's voice sounded incredulous. Rick forgot the pterosaurs and focused on the voices behind the curtain.
"I was just using wine as an example. Buying stock would be more worthwhile. Eastman Kodak in the 1890s... Microsoft in the 1980s ... Biofab in the 2020s ..."
"Have you done this?" asked Greighton, sounding in-trigued.
"If I had, you wouldn't be sitting here. I'd own every-thing worth having in your portfolio. I'd be the billionaire and you ... you couldn't even afford the fare to this place."
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Greighton in a cold voice. "Are you threatening me?"
"No, no, not at all. On the contrary, I have an offer for you."
Rick quietly moved to a less conspicuous position.
"I've proven that I have a working time machine," contin-ued Green. "With such a machine, history is a treasure map. There are no gambles, only sure bets."
"Go on," said Greighton, sounding interested.
"But there are some difficulties. With your help, they'll be easily overcome."
"What kind of difficulties?"
"I'm going to trust you with a secret," said Green in a conspiratorial tone. "I didn't invent the time machine. I ac-quired it."
"From whom?"
"A party from the future."
"Are you telling me that they simply gave you a time machine?"
"The acquisition was more in the nature of a hostile take-over."
"I see," said Greighton.
"I'm not a man to miss an opportunity," replied Green. "I suspect you're not either. Am I right?"
"What kind of help are you looking for?"
"Scientific expertise, the kind a big corporate research di-vision has. The best brains working in absolute secrecy."
"And why do you need that? You've already got the ma-chine."
"The 'source' of this machine kept secrets from me about its operation. There are gaps in my knowledge that need to be filled before we can put our plans into operation."
"So it's 'our plans' now," said Greighton in a cynical tone. "Maybe you should tell me what 'our plans'
are."
"Simply put—to change history in our favor."
"And the people from the future—they'll stand by while we do this?" Greighton asked skeptically.
"They'll want to stop us," admitted Green. "But they have problems we don't. First, they have to find us. Then they have an even bigger problem. They can't just kick in doors, guns blazing. If they did so, they'd alter their own past. Al-tering their past means changing their present. They are in a very delicate position. If we act quickly and secretly ..."
"Wait, wait," interrupted Greighton. "You're proposing to alter our own past! We're in the same boat they are. I happen to know where my great-great-great grandmother found gold, but if I go back to the nineteenth century and jump her claim, I'll return to my century to find the family fortune gone!"
" If you came back, that might be true. But if you stayed in her century, your future would unfold from that point. You could kill the bitch if you wanted. You wouldn't suddenly disappear. Her present would be your present."
"You're talking about a one-way trip to the past. Why would I want to do that?"
"Two reasons. First, it would be a preemptive strike against the future. The people trying to recover the time ma-chine would no longer exist. That brings me to the second reason—the real reason. They wouldn't exist because we'll have completely changed the world. We'll have conquered it!"
"Conquer the world?" said Greighton in an almost mock-ing
tone. "Come on, that sounds crazy!"
"You can object to my wording, but listen to my plan. We arrive in colonial America in a fleet of time machines. We have modern medicine, weaponry, and communications, we have a complete library of technology, we know where every undiscovered natural resource is located, and, best of all, we own a map of history. The people speak English, they're literate, and they're used to rule by kings. They will flock to us!"
"What if they don't? There was an American Revolution after all."
"Smallpox ... cholera... Ebola virus. We'll be vacci-nated, they won't. Who needs armies with that?"
"It'd look like the hand of God," said Greighton.
"It would be the hand of God! We'll found a state that will overwhelm the world!"
"And what would I get for my help?"
"The vineyards of France ... the treasures of Italy ...
whatever you want. I'm not a greedy man. My gratitude would be generously shown."
"And if I refuse?" said Greighton.
"I'll find someone else. He help me rewrite history. Then, one day, you and your world will cease to exist."
"You don't seem to offer me a choice."
"Only opportunities, John. Only opportunities."
Rick had heard enough. Whether Greighton accepted Green's offer was ultimately irrelevant, and to listen further increased his risk of getting caught. He had an idea of how dangerous that might be. Quickly, but cautiously, he sneaked away.
John Greighton left Green's quarters about a half an hour later. The sunset had painted the sky a brilliant orange, but he was oblivious to it. In his hand was the bottle of cognac, a parting gift. He removed its cut crystal stopper. With an unsteady hand, he held the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Peter Green remained in his quarters. He already regretted the gift of the cognac. He would have enjoyed a celebratory drink at the moment. Reaching into a pocket of his dinner jacket, he extracted a small pistol. It had not been necessary. He placed the pistol under his pillow and prepared for bed. 14
RICK HEADED FOR THE SEA, HIS MIND IN TURMOIL. ON ONE
hand, Green's scheme seemed unreal and absurd—a single man proposing to alter the destiny of humanity to satisfy his greed. It was hard to comprehend such a pathological am-bition, much less see how it could come to pass. Still, the idea of standing on the shores of the Interior Seaway had seemed equally absurd and unreal only a week ago. Rick was no student of history, but he knew that all evil needed to flourish was acquiescence. Green had a time machine, and with it, he could wreak havoc. It was a fact Rick could not dare to ignore.
The sea glowed like molten metal against the darkening sky, but it did not calm Rick. Its unceasing motion dredged up disturbing echoes of the journey through time. An unquiet feeling that nothing was stable or permanent seized Rick's imagination. His very existence seemed tenuous. He might dissolve in an instant, along with everyone and everything dear to him.
/ must calmly decide what to do, Rick told himself. It was not easy advice to follow. There seemed little chance of re-solving matters peacefully. As Rick walked along the shore, he played out scenarios of confrontation, sabotage, and mu-tiny in his mind. Each ended in violence, and each increased his agitation. He was stabbing the air with Tom's knife, when Joe called out his name. Joe was sitting on a rock, flask in hand, watching the waves. Rick hadn't even noticed him.
"Hope you didn't mind my joking at dinner," Joe said good-naturedly. "I gotta admit it, that girl's one spunky kid!"
"Yeah, sure." said Rick tersely.
"Something buggin' you? You're looking at me weird. Like I crawled from under this rock."
"I'm just tired, that's all."
"You don't look tired. You look jumpy. Those Tyranno-saurs get to you?"
"Them?"
"Yeah. You were a little damp after our encounter. Not that I blame you, if it was up to me, I'd have blown them away."
"I'm sure you would," said Rick angrily. "That's where we're different. Blowing stuff away doesn't bother you."
Joe stared out to sea, saying nothing. Rick strode away, following the shore. RICK LAY ON his cot, listening to the easy breathing of James, Pandit and Joe. He looked at his watch. No one had stirred for half an hour. Assured everyone was asleep, he pulled off his covers and rose from his bunk, fully dressed except for his shoes. These he grabbed to put on outside the tent. Rick walked quietly to the door flap and slipped into the night.
The full moon made the path easy to see. It took Rick only a few minutes to reach the plane. The doorway opened as he approached. Rick reached inside and grabbed a gun. He pressed a button and the rows of lights appeared on the barrel. He adjusted the power level to its highest setting and then set the firing spread to maximum. These were "kick-ass levels," as Joe would put it— messy, but effective. Rick turned off the safety and the firing trigger appeared.
Rick's hands trembled as he held the deadly instru-ment. He stood immobile in the moonlight, reluctant to start his trek to Peter Green's quarters. This isn't murder, he told himself. I'll be saving lives. Murder is something different. Rick wondered if anyone would believe that. He doubted that he believed it himself.
Shadows of trees lay across the path so Rick walked alternately in moonlight and in darkness. His thoughts, however, were always on the darkness. He would have to turn on the lights for a clear shot. What if Green wakes up? Rick was convinced he would. Should I say some-thing to him? Do I owe him an explanation? What if he pleads with me? The idea of killing a man begging for his life was profoundly depressing. Rick wished he could be angry, but the only passion he could muster was sor-row.
"Going hunting?" asked Joe as he stepped out of the shadows to block Rick's path. Rick gave a start, then quickly raised his gun and aimed it at Joe's chest. Joe stood still, his hands clasped in front of his waist. "It seems," he said calmly, "I'm not the only one who doesn't mind blowing stuff away."
"I know what Green's up to. He's got to be stopped."
"And you're the one to do it?"
"Yes," said Rick. "Now out of my way."
Joe sighed deeply. "You're not a killer, Rick."
Rick watched Joe through the targeting scope. "I'll do what I have to. Move!"
"You'll have to kill me first. If you're going to take on Green, you're gonna need practice." Rick tried to pull the trigger, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He lowered the gun. "Damn you, Joe!
Damn you!"
"Green would've killed me in a nanosecond," said Joe. "He's the real thing. If you go down there, you're gonna die."
"Is that a threat?" asked Rick, raising the gun again.
"No," said Joe, "more a statement of fact. He's always armed, and he doesn't flinch. Besides, it's not necessary to kill him."
"I'm confused," said Rick. "Whose side are you on?"
"Not Green's, if that's what you think. My own, I guess. I'm just trying to survive."
"How can you stand by and let Green pull it off?"
"I don't know what 'it' is." replied Joe. "Green doesn't confide in the help."
"You know Green's a fake. Don't pretend you don't."
"I won't," said Joe. "I also know that this 'resort' is only a means to get to Greighton."
"But you claim you don't know Green's plans?"
"Nope, though I have no doubt they're illegal and im-moral."
"He wants Greighton to build him a fleet of time ma-chines to invade the past. He calls it a 'preemptive strike' against the future. He actually plans to take over the world."
Joe chuckled mirthlessly. "That ruthless son of a bitch!"
"There's nothing funny about this! He's planning germ warfare. And our present—it'll cease to exist!"
"None of that's going to happen," said Joe.
"How can you be so sure?"
"I'm an engineer, or at least I was one. I've spent a lot more time with Green's new toy than he has. Those knobs and switches on the control panel look ordinary because they're made for human fingers, and people's
fingers haven't changed. What's beneath them, the control panel itself, is a whole different story. It's engineered on the atomic level. It doesn't even use electricity, at least not the way we understand it. And that's just the control panel. Everything about that machine is completely over our heads. Who knows how many generations it took to discover its technology. No one's going to copy it."
"He still has this machine," Rick countered.
"Yeah, but it only goes to two destinations—this place and our own time."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know you love this godforsaken place," said Joe, "but do you really think Green would take Greighton here if he had a choice?"
"You've lost me," said Rick
"Look," said Joe, "why don't you turn off that gun, and I'll explain the whole thing." Joe reached into his pocket and Rick quickly pointed the gun at him. Joe very slowly pulled out his flask.
"An-other night like this, and I'll run out before we leave." He unscrewed the top and held out the flask to Rick. "Want some?"
"No."
Joe took a sip from the flask, then put it away. "Come on, the gun belongs in the plane. We can talk there."
Rick hesitated before he turned off the gun. When he finally did, a great feeling of relief came over him. Word-lessly, he began to walk to the plane. Soon, he and Joe were sitting inside it, watching the night sky through its crystal fuselage.
Joe broke the silence. "Green is a man with connec-tions. Some are legitimate, most aren't. He gets his hooks into people, and then he uses them. He got me several years ago." Joe sighed. "It's a long, sad story. Anyway, he got connected with Sam somehow. That's what we called the guy with the time machine. I don't know his real name, probably something unpronounceable. He was an arrogant asshole and weird-looking, too—tall, baby-faced. Dressed like some guy from India. Wore an old-fashioned turban and had one of those dots on his forehead. He may have looked like a foreigner, but he spoke perfect English.
"Sam sought Green out, at least that's my impression. He had some scheme going, and he needed a native to carry it out. I never found out what the deal was about. Whatever it was, it was definitely illegal in the future. Sam was nervous as hell about getting caught in the twenty-first century. That's how I got involved. Sam wanted to do all the planning here."
