by Will Hubbell
"Sure. It's just. .. veil. . . sometimes what's best changes."
"Now you've stepped in it!" said Joe jocularly, while flashing Rick a look that made him feel even dumber.
"And what do you mean by that?" asked Con.
"Just that genes that make you fat in times of plenty, help you survive in times of famine. It wouldn't do for everyone to get souped."
Joe laughed. "Small chance of that."
"For an individual, it's great," said Rick. "You'll prob-ably reach a hundred and look great doing it." Con looked somewhat placated. "Some people give me a hard time about it. I guess I'm a little touchy."
"Sorry," said Rick. "I wasn't being critical."
Con rose and began to wander along the edge of the sandbar. The tide was still going out, and the basking plesiosaurs had moved farther out with it. Rick noticed that she avoided the water. Suddenly, she yelled to them, "You've got to see this!"
Joe and Rick walked over and looked where she was pointing. Half-buried in the sand, about fifteen feet from the shore, was an ammonite shell. It was easily three feet in diameter. Between waves, a portion of its smooth sur-face projected above the water. The shell's exterior was golden brown with veins of yellow, orange, and mahog-any, all overlaid with a pattern of irregular spots. The interior was deep purple shading into pink.
"Isn't it beautiful," said Con.
Rick removed his sandals and waded out for a closer look.
"Don't!" cried out Con.
Rick scanned the clear water around the sandbar. "I don't see anything to worry about." He grabbed the edge of the shell and gave a tug. It moved slightly. "It's stuck in the sand." While Con watched nervously, he bent over and began scooping sand from around the shell with his hands. A passing wave thoroughly drenched his shirt-front. He kept digging, revealing more of the shell. It seemed to be in perfect condition. Rising again, he once more tugged at the shell. It budged a little. "Joe, could you give me a hand?" Joe waded out and assisted Rick. Straining together, they were able to drag the shell a few inches.
"Damn, this is heavy!" said Joe.
"Probably all the chambers are filled with water," said Rick.
Con, after some nervous hesitation, waded out, saying, "I'll push while you two pull." Rick was surprised she entered the water and more sur-prised by her strength. Together, the three muscled the shell onto the dry sand. By then, they were completely drenched.
"Too bad I don't have a bathing suit," said Con. She turned to stare sharply at Rick. "I will not't" she said in a shocked tone.
"Not what?" asked Rick.
"Don't you know souped girls are telepathic?" Con said. She watched Rick flush red before she nearly fell over laughing. "For someone who claims to be a scientist, you sure are gullible." Rick blushed even more. Con grinned broadly at his embarrassment and pushed her point. "Apparently, you're not as used to it as you claim."
"Am I missing something here?" asked Joe.
"Just a private joke," muttered Rick.
By maneuvering the shell about, they were able to drain much of the water from its inner chambers. Even-tually, it was light enough for them to lift and carry into the plane. They walked about to let the sun and wind dry their wet clothes before taking off to resume their travels.
They flew next to a spire of rock jutting two hundred feet above the sea. From a distance, Con thought the is-land was wreathed in swirling streamers of cloud, but as they came nearer, the "clouds" proved to be masses of white pterosaurs. Taking advantage of the winds, they soared gracefully through the air like living kites, flap-ping their long, sickle-shaped wings only occasionally. The animals appeared to consist of large-beaked and crested heads, longish necks, and small, tailless bodies, supported by large, narrow wings. These wings resem-bled neither those of birds nor bats. They were comprised of a stiffened membrane stretched between the animal's arm and a single, greatly elongated, finger and the ani-mal's thigh. The smaller fliers had wingspans of nine feet, while others had wingspans of twenty-three and thirty feet. Rick pointed out the different kinds and named them, " Nyctosaurus ... Pteranodon ingens . . . Pteranodon sternbergi."
"What do they eat?" ask Con.
"Watch," said Rick. "See them skimming just above the water? Watch what they do. See that? One just caught a fish."
"That's so neat!" said Con with excitement. "It scooped it up without missing a wingbeat." There was no place to land, so Joe simply circled the island slowly. Occasionally they were able to follow a pterosaur as it flew, sometimes approaching within a few yards of the animal.
"They look like giant hairy birds or something out of a medieval bestiary," said Con. They soared among the pterosaurs for almost an hour before Con asked if they could see how far the sea ex-tended. Joe flew away from the pterosaurs, then put the plane into a steep climb. As their altitude increased, their view of the world became more expansive. The moun-tains of the western coast and the narrow, river-cut coastal plain could be seen clearly. "Shall I just follow the coastline?" asked Joe.
"It's up to you, Con," said Rick.
"That sounds good."
The view from such a high altitude, while impressive, soon became monotonous. Con found her mind wander-ing. "I found something strange in my room last night."
"What was that?" asked Rick.
"Some luminous symbols on the wall. They had been covered over with plaster." Joe turned quickly around, paused for a moment, then said casually, "Oh that's just one of Eduardo's things."
"Who?" said Con.
"He was the decorator, before he got canned. Wanted everything to look high-tech. You know, sort of a
'time travel motif.' It looked god-awful."
"You mean that thing is just a decoration?" asked Con.
"Yep. An expensive one, too. Mr. Green had me plaster it over when he went for the rustic look."
"Oh," said Con.
A few minutes later, Joe brought up the subject again. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my lousy plas-tering job. Especially to Mr. Green."
"Sure," said Con. "In fact, I'll cover it with a leaf from one of those short, fat palm trees. I like the rustic look, too."
"Thanks," said Joe.
Rick sensed Con's waning interest in sight-seeing and suggested that they head back. "Tomorrow, if you like, we can see some dinosaurs."
"That would be great."
The trip back was uneventful. The late hours of the previous night before caught up with Con, and she dozed off. Rick was feeling tired, too, but nagging questions kept him awake. Something was going on. It bothered him he didn't know what it was.
12
WHEN THEY LANDED BACK ON THE ISLAND, CON WANTED
to take the ammonite shell back to camp. Joe said he could make a litter to carry it more easily. He grabbed a gun and adjusted the settings, saying, "I'll cut some poles and rig up the litter while you two go back to camp to recruit some litter bearers."
Rick and Con headed back to camp. Once they were out of Joe's hearing, Rick said, "I'd like to see that decoration you found."
"It's no decoration," replied Con matter-of-factly.
"Why do you say that?"
"There was the same pattern on the control panel of the plane."
"So you think Joe was lying?" said Rick, attempting to sound disinterested.
"Of course. I just played dumb," replied Con. "Just like you are." Rick turned to face Con. She looked him squarely in the eye and said, "You knew he was lying, too." Rick glanced away and remained silent as he tried to think of how to respond. Finally, he said weakly,
"How'd you know?"
"I could see it on your face. Back then, and just now," she said.
"I'm not in on some conspiracy, if that's what you're thinking."
"So, what are you hiding?"
Rick hesitated again, then sighed. "Will you keep this to yourself?"
"Why should I?"
"I have a feeling that if it got out, there'd be trouble. I won't tell you anyth
ing unless you swear not to talk."
"Okay, I promise."
"I've stumbled onto some stuff. This place is more than a resort, but I'm not sure what." Con looked disappointed. "Is that all?"
"No. One more thing—one big thing—Green didn't build this resort or invent the time machine." Con had stopped walking. "Wow! Then who did?"
"Joe probably knows, but besides Green, I think he's the only one. He's not talking. He seems afraid of Green."
"That's creepy."
"Glad you asked now?"
"I wasn't expecting that] What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," said Rick. "Nothing, I guess. That's prob-ably the safest thing."
"Safest?"
"If Joe's afraid of Green, he must have a reason. I think we should simply enjoy our stay and leave Green alone."
Con gave Rick a dubious look, but said, "Maybe you're right."
"Come on, let's get to camp and find some litter bearers."
BY THE TIME Con and Rick returned to the plane with Pandit and James, Joe had constructed a litter for the shell. The poles were as deftly cut and trimmed as if he had used a fine-toothed saw. The crosspieces of the litter were precisely notched and held in place by pegs.
"You should have been a carpenter, Joe," said Rick.
"Once an engineer, always an engineer," he replied.
"How'd you get the pegs in?"
"Just drilled a hole with the gun and popped in a piece of a branch. If you fool with the settings, these guns are precision instruments."
"Joe did most of the work on the pavilion," said James. "He's very handy." Rick was annoyed when Con took charge of the am-monite shell, automatically assuming it was hers. She had the men carry the shell back to camp and hide it near the pavilion. "Don't tell anyone about it," she told them. "I want it to be a surprise."
When he finished helping with the ammonite, Rick headed to the kitchen tent to help Pandit. James caught up with him. "Capital job, Rick," he said. "I'm very pleased, and so, I'm sure, will be Mr. Green."
"Thanks."
"Why don't you relax until it's time to serve dinner?" Rick was happy for the break and pleased with his ap-parent rise in status. He bathed standing in the small plas-tic tub in the sleeping tent and changed into fresh clothes. Afterward, he wandered off to the shore. He had fallen in love with the sea. He found its beauty and its vitality irresistible. For the first time, he truly understood why old people missed the beaches so. Watching the light on the moving water, it seemed strange and sad that one day this would become the Great Plains and the Dust Bowl.
A silver bell announced dinner, and Rick hastened to the pavilion to help serve. Con appeared wearing a dress and shoes.
"You look nice this evening," said her father.
Con smiled. "I brought you a present, Daddy."
"What?"
"A seashell"
"Oh," he said, sounding somewhat annoyed.
Con rang the silver bell and Joe and Pandit bore the ammonite from its hiding place. By the time they set it down in front of the pavilion, John Greighton was on his feet, staring in amazement.
"Your daughter's bagged you quite a trophy," said James.
"How sweet," said Sara.
John walked over to his present and appreciatively ran his hand over its glossy, smooth surface. "This will look great in my office."
"It'll be unique ... priceless," said Peter Green.
Rick envisioned the publicity photographs—John Greighton with a hammy smile, showing off his latest possession. So much for secrecy, he thought. Strangely, Green seemed unperturbed, even pleased, with Greigh-ton's plans for the ammonite. A rich man's trophy— what a waste! Rick thought of Tom and how he might use such a gift. I'm merely the help, he reflected with an edge of bitterness. That shell was never mine to give.
Pandit brought out a tray of filled champagne flutes. "A toast!" cried out James, lifting a glass high. Con's father took a glass, handed it to Con, then took one for himself.
"To the conquering huntress!" said James.
"To Constance!" said John Greighton. Beaming, he clinked Con's glass. "Thank you, honey." John Greighton's excitement set an upbeat tone for the meal. Only Sara seemed unaffected by his mood. She ap-peared miffed by the praise he lavished on Con, but held her tongue. Con basked in her father's attention, her eyes shining. Both Green and James bore the satisfied look of hosts whose party was going well. Once, Green lifted his glass in Rick's direction and gave him a silent nod. After Rick had his dinner with the staff, he walked out to the protected beach. He found Con there, still in her dinner dress. The wine had obviously gone to her head. She had thrown off her shoes and was whirling about the sand in a tipsy dance.
"Rick," she cried. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"Sure," he replied, uncertain what she was referring to.
"I finally did it! I got 'em something he couldn't buy."
"You sure did."
"Sara Big-Tits-Boyton can't match that. All she gives him is ... well, you know what she gives him."
"Yes," said Rick dryly.
"I could get tits like Sara's. Think I should?"
"Con."
"All I want is a scientific opinion. After all, you've seen mine. I know you've seen hers. Everyone has."
"My scientific opinion is you've had too much to drink. Maybe you should lie down."
"Yeah," said Con, collapsing on the sand.
"Not here!" said Rick. "In your quarters. Here, take my hand. You can show me that thing on your wall."
"Eduardo's mysterious decoration. Yeah. We could do that. Did you see my shoes?" Rick helped Con up, then found her shoes. He offered Con his arm to steady her, but she refused it. As they walked, she seemed to stumble less as her sped-up meta-bolism broke down the alcohol. When they reached her quarters, Con groaned. "My head hurts."
"How much did you drink?"
"I don't know. Four . . . maybe five glasses. Daddy was toasting me. Toasting me!" she said with fierce satisfac-tion.
"He should have. That was quite a gift."
"Yeah," said Con proudly.
"So let's see this thing."
Con lead Rick into the storeroom and moved the large cycad frond she had placed on her dresser and propped against the wall. The yellow design gleamed in the dim room:
"Whaddaya think?" asked Con.
"I don't know yet, but it seems to be a line of symbols of some sort." Rick silently studied the symbols for a couple of minutes. "There's a pattern here. The symbols always change in the same order. They've got to be num-bers."
"Numbers?"
"Yes. Some of them even look like our numbers—the zero, the one, the seven, and the eight. The upside-down 'V is two; the equilateral triangle is three ..."
"Three sides," said Con. "Bet the square's four."
"Pretty sharp for a drunk."
"I'm not drunk. Just a little tipsy. The square with the line, that's gotta be five." Con emphasized her certainty by sticking out her tongue.
"Okay, then—what's six?"
"The pointy down triangle?"
"That's nine," said Rick. "Six is the pie-shaped one."
"I was gonna say that. So ... what is it?"
"Beats me," said Rick. "It's counting something."
"Daddy's credit limit."
Rick laughed. "The zeroes are in the wrong places." He studied the numbers some more. "The numbers to the left don't seem to change."
"Yeah," said Con. "No, wait. Maybe the number before all the zeroes was different yesterday. I'm not sure. I can't remember."
"Maybe it's a clock."
"It doesn't look like a clock."
"The numbers at the right could be counting seconds."
Con looked at the numbers. "No, silly. There aren't eighty-seven seconds in a minute."
"Different numbers, maybe it's a different system. A metric clock."
"No ... no ..." said Con sleepily. "It's all wrong. The numbers are counting down, not up." She yawned.
"I gotta go to bed."
Con walked out of the storeroom and flopped down on her bed without waiting for Rick to leave. Rick carefully placed the cycad frond over the numbers. Con was snor-ing as he left. 13
WHEN RICK AWOKE, HE TRIED NOT TO THINK ABOUT THE
strange numbers or the other mysteries surrounding Montana Isle. The advice I gave Con was good, he thought. / should follow it myself and simply enjoy my stay. It was not hard for him to do, when he had a day of exploration ahead. He decided a leisurely air tour of the less wooded part of the coastal plain would be perfect. They could visit the water hole and the nesting site, then locate the huge migrating herd of ceratopsids. That was just the planned itinerary, they were bound to encounter a few interesting surprises along the way.
Rick imagined future trips of a more ambitious nature. An aircraft that did not require fuel made all sorts of destinations possible. There was the eastern continent, where the young Appalachian Mountains rivaled the Alps. Up north lay the former bed of the Pierre Seaway, high and dry and yet un-touched by the coming ice ages. Perhaps they could even visit the mysterious forests of the North Pole. That would be a trip! Nothing remotely like that environment had existed since the Cretaceous. It promised the possibility of all sorts of strange plants and animals.
On this third day, camp life was beginning to establish a routine. James rose, made his camp coffee, and shared a cup with Rick before checking on the guests. He returned to wake Pandit, who started cooking immediately. First, he made a simple meal for Rick, James, and himself. Then he cooked those items of the guests' lavish breakfast that could be pre-pared in advance. Once that was done, Pandit prepared lunch for Rick's excursion. Joe, whose breakfast consisted only of coffee, rose last among the staff. He was usually loading the plane before Rick had finished eating. Pandit served breakfast to the guests, so Rick's workday began with helping Joe load. Then he went through the formality of lining up his tour. Passing the ammonite shell, Rick entered the pavilion where John, Sara, and Con were eating crepes, which Pandit cooked at the tableside.
"Good morning, Rick," called out John jovially. "Where are you taking my young adventuress today?"
"I thought we might go inland to see some dinosaurs." . "That would be great! Won't it, Constance?" Constance looked up from her sixth crepe. She seemed a little subdued. "Sure," she said. "That sounds exciting."