Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  “Checkmate!” He found himself in a hole, started to nod; but she caught herself this time. “Sorry, I’ve been playing my king for a queen. Doctor, let’s see if we can play at least one game right.”

  Before it was half-finished, it became obvious that they couldn’t. Neither had chess very much on the mind, and the pawns and men did fearful and wonderful things, while the knights were as likely to jump six squares as their normal L. They gave it up, just as one of the cranes lost its precarious balance and toppled forward, dropping the long extended pipe into the bubbling mass below. Tanks were in instantly, hitching on and tugging backward until it came down with a thump as the pipe fused, releasing the extreme forward load. It backed out on its own power, while another went in. The driver, by sheer good luck, hobbled from the cab, waving an armored hand to indicate he was all right. Things settled back to an excited routine again that seemed to go on endlessly, though seconds were dropping off too rapidly, turning into minutes that threatened to be hours far too soon.

  “Uh!” Brown had been staring for some time, but her little feet suddenly came down with a bang and she straightened up, her hand to her mouth. “Doctor, I just thought; it won’t do any good‌—‌all this!”

  “Why?” She couldn’t know anything, but he felt the faint hopes he had go downward sharply. His nerves were dulled, but still ready to jump at the slightest warning.

  “The stuff they were making was a superheavy‌—‌it’ll sink as soon as it hits the water, and all pile up right there! It won’t float down river!”

  Obvious, Ferrel thought; too obvious. Maybe that was why the engineers hadn’t thought of it. He started from the plank, just as Palmer stepped up, but the manager’s hand on his shoulder forced him back.

  “Easy, Doc, it’s O. K. Umm, so they teach women some science nowadays, eh, Mrs. Jenkins … Sue … Dr. Brown, whatever your name is? Don’t worry about it, though‌—‌the old principle of Brownian movement will keep any colloid suspended, if it’s fine enough to be a real colloid. We’re sucking it out and keeping it pretty hot until it reaches the water‌—‌then it cools off so fast it hasn’t time to collect in particles big enough to sink. Some of the dust that floats around in the air is heavier than water, too. I’m joining the bystanders, if you don’t mind; the men have everything under control, and I can see better here than I could down there, if anything does come up.”

  Doc’s momentary despair reacted to leave him feeling more sure of things than was justified. He pushed over on the plank, making room for Palmer to drop down beside him. “What’s to keep it from blowing up anyway, Palmer?”

  “Nothing! Got a match?” He sucked in on the cigarette heavily, relaxing as much as he could. “No use trying to fool you, Doc, at this stage of the game. We’re gambling, and I’d say the odds are even; Jenkins thinks they’re ninety to ten in his favor, but he has to think so. What we’re hoping is that by lifting it out in a gas, thus breaking it down at once from full concentration to the finest possible form, and letting it settle in the water in colloidal particles, there won’t be a concentration at any one place sufficient to set it all off at once. The big problem is making sure we get every bit of it cleaned out here, or there may be enough left to take care of us and the nearby city! At least, since the last change, it’s stopped spitting, so all the men have to worry about is burn!”

  “How much damage, even if it doesn’t go off all at once?”

  “Possibly none. If you can keep it burning slowly, a million tons of dynamite wouldn’t be any worse than the same amount of wood, but a stick going off at once will kill you. Why the dickens didn’t Jenkins tell me he wanted to go into atomics? We could have fixed all that‌—‌it’s hard enough to get good men as it is!”

  Brown perked up, forgetting the whole trouble beyond them, and went into the story with enthusiasm, while Ferrel only partly listened. He could see the spot of magma growing steadily smaller, but the watch on his wrist went on ticking off minutes remorselessly, and the time was growing limited. He hadn’t realized before how long he’d been sitting there. Now three of the crane nozzles were almost touching, and around them stretched the burned-out ground, with no sign of converter, masonry, or anything else; the heat from the thermodyne had gassified everything, indiscriminately.

  “Palmer!” The portable ultrawave set around the manager’s neck came to life suddenly. “Hey, Palmer, these blowers are about shot; the pipe’s pitting already. We’ve been doing everything we can to replace them, but that stuff eats faster than we can fix. Can’t hold up more’n fifteen minutes more.”

  “Check, Briggs. Keep ’em going the best you can.” Palmer flipped a switch and looked out toward the tank standing by behind the cranes. “Jenkins, you get that?”

  “Yeah. Surprised they held out this long. How much time till deadline?” The boy’s voice was completely toneless, neither hope nor nerves showing up, only the complete weariness of a man almost at his limit.

  Palmer looked and whistled. “Twelve minutes, according to the minimum estimate Hoke made! How much left?”

  “We’re just burning around now, trying to make sure there’s no pocket left; I hope we’ve got the whole works, but I’m not promising. Might as well send out all the I-231 you have and we’ll boil it down the pipes to clear out any deposits on them. All the old treads and parts that contacted the R gone into the pile?”

  “You melted the last, and your cranes haven’t touched the stuff directly. Nice pile of money’s gone down that pipe‌—‌converter, machinery, everything!”

  Jenkins made a sound that was expressive of his worry about that. “I’m coming in now and starting the clearing of the pipe. What’ve you been paying insurance for?”

  “At a lovely rate, too! O. K., come on in, kid; and if you’re interested, you can start sticking A. E. after the M. D., any time you want. Your wife’s been giving me your qualifications, and I think you’ve passed the final test, so you’re now an atomic engineer, duly graduated from National!”

  Brown’s breath caught, and her eyes seemed to glow, even through the goggles, but Jenkins’ voice was flat. “0. K., I expected you to give me one if we don’t blow up. But you’ll have to see Dr. Ferrel about it; he’s got a contract with me for medical practice. Be there shortly.”

  Nine of the estimated twelve minutes had ticked by when he climbed up beside them, mopping off some of the sweat that covered him, and Palmer was hugging the watch. More minutes ticked off slowly, while the last sound faded out in the plant, and the men stood around, staring down toward the river or at the hole that had been No. 4. Silence. Jenkins stirred, and grunted.

  “Palmer, I know where I got the idea, now. Jorgenson was trying to remind me of it, instead of raving, only I didn’t get it, at least consciously. It was one of Dad’s, the one he told Jorgenson was a last resort, in case the thing they broke up about went haywire. It was the first variable Dad tried. I was twelve, and he insisted water would break it up into all its chains and kill the danger. Only Dad didn’t really expect it to work!”

  Palmer didn’t look up from the watch, but he caught his breath and swore. “Fine time to tell me that!”

  “He didn’t have your isotopes to heat it up with, either,” Jenkins answered mildly. “Suppose you look up from that watch of yours for a minute, down the river.”

  As Doc raised his eyes, he was aware suddenly of a roar from the men. Over to the south, stretching out in a huge mass, was a cloud of steam that spread upward and out as he watched, and the beginnings of a mighty hissing sound came in. Then Palmer was hugging Jenkins and yelling until Brown could pry him away and replace him.

  “Ten minutes or more of river, plus the swamps, Doc!” Palmer was shouting in Ferrel’s ear. “All that dispersion, while it cooks slowly from now until the last chain is finished, atom by atom! The theta chain broke, unstable, and now there’s everything there, too scattered to set itself off! It’ll cook the river bed up and dry it, but that’s all!”

&
nbsp; Doc was still dazed, unsure of how to take the relief. He wanted to lie down and cry or to stand up with the men and shout his head off. Instead, he sat loosely, gazing at the cloud. “So I lose the best assistant I ever had! Jenkins, I won’t hold you; you’re free for whatever Palmer wants.”

  “Hoke wants him to work on R‌—‌he’s got the stuff for his bomb now!” Palmer was clapping his hands together slowly, like an excited child watching a steam shovel. “Heck, Doc, pick out anyone you want until your own boy gets out next year. You wanted a chance to work him in here, now you’ve got it. Right now I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “You might see what you can do about hospitalizing the injured and fixing things up with the men in the tent behind the Infirmary. And I think I’ll take Brown in Jenkins’ place, with the right to grab him in an emergency, until that year’s up.”

  “Done.” Palmer slapped the boy’s back, stopping the protest, while Brown winked at him. “Your wife likes working, kid; she told me that herself. Besides, a lot of the women work here where they can keep an eye on their men; my own wife does, usually. Doc, take these two kids and head for home, where I’m going myself. Don’t come back until you get good and ready, and don’t let them start fighting about it!”

  Doc pulled himself from the truck and started off with Brown and Jenkins following, through the yelling, relief-crazed men. The three were too thoroughly worn out for any exhibition themselves, but they could feel it. Happy ending! Jenkins and Brown where they wanted to be, Hoke with his bomb, Palmer with proof that atomic plants were safe where they were, and he‌—‌well, his boy would start out right, with himself and the widely differing but competent Blake and Jenkins to guide him. It wasn’t a bad life, after all.

  Then he stopped and chuckled. “You two wait for me, will you? If I leave here without making out that order of extra disinfection at the showers, Blake’ll swear I’m growing old and feeble-minded. I can’t have that.”

  Old? Maybe a little tired, but he’d been that before, and with luck would be again. He wasn’t worried. His nerves were good for twenty years and fifty accidents more, and by that time Blake would be due for a little ribbing himself.

  THE SANDS OF TIME

  P. Schuyler Miller

  One irrefutable proof of a visit to the far past would be to return with a dinosaur egg‌—‌a fresh one! Or, take your camera with you, and come back to develop pictures that were taken millions of years ago. But one should be careful of time travel, for it might be true that the dinosaurs weren’t the only ones who used the earth of the Cretaceous age as a battleground. There might have been visitors who came, fought and departed, leaving not a single footprint in the sands of our time.

  * * *

  1

  A long shadow fell across the ledge. I laid down the curved blade with which I was chipping at the soft sandstone, and squinted up into the glare of the afternoon sun. A man was sitting on the edge of the pit, his legs dangling over the side. He raised a hand in salutation.

  “Hi!”

  He hunched forward to jump. My shout stopped him.

  “Look out! You’ll smash them!”

  He peered down at me, considering the matter. He had no hat, and the sun made a halo of his blond, curly hair.

  “They’re fossils, aren’t they?” he objected. “Fossils I’ve seen were stone, and stone is hard. What do you mean‌—‌ I’ll smash ‘em?”

  “I mean what I said. This sandstone is soft and the bones in it are softer. Also, they’re old. Digging out dinosaurs is no pick-and-shovel job nowadays.”

  “Um-m-m.” He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “How old would you say they were?”

  I got wearily to my feet and began to slap the dust out of my breeches. Evidently I was in for another siege of questions. He might be a reporter, or he might be any one of the twenty-odd farmers in the surrounding section. It would make a difference what I told him.

  “Come on down here where we can talk,” I invited. “We’ll be more comfortable. There’s a trail about a hundred yards up the draw.”

  “I’m all right.” He leaned back on braced arms. “What is it? What did it look like?”

  I know when I’m beaten. I leaned against the wall of the quarry, out of the sun, and began to fill my pipe. I waved the packet of tobacco courteously at him, but he shook his head.

  “Thanks. Cigarette.” He lighted one. “You’re Professor Belden, aren’t you? E. J. Beldan. ‘E’ stands for Ephratah, or some such. Doesn’t affect your digging any, though.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What’s that thing you were using?”

  I held it up. “It’s a special knife for working out bones like these. The museum’s model. When I was your age we used butcher knives and railroad spikes‌—‌anything we could get our hands on. There weren’t any railroads out here then.”

  He nodded. “I know. My father dug for ’em. Hobby of his, for a while. Changed over to stamps when he lost his leg.” Then with an air of changing the subject. “That thing you’re digging out‌—‌what did it look like? Alive, I mean.”

  I had about half of the skeleton worked out. I traced its outline for him with the knife. “There’s the skull; there’s the neck and spine, and what’s left of the tail; this was its left foreleg. You can see the remains of the crest along the top of the skull, and the flat snout like a duck’s beak. It’s one of many species of trachodon‌—‌the duckbilled aquatic dinosaurs. They fed along the shore lines, on water plants and general browse, and some of them were bogged down and drowned.”

  “I get it. Big bruiser‌—‌little, front legs and husky hind ones with a tail like a kangaroo. Sat on it when he got tired. Fin on his head like a fish, and a face like a duck. Did he have scales?”

  “I doubt it,” I told him. “More likely warts like a toad, or armor plates like an alligator. We’ve found skin impressions of some of this one’s cousins, south of here, and that’s what they were like.”

  He nodded again‌—‌that all-knowing nod that gets my eternal goat. He fumbled inside his coat and brought out a little leather folder or wallet, and leafed through its contents. He leaned forward and something white came scaling down at my feet.

  “Like that?” he asked.

  I picked it up. It was a photograph, enlarged from a miniature camera shot. It showed the edge of a reedy lake or river, with a narrow, sandy strip of beach and a background of feathery foliage that looked like tree ferns. Thigh-deep in the water, lush lily stalks trailing from its flat jaws, stood a replica of the creature whose skeleton was embedded in the rock at my feet‌—‌a trachodon. It was a perfect likeness‌—‌the heavy, frilled crest, the glistening skin with its uneven patches of dark tubercles, the small, webbed forepaws on skinny arms.

  “Nice job,” I admitted. “Is it one of Knight’s new ones?”

  “Knight?” He seemed puzzled. “Oh‌—‌the Museum of Natural History. No‌—‌I made it myself.”

  “You’re to be congratulated,” I assured him. “I don’t know when I’ve seen a nicer model. What’s it for‌—‌the movies?”

  “Movies?” He sounded exasperated. “I’m not making movies. I made the picture‌—‌the photograph. Took it myself‌—‌here‌—‌or pretty close to here. The thing was alive, and is still for all I know. It chased me.”

  That was the last straw. “See here,” I said, “if you’re trying to talk me into backing some crazy publicity stunt, you can guess again. I wasn’t born yesterday, and I cut my teeth on a lot harder and straighter science than your crazy newspaper syndicates dish out. I worked these beds before you were born, or your father, either, and there were no trachodons wandering around chasing smart photographers with the dt’s and no lakes or tree ferns for ’em to wander in. If you’re after a testimonial for some one’s model of Cretaceous fauna, say so. That is an excellent piece of work, and if you’re responsible you have every right to be proud of it. Only stop this blither about photographing dinosaurs that have been fossils for six
ty million years.”

  The fellow was stubborn. “It’s no hoax,” he insisted doggedly. “There’s no newspaper involved and I’m not peddling dolls. I took that photograph. Your trachodon chased me and I ran. And I have more of the same to prove it! Here.”

  The folder landed with a thump at my feet. It was crammed with prints like the first‌—‌enlargements of Leica negatives‌—‌and for sheer realism I have never seen anything like them.

  “I had thirty shots,” he told me. “I used them all, and they were all beauties. And I can do it again!”

  Those prints! I can see them now; landscapes that vanished from this planet millions of years before the first furry tree shrew scurried among the branches of the first temperate forests and became the ancestor of mankind; monsters whose buried bones and fossil footprints are the only mementos of a race of giants vaster than any other creatures that ever walked the earth; there were more of the trachodons‌—‌a whole herd of them, it seemed, browsing along the shore of a lake or large river, and they had that individuality that marks the work of the true artist they were Corythosaurs, like the one I was working on‌—‌one of the better-known genera of the great family of Trachodons. But the man who had restored them had used his imagination to show details of markings and fleshy structure that I was sure had never been shown by any recorded fossils.

  Nor was that all. There were close-ups of plants‌—‌trees and low bushes‌—‌that were masterpieces of minute detail, even to the point of showing withered fronds, and the insects that walked and stalked and crawled over them. There were vistas of rank marshland scummed over with stringy algae and lush with tall grasses and taller reeds, among which saurian giants wallowed. There were two or three other varieties of Trachodon that I could see, and a few smaller dinosaurs, with a massive bulk in what passed for the distance that might have been a brontosaurus hangover from the Jurassic of a few million years before. I pointed to it.