Iterations and other stories (collection)

If I’m Here, Imagine Where They Sent My Luggage

In late 1980 and early 1981, The Village Voice: The Weekly Newspaper of New York sponsored a contest called “Sci-Fi Scenes.” The rules were simple: write an SF story precisely 250 words in length—no more, no less (tide words didn’t count, a fact I took full advantage of). Ten weekly winners would be chosen by a trio of judges (Shawna McCarthy of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine; Robert Sheckley, the fiction editor of Omni; and Victoria Schochet, the editor-in-chief of SF at Berkley Publishing). Each winner received a hardcover copy of the first edition of Peter Nicholls’s Science Fiction Encyclopedia; my story won in the contest’s fourth week.

For several years, I had this entire story—in tiny type— printed on the back of my business card, and in 1987 a Washington, D.C., outfit called Story Cards printed it as the text inside a bon voyage card.

One look at the eyes of that allosaur had been enough: fiery red with anger, darting with hunger, and a deeper glow of… cunning. Those sickle claws may be great for shredding prey, but he can’t run worth a damn on mud.

Come on, Allo-baby, you may have the armament, but I took Paleo 250 with Professor Blackhart!

Damn the professor, anyway. If it weren’t for his class, I’d be on Altair III now, not running for my life across a prehistoric mud flat.

Those idiots at Starport Toronto said teleportation was a safe way to travel. “Just concentrate on your destination and the JumpLink belt will do the rest.”

Hah! I was concentrating, but when I saw that fat broad, I couldn’t help thinking of a brontosaur. So I let my mind wander for half a second: the JumpLink belt still shouldn’t have dumped me here with the dinosaurs. There should be enough juice left for one more Jump, if I can get it to work.

Damn, it’s hard fiddling with your belt buckle while doing a three-minute kilometer. Let’s see: if I re-route those fiber optics through that picoprocessor…

The thwock-thwock of clawed feet sucking out of mud is getting closer. Got to hurry. Thwock-thwock!

There! The timer’s voice counts down: “Four.”

Concentrate on Starport Toronto. Concentrate. Thwock-thwock!

“Three.”

Toronto. The Starport. Concentrate. Thwock-thwock!

“Two.”

Concentrate hard. Starport Toronto. No stray thoughts. Thwock- thwock!

“One.”

Boy, am I going to give them Hell—