Danger: Dinosaurs!

Chapter 1 Back a Hundred Million Years

The sign was big and white and forbidding. It rose suddenly from the green grass surrounding it and jutted against the pale blue sky like the outstretched palm of a traffic policeman. Marching across the sign in bold black letters were the words:

Chuck Spencer looked at the sign and passed nervous fingers through his blond crew cut. His brother Owen had asked him to wait right on this spot, but that had been a full fifteen minutes ago and Chuck was beginning to worry a little.

He looked around nervously, saw the wide stretch of barbed-wire fence that enclosed the grassy area. The sky arced overhead like a giant blue parasol, sprinkled here and there with cottony wisps of clouds. A mild breeze ran its fingers through the grass, setting the insects to buzzing gently.

It was a quiet scene, a landscape devoid of any tenseness. And yet, Chuck wanted to ram his knuckles against his mouth and bite on the flesh. He felt like jumping up and down or screaming or running from one end of the grass to the other.

He was being foolish, he knew. After all, Owen went on a slip almost every two weeks. It was a common occurrence for his brother like brushing his teeth or combing his hair. Just like that.

Well, it’s not a common occurrence for me, he thought.

He unconsciously nodded his head in agreement with himself and turned to study the long, low building that squatted on the horizon. Owen had entered that building after leaving Chuck, and Chuck knew he was probably making last minute clearance checks, making sure that everything was set for the slip.

Chuck clenched his fists and thrust them deep into his pockets. Stop being silly, he told himself.

He glanced over his shoulder in anticipation. Where was everybody? What was keeping them?

Owen had given him careful instructions before he’d left.

“There’s going to be a party of hunters here in about five minutes,” he’d said. “They’ll be looking for me, Chuck, and they’re liable to get panicky if they don’t find me. Just tell them you’re my brother and that I’ll be right back. I won’t be a moment.”

Well, he had been a moment. He had, in fact, been exactly seventeen moments and thirty-three seconds so far. And there was no sign of him yet.

Nor had the hunters arrived.

For a terrible moment, Chuck had the strange feeling that the Time Slip was already in operation. Maybe he’d already been whisked back a few years into the past and was waiting in vain for a brother who wouldn’t appear for a good many months yet.

He was about to consider this seriously when he heard the sound of a motor in the distance. He turned suddenly, facing the large gate set in the barbed-wire fence. Two Security Policemen stepped from booths on either side of the gate, their rifles coming up automatically, as a jeep and a truck came into view over the rise of the hill. The truck raised a giant cloud of dust that smothered the jeep behind it. The vehicles moved closer to the gate, and Chuck heard one of the policemen shout, “Halt!”

The truck’s brakes were jammed on suddenly, the wheels gripping the dirt road, spinning the rear end of the truck around to an abrupt stop.

From where he was standing, Chuck saw a big, barrel-chested man leap down from the cab of the truck. The man wore a pith helmet that shaded the strong, ruddy features of his face. He wore a white cotton shirt, open at the throat. Black, curling hair spilled from the throat of his shirt, ran down his muscular arms like short, dark weeds. He had dark brown eyes set on either side of a short, bulbous nose. His lips were thick, and his teeth were clamped tightly on the soggy end of a cigar.

“Where’s the Time Slip?” the man shouted. His voice was gravelly, as if it had been tossed into a cement mixer and poured before it had mixed well. The voice grated on Chuck’s nerves, made him wince slightly. He watched as one of the policemen walked closer to the big man.

“You’re looking at it, Mister,” the policeman said.

The man waved a hamlike hand at the grassy area behind the fence. “You mean that’s it? Where’s the machine? I don’t see anything but grass.”

“The controls are in the building up ahead,” the policeman said.

The man nodded curtly and started back for the truck. He put one booted foot up on the running board and then turned his head. “Open the gate,” he said. “We’re coming through.”

The other policeman spoke for the first time. He was bigger than the first and he carried his rifle with a lethal air of authority.

“Just a second, Mister,” he said. “Let’s see your papers.”

“What?”

“Your papers. This ain’t a ball park, Mister. This is a government project.”

The big man took his foot off the running board and placed his hands on his hips. A broad smile covered his face, splitting it open in a gleaming burst of enamel. “Do tell,” he said.

“You see that sign?” the policeman asked. He gestured with his head at the sign in front of which Chuck was standing.

“I see it,” the big man said.

“Well, read it and weep. It says authorized persons only. If you’re authorized, let me see your papers. If you’re not you can turn those jalopies around and head for home.”

The big man continued to smile as he moved closer to the policeman. Chuck noticed, though, that he was smiling only with his mouth. His eyes were hard and unwinking.

“My name is Dirk Masterson,” he said, the smile never leaving his face.

The policeman stared right back at him. “My name is Pat MacDougal. That still don’t make you an authorized person, until I see your papers.”

“Mr. MacDougal...”

“Sergeant MacDougal,” the policeman corrected.

“Mr. MacDougal, perhaps you didn’t understand me. I said my name was Dirk Masterson. This is my party, and we’re scheduled to leave on a slip in about thirty minutes. I suggest you open your gate.”

From behind the truck, obscured by the bulk of the larger vehicle, Chuck heard a man shouting, “Having trouble, Mr. Masterson?”

Masterson did not turn his head. “None at all, Brock,” he called. To MacDougal, he said, “Open the gate, policeman.”

Under the steady force of his gaze, the sergeant wavered slightly.

“How do I know you ain’t a tempo?” he asked.

“A what?”

“A tempomaniac.”

Masterson laughed, throwing his head back. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Open that gate at once.”

“That gate stays closed until I see your papers,” MacDougal said. “You can just pretend I’m St. Peter.”

Masterson doubled his fists, and the muscles on his arms bulged with the effort. “Arthur!” he shouted.

Chuck saw the movement behind the windshield of the truck as the driver slid across the seat. He watched as a tall Negro swung his legs over the side and leaped down to the ground, a spurt of dust rising beneath his heels.

“Yes, Mr. Masterson?” he asked.

He was bigger than Masterson, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. He wore a white T-shirt, and the color of his skin was soft against the cotton. His head was compact, covered with close-cut hair that fitted his skull like a cap. The features of his face were classical, almost chiseled from black marble, Chuck thought. He watched as the Negro began walking toward Masterson with purposeful strides.

“See what this idiot wants,” Masterson snapped.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers which he handed to MacDougal. “I imagine he’s looking for these,” he said, his teeth flashing against his face.

“If you had papers, why didn’t you show them in the first place?” MacDougal complained. He took the papers and examined them carefully while Arthur waited. “These are fine,” he said. “If you’ll get back in the truck, I’ll open the gate.”

“You’ll be reported for this, you know,” Masterson said softly.

Arthur grinned, taking the papers back, and said, “He was only doing his job, Mr. Master...”

“Nobody asked you,” Masterson snapped.

The grin vanished from Arthur’s face. For an instant a hurt expression flickered in his eyes. And then it was gone, replaced by the quiet planes of his emotionless features. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Let’s get back to the truck,” Masterson said. He turned to the guard once more and repeated, “You’ll be reported for this.”

MacDougal shrugged. “Go ahead, Mister, report me. My job is to stop tempos from scooting back into the past. As far as I’m concerned, everybody’s a tempo until he proves himself otherwise.” He shrugged again. “Go ahead. Report me.”

“I will. I will, all right. Mistaking me for a tempomaniac. Of all the utter rot.” He turned on his heel and strode for the truck, an indignant trail of dust rising behind him. Arthur walked to the other side of the truck and climbed in behind the wheel.

From the jeep, Chuck heard the same voice call, “Everything okay, Mr. Masterson?”

“We’re rolling now,” Masterson said, leaning out of the cab.

MacDougal walked into the guard booth and closed a switch. There was a gentle hum of machinery as the gate slid back.

The truck exploded into life, its motor roaring to the quiet countryside. Behind it, the jeep added its tiny voice to the general clamor. There was a grinding of gears as Arthur set the truck in motion. The big vehicle rumbled through the gate, followed by the jeep, and the gate slid shut behind it.

Chuck stepped away from the sign and waved his arm over his head. He kept waving as the vehicles moved closer. The truck shuddered to a halt some three feet from Chuck, and Masterson poked his head out of the cab.

“What is it now?” he said irritably. “Another ‘Guardian of the Gates’?”

“I’m Chuck Spencer,” Chuck said. “My brother is Owen Spencer, the guide for the expedition.”

“Where is Owen?” Masterson wanted to know. “We had the devil’s own time getting past that blockhead at the gate.”

Chuck’s glance wavered for an instant, his eyes meeting Arthur’s behind the windshield. “He was only doing his job,” Chuck said. “Tempos are more plentiful than you may realize.”

Masterson shrugged this aside and shifted the cigar butt between his teeth. “Where’s your brother?”

“He’ll be here in a moment. He asked me to tell you to move your equipment close together. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

“You mean he wants the jeep alongside the truck?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

Masterson jumped down from the cab and shouted, “Pull her up, Brock.”

The jeep clashed gears and swerved away from the truck, moving back in a wide arc. The gears sounded again, and it pulled up alongside the truck. There were two men and a young girl in the front seat.

The man behind the wheel pulled up the emergency brake and hopped out of the small vehicle. “What was all the trouble back there?” he asked Masterson.

“A small man with a big gun,” Masterson said bitterly. “Insisted on seeing our papers.” He dismissed this with a wave of his large hand. “You know how petty a petty official can get, Brock.”

The other man nodded. He was tall and thin and he wore black slacks, the cuffs shoved into the tops of his black boots. His shirt was gray, and his throat and face were a startling white against the darker colors. He had a long lantern jaw, a long nose and two glittering black eyes that darted nervously over Masterson’s face. His eyebrows made a black gash across his forehead like a shaggy, elongated hyphen. He reminded Chuck of a vulture.

“Well,” he said, “where’s our guide?”

Chuck stepped forward and extended his hand. “My name is Chuck Spencer,” he said. “My brother Owen will be guiding us.”

The thin man took Chuck’s hand, squeezed it faintly, and let it go instantly. “I’m Brock Gardel, Mr. Masterson’s assistant.”

Chuck nodded and was about to say something when Masterson said, “What’s keeping your brother, son?”

“I don’t know. I guess he...”

“Well, he’d darned well better hurry.” Masterson glanced at his watch and then set his mouth into a tight line. He looked off toward the building on the horizon. “Is that him now?” he asked suddenly.

A figure had stepped out of the building and was heading for the group.

“That’s Owen,” Chuck said happily.

Owen waved, and Chuck waved back, watching his brother walk toward them with long strides. He was taller than Chuck, six-two to his brother’s five-ten. He had Chuck’s blond hair, but he wore it longer, and it fell across his forehead in unruly strands as he hurried across the grass.

When he was close enough, he called, “Hiya!”

“What kept you?” Masterson asked.

Owen sighed deeply. “Routine checkup. Always a pain in the neck.” He rubbed his hand over Chuck’s head. “Meet everyone?” he asked.

Chuck glanced quickly at the girl and the man still in the jeep. “Just about,” he replied.

“Fine, fine,” Owen said. He followed Chuck’s eyes to the jeep, and noticed the girl for the first time. “Your niece,” he said to Masterson, “is she coming along?”

“Why, yes,” Masterson replied. “I thought you understood that from the beginning.” He frowned slightly. “You don’t have any objections to that, do you? I’ve got papers for her and everything.”

“No objections at all,” Owen said, smiling. “Except, well, the terrain where we’re headed is a bit rugged, and I was...”

“Denise is a strong girl,” Masterson said. “She’ll make out fine.”

“All right, if you say so.”

Masterson looked at Chuck, then said, “I hadn’t expected your younger brother to be with us.”

Owen grinned. “I wangled permission from the government. On the records, he’s my assistant.” Owen noticed the look that crossed Masterson’s face and he hastily added, “I think Chuck can prove mighty helpful on a hunt. This is his first time slip, but he knows prehistoric animals the way he knows house pets.”

Gardel lifted his brows incredulously. “Really?”

“I just know a few,” Chuck murmured.

Owen laughed. “A few, huh? He can name every beast that ever walked the earth.” He paused and then said, “And he could probably draw pictures of most of them.”

“Gee, Owen,” Chuck said, “I’m not really that...”

“When do we leave?” Masterson asked suddenly.

Owen looked at his watch. “In about fourteen minutes. If you’ll gather your party, I’d like to go over a few rules.”

“Get every one together, Brock,” Masterson said.

Gardel waved to the man in the truck. “Pete, come on over.” He nodded his head at the girl. “Denise, you too.” He turned to Owen and explained, “Pete’s our cook.”

Chuck had a good opportunity to study the cook and Masterson’s niece as they walked over from the jeep. Together, they formed a blazing riot of color.

Denise had glistening blonde hair that caught the rays of the sun and sent them shimmering across the field.

Pete, walking alongside her, had a fiery crown of red hair capping his skull. He was a corpulent little man, waddling next to Denise like a pet duck. His green eyes were sparkling and seemed to shower his face with thousands of freckles that fell helter-skelter on his skin.

Denise, on the other hand, was tall and slim, her hair clipped short on her neck, her eyes as brown as the earth. She smiled happily as she made herself comfortable in the tight circle.

“I’ll just give you the rules and the reasons for them,” Owen said simply. “We’re not here to argue them. These are all government regulations, and I have the authority to place under arrest any person violating them during the slip. Is that clear?”

Owen took the silence for assent, cleared his throat and went on.

“To begin with, no one is to shoot with anything but a camera when we get to the past. That’s the rule; the reason for it is simple. If hunters were allowed to kill off animals at random, we’d likely find a present-day species wiped out because we’d killed off all its ancestors. Remember that the present is built upon the past. Any change in the past will necessarily affect the present. Therefore, no shooting. Just cameras.” He smiled and added, “And I hope you’re bringing plenty of film.”

“Go on,” Masterson said, “let’s get on with this.”

“Second, no one will go within three feet of the force field.”

“What’s that?” Gardel asked.

“A field of energy enclosing a mile-square area. The invisible wall generated will keep the animals out and us in. I don’t want to chance any short circuit, however, so no one will go any closer than three feet from it. That’s the second rule.”

“This sounds like a school for bad boys,” Masterson said. “You’d hardly think I was paying — and heavily, I might add — for the privilege of going back into the past.”

Owen grinned. “I’m sorry, but the rules must be obeyed.”

“All right, what’s your next edict?” Masterson asked.

“Simply this. I give all the orders on this slip, and the orders will be obeyed. That’s all.”

“That’s enough,” Masterson said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Does everyone understand?” Owen asked. A chorus of yeses greeted his question. “Fine.” He looked at his watch again. “We’d better get into the trucks and get ready for the slip,” he said. “The process is all automatic, you know. We’ll have to move the stuff up a little.”

“Where to?” Arthur asked.

“See those white blocks set into the ground up ahead? Just drive up until your wheels touch them.”

Arthur started the truck, with Owen clinging to the running board outside the cab. Owen waved back and shouted, “Bring the jeep up alongside it.”

The truck stopped with its front wheels against the blocks. Gardel hopped into the jeep and brought that up, too. It stopped alongside the truck, looking like a sparrow perched near a mountain.

Owen looked at his watch again.

“We’ve got about four minutes. See those four red blocks in the ground?” He pointed to four large wooden blocks sunk into the ground to form the corners of a large square. “If we’ll just keep inside those while the Slip is in operation, we’ll all be fine.” He paused and looked at his watch again. “Any questions?”

“Plenty,” Masterson said. “How does the Time Slip work?”

Owen laughed a little and answered, “Everyone asks that. Truthfully, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I have some idea of the principle behind the operation, but I certainly don’t know what makes that enormous machine tick. As a matter of fact, I don’t think any one man knows.”

“What’s the principle, then?” Masterson asked.

“Well, we’ve got to picture time as...” Owen scratched his head. “Now, let me see. How can I best explain this to you?”

He thought for a few seconds, and then said, “Well, picture time as a phonograph record. Circular, with grooves cut into the wax. You place your needle in the outermost groove and it works its way toward the center of the record. The picture clear?”

“Yeah,” Gardel said dubiously.

“All right, just take it a step further. Assume that the outermost groove of the record is the past. And the groove nearest the center is the present. When you play the record, the needle travels from past to present, right?” Owen glanced at his watch again. “I’d better hurry. We’ll be slipping soon.”

“I still don’t get it,” Masterson said.

“The point is simple. Most people erroneously feel that the past is dead and gone. But if we compare time to the record, we can see that the past is always there, coexistent with the present. For example, when we play the record, the first few bars of the song are over and done with as soon as the first groove is passed. But they are not dead and gone. All we have to do is move the needle back to the first groove and we’ll get the first few bars of the song all over again.”

“You trying to say that the past is going on right now, at the same time as the present?” Gardel asked.

“Exactly. All the Time Slip does is to move that needle, in effect. In other words, it slips the needle over the record, back from the innermost groove which is the present, to the outermost groove which is the past.”

“How?”

“By shocking us back mostly,” Owen replied.

“What? What’d you say?”

“When you’re playing your phonograph, a sharp bump will cause the needle to slip over the record. Same principle here. We’ll be getting a series of sharp bumps, so sharp and so fast that we won’t even feel them. Each bump will actually suspend us in time, like the needle popping into the air over the record. Each time we come down, we’ll be slightly farther back in the past.” Owen looked at his watch again and said, “We’ll be going in about ten seconds. I’ll have to cut this short, I’m afraid.” A serious look crossed Owen’s face, and he kept his eyes glued to the moving sweep hand of his watch.

“Nine seconds,” he said. “Stand by.”

Chuck felt a tight hand clutch his throat. Up until now, he had succeeded in keeping a firm grip on his emotions. But now they were ready to go! All the way back, far back into the past, back to the dim beginnings.

“Eight seconds.”

His heart began to beat a little faster. He took his lower lip between his teeth, biting on it hard. He stared out at the grass, wondering what it would change to, wondering...

“Six, five...”

“Who’s handling all this?” Masterson asked.

“The control room,” Chuck blurted, surprised he could speak at all.

“Three, two...”

“God be with us,” Arthur whispered gently.

“One!”