Time Travel Omnibus, page 490
Anyhow, we caught the next plane to St. Louis. To our mortification, we found we weren’t the first.
Lord, no! There were other hunting guides and no end of scientists, each with his own idea of the right use for the machine.
We scraped off the historians and archeologists right at the start.
Seems the bloody machine won’t work for periods more recent than 100,000 years ago. From there, up to about a billion years.
Why? Oh, I’m no four-dimensional thinker, but as I understand it, if people could go back to a more recent time, their actions would affect our own history, which would be a paradox or contradiction of facts. Can’t have that in a well-run universe. But before 100,000 B.C., more or less, the actions of the expeditions are lost in the stream of time before human history begins. At that, once a stretch of past time has been used, say the month of January, one million B.C., you can’t use that stretch over again by sending another party into it. Paradoxes again.
But the professor isn’t worried; with a billion years to exploit, he won’t soon run out of eras.
Another limitation of the machine is the matter of size. For technical reasons, Prochaska had to build the transition chamber just big enough to hold four men with their personal gear, plus the chamber-wallah. Larger parties have to be sent through in relays. That means, you see, it’s not practical to take jeeps, boats, aircraft, or other powered vehicles.
ON THE other hand, since you’re going to periods without human beings, there’s no whistling up a hundred native bearers to trot along with your gear on their heads. So we usually take a train of asses—burros, they call them here. Most periods have enough natural forage to get you where you want to go.
As I say, everybody had his own idea for using the machine. The scientists looked down their noses at us hunters and said it would be a crime to waste the machine’s time pandering to our sadistic amusements.
We brought up another angle. The machine cost a cool thirty million. I understand this came from the Rockefeller Board and such people, but that only accounted for the original cost, not the cost of operation. And the thing uses fantastic amounts of power. Most of the scientists’ projects, while worthy as worthy could be, were run on a shoestring, financially speaking.
Now we guides catered to people with money, a species with which America seems overstocked. No offense, old boy. Most of these could afford a substantial fee for passing through the machine to the past. Thus we could help finance the operation of the machine for scientific purposes, provided we got a fair share of its time.
Won’t go into the details, but in the end the guides formed a syndicate of eight members, one member being the partnership of Rivers & Aiyar, to apportion the machine’s time.
We had rush business from the start. Our wives—the Raja’s and mine—raised bloody hell with us. They’d hoped when the big game gave out they’d never have to share us with lions and things again, but you know how women are. Can’t realize hunting’s not really dangerous if you keep your head and take precautions.
ON THE fifth expedition, we had two sahibs to wet-nurse: both Americans in their thirties, both physically sound, and both solvent. Otherwise they were as different as different can be.
Courtney James was what you chaps call a playboy: a rich young man from New York who’d always had his own way and didn’t see why that agreeable condition shouldn’t continue. A big bloke, almost as big as I am; handsome in a florid way, but beginning to run to fat. He was on his fourth wife, and when he showed up at the office with a blonde with “model” written all over her, I assumed this was the fourth Mrs. James.
“Miss Bartram,” she corrected me, with an embarrassed giggle.
“She’s not my wife,” James explained. “My wife is in Mexico, I think, getting a divorce. But Bunny here would like to go along—”
“Sorry,” I said, “we don’t take ladies. At least not to the late Mesozoic.”
This wasn’t strictly true, but I felt we were running enough risks, going after a little-known fauna, without dragging in people’s domestic entanglements. Nothing against sex, you understand. Marvelous institution and all that, but not where it interferes with my living.
“Oh, nonsense,” said James. “If she wants to go, she’ll go. She skis and flies my airplane, so why shouldn’t she—”
“Against the firm’s policy.”
“She can keep out of the way when we run up against the dangerous ones.”
“No, sorry.”
“Damn it,” said he, getting red. “After all, I’m paying you a goodly sum and I’m entitled to take who I please.”
“You can’t hire me to do anything against my best judgment,” I said. “If that’s how you feel, get another guide.”
“All right, I will. And I’ll tell all my friends you’re a goddamn—” Well, he said a lot of things I won’t repeat. It ended with my telling him to get out of the office or I’d throw him out.
I was sitting in the office thinking sadly of all that lovely money James would have paid me if I hadn’t been so stiff-necked, when in came my other lamb, one August Holtzinger. This was a little slim pale chap with glasses, polite and formal where the other had been breezily self-confident to the point of obnoxiousness.
Holtzinger sat on the edge of his chair and said: “Uh—Mr. Rivers, I don’t want you to think I’m here under false pretenses. I’m really not much of an outdoorsman and I’ll probably be scared to death when I see a real dinosaur. But I’m determined to hang a dinosaur head over my fireplace or die in the attempt.”
“Most of us are frightened at first,” I soothed him, and little by little I got the story out of him.
WHILE James had always been wallowing in money, Holtzinger was a local product who’d only lately come into the real thing. He’d had a little business here in St. Louis and just about made ends meet when an uncle cashed in his chips somewhere and left little Augie the pile.
He’d never been married but had a fiancée. He was building a big house, and when it was finished, they’d be married and move into it. And one furnishing he demanded was a ceratopsian head over the fireplace. Those are the ones with the big horned heads with a parrot-beak and frill over the neck, you know. You have to think twice about collecting them, because if you put a seven-foot triceratops head into a small living room, there’s apt to be no room left for anything else.
We were talking about this when in came a girl, a small girl in her twenties, quite ordinary-looking, and crying.
“Augie!” she wept. “You can’t! You mustn’t! You’ll be killed!” She grabbed him round and said to me: “Mr. Rivers, you mustn’t take him! He’s all I’ve got! He’ll never stand the hardships!”
“My dear young lady,” I said, “I should hate to cause you distress, but it’s up to Mr. Holtzinger to decide whether he wishes to retain my services.”
“It’s no use, Claire,” said Holtzinger. “I’m going, though I’ll probably hate every minute of it.”
“What’s that, old boy?” I asked. “If you hate it, why go? Did you lose a bet or something?”
“No,” said Holtzinger. “It’s this way. Uh—I’m a completely undistinguished kind of guy. I’m not brilliant or big or strong or handsome. I’m just an ordinary Midwestern small businessman. You never even notice me at Rotary luncheons, I fit in so perfectly. But that doesn’t say I’m satisfied. I’ve always hankered to go to far places and do big things.
I’d like to be a glamorous, adventurous sort of guy. Like you, Mr. Rivers.”
“Oh, come,” I protested. “Professional hunting may seem glamorous to you, but to me it’s just a living.”
HE SHOOK his head. “Nope. You know what I mean. Well, now I’ve got this legacy, I could settle down to play bridge and golf the rest of my life and try to act like I wasn’t bored. But I’m determined to do something big for once. Since there’s no more real big-game hunting, I’m gonna shoot a dinosaur and hang his head over my mantel. I’ll never be happy otherwise.”
Well, Holtzinger and his girl, whose name was Roche, argued, but he wouldn’t give in. She made me swear to take the best care of her Augie and departed, sniffling.
When Holtzinger had left, who should come in but my vile-tempered friend Courtney James. He apologized for insulting me, though you could hardly say he groveled.
“I don’t actually have a bad temper,” he said, “except when people won’t cooperate with me. Then I sometimes get mad. But so long as they’re cooperative, I’m not hard to get along with.”
I knew that by “cooperate” he meant to do whatever Courtney James wanted, but I didn’t press the point. “How about Miss Bartram?” I asked.
“We had a row,” he said. “I’m through with women. So if there’s no hard feelings, let’s go on from where we left off.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, business being business.
The Raja and I decided to make it a joint safari to eighty-five million years ago: the early upper Cretaceous, or the middle Cretaceous, as some American geologists call it. It’s about the best period for dinosaur in Missouri. You’ll find some individual species a little larger in the late upper Cretaceous, but the period we were going to gives a wider variety.
Now, as to our equipment, the Raja and I each had a Continental .600 like the one I showed you and a few smaller guns. At this time, we hadn’t worked up much capital and had no spare .600s to rent.
AUGUST HOLTZINGER said he would rent a gun, as he expected this to be his only safari and there was no point in spending over a thousand dollars for a gun he’d shoot only a few times. But since we had no spare .600s, his choice was between buying one of those and renting one of our smaller pieces.
We drove into the country to let him try the .600. We set up a target. Holtzinger heaved up the gun as if it weighed a ton and let fly. He missed completely and the kick knocked him flat on his back with his legs in the air.
He got up, looking paler than ever, and handed me back the gun, saying: “Uh—I think I’d better try something smaller.”
When his shoulder stopped being sore, I tried him out on the smaller rifles. He took a fancy to my Winchester 70, chambered for the .375 magnum cartridge. It’s an excellent all-round gun—
What’s it like? A conventional magazine rifle with a Mauser-type bolt action. It’s perfect for the big cats and bears, but a little light for elephant and very definitely light for dinosaur. I should never have given in, but I was in a hurry and it might have taken months to get him a new .600. They’re made to order, you know, and James was getting impatient. James already had a gun, a Holland & Holland .500 double express. With 5700 foot-pounds of muzzle energy, it’s almost in a class with the .600.
Both sahibs had done a bit of shooting, so I didn’t worry about their accuracy. Shooting dinosaur is not a matter of extreme accuracy but of sound judgment and smooth coordination so you shan’t catch twigs in the mechanism of your gun, or fall into holes, or climb a small tree the dinosaur can pluck you out of, or blow your guide’s head off.
People used to hunting mammals sometimes try to shoot a dinosaur in the brain. That’s the silliest thing you can do, because dinosaur haven’t got any. To be exact, they have a little lump of tissue about the size of a tennis ball on the front end of their spines, and how are you going to hit that when it’s imbedded in a moving six-foot skull?
The only safe rule with dinosaur is—always try for a heart shot. They have big hearts, over a hundred pounds in the largest species, and a couple of .600 slugs through the heart will kill them just as dead as a smaller beast. The problem is to get the slugs through that mountain of muscle and armor around it.
WELL, we appeared at Prochaska’s laboratory one rainy morning: James and Holtzinger, the Raja and I, our herder Beauregard Black, three helpers, a cook, and twelve jacks. Burros, that is.
The transition chamber is a little cubbyhole the size of a small lift. My routine is for the men with the guns to go first in case a hungry theropod might be standing in front of the machine when it arrived. So the two sahibs, the Raja and I crowded into the chamber with our guns and packs.
The operator squeezed in after us, closed the door, and fiddled with his dials. He set the thing for April twenty-fourth, eighty-five million B.C., and pressed the red button.
The lights went out, leaving the chamber lit by a little battery-operated lamp. James and Holtzinger looked pretty green, but that may have been the dim lighting. The Raja and I had been through all this before, so the vibration and vertigo didn’t bother us.
I could see the little black hands of the dials spinning round, some slowly and some so fast they were a blur. Then they slowed down and stopped. The operator looked at his ground-level gauge and turned a handwheel that raised the chamber so it shouldn’t materialize underground. Then he pressed another button and the door slid open.
No matter how often I do it, I get a frightful thrill out of stepping into a bygone era. The operator had raised the chamber a foot above ground level, so I jumped down, my gun ready. The others came after. We looked back at the chamber, a big shiny cube hanging in mid-air a foot off the ground, with this little lift-door in front.
“Right-ho,” I told the chamber-wallah, and he closed the door. The chamber disappeared and we looked around. The scene hadn’t changed from my last expedition to this era, which had ended, in Cretaceous time, five days before this one began. There weren’t any dinosaur in sight, nothing but lizards.
IN THIS period, the chamber materializes on top of a rocky rise from which you can see in all directions as far as the haze will let you.
To the west, you see the arm of the Kansas Sea that reaches across Missouri and the big swamp around the bayhead where the sauropods live. It used to be thought the sauropods became extinct before the Cretaceous, but that’s not so. They were more limited in range because swamps and lagoons didn’t cover so much of the world, but there were plenty of them if you knew where to look.
To the north is a low range that the Raja named the Janpur Hills after the little Indian kingdom his forebears had ruled. To the east, the land slopes up to a plateau, good for ceratopsians, while to the south is flat country with more sauropod swamps and lots of ornithopods: duckbills and iguanadonts.
The finest thing about the Cretaceous is the climate: balmy, like the South Sea Islands, with little seasonal change, but not so muggy as most Jurassic climates. We happened to be there in spring, with dwarf magnolias in bloom all over, but the air feels like spring almost any time of year.
A thing about this landscape is that it combines a fairly high rainfall with an open type of vegetation-cover. That is, the grasses hadn’t yet evolved to the point of forming solid carpets over all open ground, so the ground is thick with laurel, sassafras and other shrubs, with bare ground between. There are big thickets of palmettos and ferns. The trees round the hill are mostly cycads, standing singly and in copses. Most people call them palms, though my scientific friends tell me they’re not true palms.
Down toward the Kansas Sea are more cycads and willows, while the uplands are covered with screw-pine and ginkos.
Now I’m no bloody poet—the Raja writes the stuff, not me—but I can appreciate a beautiful scene. One of the helpers had come through the machine with two of the jacks and was pegging them out, and I was looking through the haze and sniffing the air, when a gun went off behind me—bang! bang!
I turned round and there was Courtney James with his .500 and an ornithomime legging it for cover fifty yards away. The ornithomimes are medium-sized running dinosaurs, slender things with long necks and legs, like a cross between a lizard and an ostrich. This kind is about seven feet tall and weighs as much as a man. The beggar had wandered out of the nearest copse and James gave him both barrels. Missed.
I was a bit upset, as trigger-happy sahibs are as much a menace as those who get panicky and freeze or bolt. I yelled:
“Damn it, you idiot, I thought you weren’t to shoot without word from me!”
“And who the hell are you to tell me when I’ll shoot my own gun?” he demanded.
WE HAD a rare old row until Holtzinger and the Raja got us calmed down.
I explained: “Look here, Mr. James, I’ve got reasons. If you shoot off all your ammunition before the trip’s over, your gun won’t be available in a pinch and it’s the only one of its caliber. Second, if you empty both barrels at an unimportant target, what would happen if a big theropod charged before you could reload? Finally, it’s not sporting to shoot everything in sight. I’ll shoot for meat, or for trophies, or to defend myself, but not just to hear the gun go off. If more people had exercised moderation in killing, there’d still be decent sport in our own era. Understand?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. Mercurial sort of bloke.
The rest of the party came through the machine and we pitched our camp a safe distance from the materializing place. Our first task was to get fresh meat. For a twenty-one-day safari like this, we calculate our food requirements closely so we can make out on tinned stuff and concentrates if we must, but we count on killing at least one piece of meat. When that’s butchered, we go on a short tour, stopping at four or five camping places to hunt and arriving back at base a few days before the chamber is due to appear.
Holtzinger, as I said, wanted a ceratopsian head, any kind. James insisted on just one head: a tyrannosaur. Then everybody’d think he’d shot the most dangerous game of all time.
Fact is, the tyrannosaur’s overrated. He’s more a carrion-eater than an active predator, though he’ll snap you up if he gets the chance. He’s less dangerous than some of the other theropods—the flesh-eaters—such as the big saurophagus of the Jurassic, or even the smaller gorgosaurus from the period we were in. But everybody’s read about the tyrant lizard and he does have the biggest head of the theropods.
The one in our period isn’t the rex, which is later and a little bigger and more specialized. It’s the trionyches with the forelimbs not reduced to quite such little vestiges, though they’re too small for anything but picking the brute’s teeth after a meal.
