The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Read online

  * * * *

  There had been a very unusual aspect to the Triceratops kill—an aspect that intrigued Cohen. Chronotransference had been performed countless times; it was one of the most popular forms of euthanasia. Sometimes the transferee’s original body would give an ongoing commentary about what was going on, as if talking during sleep. It was clear from what they said that transferees couldn’t exert any control over the bodies they were transferred into.

  Indeed, the physicists had claimed any control was impossible. Chronotransference worked precisely because the transferee could exert no influence, and therefore was simply observing things that had already been observed. Since no new observations were being made, no quantum-mechanical distortions occurred. After all, said the physicists, if one could exert control, one could change the past. And that was impossible.

  And yet, when Cohen had willed the rex to alter its course, it eventually had done so.

  Could it be that the rex had so little brains that Cohen’s thoughts could control the beast?

  Madness. The ramifications were incredible.

  Still…

  He had to know if it was true. The rex was torpid, flopped on its belly, gorged on ceratopsian meat. It seemed prepared to lie here for a long time to come, enjoying the early evening breeze.

  Get up, thought Cohen. Get up, damn you!

  Nothing. No response.

  Get up!

  The rex’s lower jaw was resting on the ground. Its upper jaw was lifted high, its mouth wide open. Tiny pterosaurs were flitting in and out of the open maw, their long needle-like beaks apparently yanking gobbets of hornface flesh from between the rex’s curved teeth.

  Get up, thought Cohen again. Get up!

  The rex stirred.

  Up!

  The tyrannosaur used its tiny forelimbs to keep its torso from sliding forward as it pushed with its powerful legs until it was standing.

  Forward, thought Cohen. Forward!

  The beast’s body felt different. Its belly was full to bursting.

  Forward!

  With ponderous steps, the rex began to march.

  It was wonderful. To be in control again! Cohen felt the old thrill of the hunt.

  And he knew exactly what he was looking for.

  * * * *

  “Judge Hoskins says okay,” said Axworthy. “She’s authorized for you to be transferred into that new T. rex they’ve got right here in Alberta at the Tyrrell. It’s a young adult, they say. Judging by the way the skeleton was found, the rex died falling, probably into a fissure. Both legs and the back were broken, but the skeleton remained almost completely articulated, suggesting that scavengers couldn’t get at it. Unfortunately, the chronotransference people say that back-propagating that far into the past they can only plug you in a few hours before the accident occurred. But you’ll get your wish: you’re going to die as a tyrannosaur. Oh, and here are the books you asked for: a complete library on Cretaceous flora and fauna. You should have time to get through it all; the chronotransference people will need a couple of weeks to set up.”

  * * * *

  As the prehistoric evening turned to night, Cohen found what he had been looking for, cowering in some underbrush: large brown eyes, long, drawn-out face, and a lithe body covered in fur that, to the tyrannosaur’s eyes, looked blue-brown.

  A mammal. But not just any mammal. Purgatorius, the very first primate, known from Montana and Alberta from right at the end of the Cretaceous. A little guy, only about ten centimeters long, excluding its ratlike tail. Rare creatures, these days. Only a precious few.

  The little furball could run quickly for its size, but a single step by the tyrannosaur equaled more than a hundred of the mammal’s. There was no way it could escape.

  The rex leaned in close, and Cohen saw the furball’s face, the nearest thing there would be to a human face for another sixty million years. The animal’s eyes went wide in terror.

  Naked, raw fear.

  Mammalian fear.

  Cohen saw the creature scream.

  Heard it scream.

  It was beautiful.

  The rex moved its gaping jaws in toward the little mammal, drawing in breath with such force that it sucked the creature into its maw. Normally the rex would swallow its meals whole, but Cohen prevented the beast from doing that. Instead, he simply had it stand still, with the little primate running around, terrified, inside the great cavern of the dinosaur’s mouth, banging into the giant teeth and great fleshy walls, and skittering over the massive, dry tongue.

  Cohen savored the terrified squealing. He wallowed in the sensation of the animal, mad with fear, moving inside that living prison.

  And at last, with a great, glorious release, Cohen put the animal out of its misery, allowing the rex to swallow it, the furball tickling as it slid down the giant’s throat.

  It was just like old times.

  Just like hunting humans.

  And then a wonderful thought occurred to Cohen. Why, if he killed enough of these little screaming balls of fur, they wouldn’t have any descendants. There wouldn’t ever be any Homo sapiens. In a very real sense, Cohen realized he was hunting humans—every single human being who would ever exist.

  Of course, a few hours wouldn’t be enough time to kill many of them. Judge Hoskins no doubt thought it was wonderfully poetic justice, or she wouldn’t have allowed the transfer: sending him back to fall into the pit, damned.

  Stupid judge. Why, now that he could control the beast, there was no way he was going to let it die young. He’d just—

  There it was. The fissure, a long gash in the earth, with a crumbling edge. Damn, it was hard to see. The shadows cast by neighboring trees made a confusing gridwork on the ground that obscured the ragged opening. No wonder the dull-witted rex had missed seeing it until it was too late.

  But not this time.

  Turn left, thought Cohen.

  Left.

  His rex obeyed.

  He’d avoid this particular area in future, just to be on the safe side. Besides, there was plenty of territory to cover. Fortunately, this was a young rex—a juvenile. There would be decades in which to continue his very special hunt. Cohen was sure that Axworthy knew his stuff: once it became apparent that the link had lasted longer than a few hours, he’d keep any attempt to pull the plug tied up in the courts for years.

  Cohen felt the old pressure building in himself, and in the rex. The tyrannosaur marched on.

  This was better than old times, he thought. Much better.

  Hunting all of humanity.

  The release would be wonderful.

  He watched intently for any sign of movement in the underbrush.

  THE BUSINESS, AS USUAL, by Mack Reynolds

  “Listen,” the time traveler said to the first pedestrian who came by, “I’m from the twentieth century. I’ve only got fifteen minutes and then I’ll go back. I guess it’s too much to expect you to understand me, eh?”

  “Certainly I understand you.”

  “Hey! You talk English fine. How come?”

  “We call it Amer-English. I happen to be a student of dead languages.”

  “Swell! But, listen, I only got a few minutes. Let’s get going.”

  “Get going?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Look, don’t you get it? I’m a time traveler. They picked me to send into the future. I’m important.”

  “Ummm. But you must realize that we have time travelers turning up continuously these days.”

  “Listen, that rocks me, but I just don’t have time to go into it, see? Let’s get to the point.”

  “Very well. What have you got?”

  “What d’ya mean, what’ve I got?”

  The other sighed. “Don’t you thin
k you should attempt to acquire some evidence that you have been in the future? I can warn you now, the paradoxes involved in time travel prevent you from taking back any knowledge which might alter the past. On your return, your mind will be blank in regard to what happened here.”

  The time traveler blinked. “Oh?”

  “Definitely. However, I shall be glad to make a trade with you.”

  “Listen, I get the feeling I came into this conversation half a dozen sentences too late. What d’ya mean, a trade?

  I am willing to barter something of your century for something of mine, although, frankly, there is little in your period that is of other than historical interest to us.” The pedestrian’s eyes held a gleam now. He cleared his throat. “However, I have here an atomic pocket-knife. I hesitate to even tell you of the advantages it has over the knives of your period.”

  “Okay. I got only ten minutes left, but I can see you’re right. I’ve got to get something to prove I was here.”

  “My knife would do it.” The pedestrian nodded.

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I’m a little confused, like. They picked me for this job at the last minute—didn’t want to risk any of these professor guys, see? That’s the screwiest knife I ever saw, let me have it for my evidence.”

  “Just a moment, friend. Why should I give you my knife? What can you offer in exchange?”

  “But I’m from the twentieth century.”

  “Ummm. And I’m from the thirtieth.”

  The time traveler looked at him for a long moment. Finally, “Listen, pal, I don’t have a lot of time. Now, for instance, my watch.

  “Ummm. And what else?”

  “Well, my money here.”

  “Of interest only to a numismatist.”

  “Listen, I gotta have some evidence I been in the thirtieth century!”

  “Of course. But business is business, as the proverb goes.”

  “I wish the hell I had a gun.”

  “I have no use for a gun in this age,” the other said primly.

  “No, but I have,” the time traveler muttered. “Look, fella, my time is running out by the second. What d’ya want? You see what I got—clothes, my wallet, a little money, a key ring, a pair of shoes.”

  “I’m willing to trade, but your possessions are of small value. Now, some art object—an original Al Capp or something.”

  The time traveler was plaintive. “Do I look like I’d be carrying around art objects? Listen, I’ll give you everything I got but my pants for that screwy knife.”

  “Oh, you want to keep your pants, eh? What’re you trying to do, Anglo me down? Or does your period antedate the term?”

  “Anglo…what? I don’t get it.”

  “Well, I’m quite an etymologist—”

  “That’s too bad, but—”

  “Not at all, a fascinating hobby,” the pedestrian said. “Now, as to the phrase ‘Anglo me down.’ The term ‘Anglo’ first came into popular use during the 1850-1950 period. It designated persons from the Eastern United States, English descent principally, who came into New Mexico and Arizona shortly after that area was liberated—I believe that was the term used at the time—from Mexico. The Spanish and Indians came to know the Easterners as Anglos.”

  The time traveler said desperately, “Listen, pal, we get further and further from—”

  “Tracing back the derivation of the phrase takes us along two more side trails. It goes back to the fact that these Anglos became the wealthiest businessmen of the twentieth century. So much so that they soon dominated the world with their dollars.”

  “Okay, okay. I know all about that. Personally I never had enough dollars to dominate anybody, but—”

  “Very well, the point is that the Anglos became the financial wizards of the world, the most clever dealers, the sharpest bargainers, the most competent businessmen.”

  The time traveler shot a quick despairing look at his watch. “Only three—”

  “The third factor is one taken from still further in the past. At one time there was a minority, which many of the Anglos held in disregard, called the Joos. For many years the term had been used, ‘to Joo you down’—meaning to make the price lower. As the Anglos assumed their monetary dominance, the term evolved from ‘Joo you down’ to ‘Anglo you down’; and thus it has come down to our own day, although neither Anglo nor Joo still exists as a separate people.”

  The time traveler stared at him. “And I won’t be able to take the memory of this story back with me, eh? And me a guy named Levy.” He darted another look at his watch and groaned. “Quick!” he said. “Let’s make this trade; everything I got for that atomic knife!”

  The deal was consummated. The citizen of the thirtieth century stood back, his loot in his arms, and watched as the citizen of the twentieth, nude but with the knife grasped tightly and happily in hand, faded slowly from view.

  The knife poised momentarily in empty air, then dropped to the ground as the time traveler completely disappeared.

  The other stooped, retrieved it, and stuck it back in his pocket. “Even more naive than usual,” he muttered. “Must have been one of the very first. I suppose they’ll never reconcile themselves to the paradoxes. Obviously, you can carry things forward in time, since that’s the natural flow of the dimension; but you just can’t carry anything, not even memory, backward against the current.”

  He resumed his journey homeward.

  Marget, hands on hips, met him at the door. “Where in kert have you been?” she snapped.

  “You mustn’t swear, darling,” he said. “I met another time traveler on the way home.”

  “You didn’t…”

  “Certainly, why not? If I didn’t somebody else would.”

  “But you’ve already got the closet overflowing with—”

  “Now, Marget, don’t look that way. One of these days some museum or collector…”

  She grunted skeptically and turned back into the house.

  THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 18, by Grendel Briarton

  Ferdinand Feghoot almost introduced modern golf into Scotland in the reign of William the Lion (1165-1214). His time-taxi stalled, and he had to step out with his clubs. He quickly persuaded the king that he wasn’t a wizard, and soon he was ordered to teach the whole court how to play.

  He was given as servants all the common folk in Dunfermline, where the links were to be. They graded, ploughed, weeded, seeded, watered, and mowed. Soon, he announced the grand opening. The armorers worked overtime on mashers and niblicks, and his servants celebrated so riotously in advance that the Monarch, awakened by the noise, had all the younger ones mercilessly beaten.

  After breakfast, the procession moved out; and the King at first expressed satisfaction. Then he saw huge, hairy Highlanders carrying clubs.

  “Ha!” he cried. “You told me the caddies would be the fairest youths in my realm!” He pointed at some boys and young men nursing their bruises. “Tell them to carry our clubs!”

  “Your Majesty,” said Ferdinand Feghoot, “those are the lads you had beaten last night. They are quite black and blue. So sore are they I doubt they can walk. Wise though I be—” he drew himself up—“I cannot free the sorest for the tees!”

  (with thanks to Victor J. Papanek)

  TIME WELL SPENT, by George Zebrowski

  As usual, I would have to leave before I arrived. Memory threw me there, exiling me from all my other times with her, no matter how much I concentrated. She was alive in all our pasts, but only these earlier presents were open to me.

  “Me again?” she asked in our present, jealous and prideful.

  “No one else,” I said.

  I kissed her before I bridged, fighting off Maxim Gorky’s claim that “love is the failure of mind to understand na
ture.” If so, then love was an opposed way, an uphill fight at best.

  She was asleep back there in our off-campus apartment, as I came up by train from New York City. I would have just enough time to get there and spend some time with her before the train arrived.

  I always prepared by losing a pound or two, colouring my hair a bit and exercising, even using some make-up to look younger than my late 60s, so that she would not notice in the dim light of the apartment at night. Nearsighted and in bed, it helped that she would not be wearing her glasses.

  I grasped my key from decades past, and summoned the vision of the pale-skinned young woman who had dyed her hair black after a silly blonde experiment, and then cut it short when I was away. I would again compliment the change.

  My appearance at my old door shook the back porch for a moment. I stood before the curtained glass, but no light went on. I was fearful that this might be my last chance to regain this time, so I had to make it count. Other times with her might open to me if this one closed, but that was far from certain.

  The theory of jumps was not perfect. There might not even be any real time displacement at all, but instead a reality-like recreation of significant memories that suddenly occupied a mind with a quantum flood of insistence to the point at which it made no difference to the experience; it might just as well be happening in the naive sense. Time probably did not exist outside the biology of human perception except as a timeless persistence, a stubborn duration, inexpressible endurance beyond time-like words.

  I turned my key in the lock, pushed the door open and went in, closing it behind me.

  “Who’s there?” asked her voice, from somewhere inside me, it seemed.

  “It’s me,” I said, hoping to sound younger.