The Dinosaur Chronicles (3 page)

Valik blinked, squinted, gurgled and muttered an imprecation I couldn’t hear. But he wasn’t dumb. It took him only thirty-seven seconds to come up with a resounding, “Your Other Self!”

“Yes,” I said sadly. “I’m afraid Myself wasn’t very cooperative when I faced him this morning. Myself wasn’t about to be talked out of doing things
his
way. I, of course, was not about to be talked out of assuring my very existence. Once Myself’s back was turned, I’m afraid I applied to the top of his head the end of a tire iron still lying about there in what used to be, after all, a garage.”

“You killed yourself? I mean, him?”

“My Dear Inspector!” I exclaimed. “Surely you credit me with more ethics than that!”

“Then
what did you do?
”

“What could I do? I couldn’t leave him around to spoil things, so I stuffed Myself into the stasis chamber of the machine in which I arrived and sent it back to show up, oh, right about now.”

A minor
poof
filled our ears, and both of us rose to look out the sliding-glass doors. On the lawn in the back of the house, another occurrence of the time machine sat and waited. Of course, the original still rested in the workshop and had, in fact, never been powered. What Valik’s detectors had traced was the powering this morning of the machine that had just arrived.

“The machines we can remove or destroy,” Valik said. “But what do we do with
him?
”

I almost laughed, knowing that the good Inspector was in a most difficult spot indeed. His presence on the planet needed to be kept quiet, and the possibility of Time Travel could never be affirmed.

“I am certain,” I told him after draining my glass, “that the occupant of the stasis chamber will benefit greatly from a pair of aspirin and an extended sabbatical in an interstellar conveyance.”

Afterword

“The Blue Smoke Test,” as by Templeton Rex, first appeared in the November 1996 issue of
Keen Science Fiction!
, a U.S. semiprozine that lasted
12 issues, from April 1996 to March 1997.

Edited by the inimitable Teresa “Don’t call me editrix!” Keene,
Keen SF!
was a class act in  small press speculative fiction. When Teresa couldn’t continue the publication because of family issues, she actually managed to refund, to every subscriber, the unused portion of their subscriptions.

That
was a rarity for small-press publications.

The usual story with small-press subscriptions ran as follows (it may
still
work this way): You find a magazine that tickles your imagination, one that you really like, and one that you want to support. You scrape together a few bucks and subscribe. You receive an issue or two, and then it takes
forever
for that third issue to arrive. And the fourth issue never materializes. And the address for the publication becomes unusable. The publication, its editor, and its publisher (if different from the editor) disappear into the ether. Any money due you from an unfulfilled subscription is never refunded. I saw that happen so often that when I subscribed to a small-press publication, I mentally put that down as a
donation
. Seriously.

“The Blue Smoke Test,” as accepted by Teresa Keene, was my 89
th
submission to the markets, and my very first acceptance. So this book, in a significant way, is a result of Ms. Keene’s unwitting encouragement to me.

Indeed, it’s all her fault. If you’re reading this, Teresa Keene, thank you!

I think.

On Time Travel

Time travel tales, and their ramifications, are great material for stories (it
is
getting hard to find new twists for the plotlines, however). In “The Blue Smoke Test,” the ability to locate the original coordinates of the Creation Event (The Singularity) is critical to the logic of the story. Because every point of the current universe was, at one time, part of that singularity, it’s a matter of some discussion as to whether the
concept
of that location even makes sense. Think of today’s galaxies as dots on the surface of an ever-expanding balloon. Finger-pointing from one galaxy to the next on that surface is never going to point inward, to the true origin of the balloon’s expansion.

Still, anisotropies in the cosmic background radiation do exist, so some overall directionality exists. Perhaps one day it might indeed be possible (even in a fourth-dimensional way) to point and say, “We began
there
.”

The guard at the outer gate watched as the small form in the tall hat and tuxedo approached. Such a form would not, in itself, have been unusual; others in similar dress had already stopped by his station to be passed. But Forrester noted the careful, measured pace of the figure and the shiny black cane the man used to steady himself. That was odd, too. Most who attended affairs like the one now going on had the money to buy the pneumatic assists—automatic devices that could be worn underneath clothing. Canes and walkers belonged to the last century.

Other guests passed by the figure and reached the security station ahead of him, and Forrester absent-mindedly checked their names off a list and allowed them to continue. Most he knew by sight anyway. His attention remained on the man with the cane.

At length the man arrived, and Forrester got his first good look at him.

Old
.

In a word, the overwhelming impression Forrester got was one of age. Wrinkles ran from the brim of the man’s hat to his tight bow-tied collar; they hung under his chin in folds. Only his jet-black eyes gave the sagging flesh any dignity.

“Name?” the guard asked automatically.

“Zetternick,” the old man rasped.

Forrester’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the alphabetically-sorted guest list. The man wasn’t on it. But the name—something about the name stirred his memory. He had been a small boy, and the world had almost come to war.

“I’m sorry, sir; I don’t see your name on the list.”

“A simple error,” the old man said, and his eyes lifted. “Do I know you?”

Zetternick
. Forrester blinked, furrowed his brow.
The Russo-Persian War!
Or rather, the war that wasn’t. Could
this
be Zetternick? He certainly looked old enough.

“I’m afraid,” the guard replied, “I’m too young to have been one of your acquaintances.”

“What is your name, soldier?”

“Forrester, James C., corporal, marines.” The old man could get as much by looking at his tag and uniform, Forrester thought, pleased he was giving nothing away.

The old man extended a bony hand. “I may not know you, my boy, but I’ve known many with your sense of duty.”

Forrester took the hand, gently, and shook it.

Zetternick moved on to the inner guard station without further opposition from Forrester, and if Forrester wondered why he had not stopped the man, it was in a subconscious part of his mind that would not surface for some time.

Nor, of course, did Forrester notice the old man casually wiping his right hand against his tux.

—

Zetternick approached the inner guard station and the scene, with variation, was repeated. The guard let him through. As the old man entered the long, two-story Victorian edifice, he handed his card to the announcer, who goggled first at Zetternick’s cadaverous appearance and a second time at the name on the small, stiff piece of paper.

The announcer choked, “His Excellency, the former ambassador, Walter Westcoat Zetternick!”

The announcement killed the conversation in the chandelier-lit hall. Eyes turned in his direction; mouths flew open in surprise. Here, in this room, the people still knew his name. And although his left ear rang with unrelenting tinnitus, his right ear picked up the whispers that rose above the music that played softly in the background.

“Zetternick? Could that be Zetternick?”

“I thought he was dead!”

“He’s not far from it.”

“The old boy’s got to be a hundred! He was eighty when that Russo-Persian thing went down ...”

Zetternick nodded his thanks to the announcer and gave up his hat to an attendant. Cautiously he worked his legs and cane down the two shallow steps into the reception hall. The walk from his car to the house had taken a toll on him, and he breathed uneasily. But he worked to hide his weakness. He hung a smile on his wrinkles and extended his hand as the first of the assembly approached.

She was not a woman Zetternick recognized, and too young to be a major player. He shook her hand, and she introduced herself as an undersecretary in the State Department, adding, “Secretary Halstead and Chinese Premier Zhiang are still en route from Beijing. That’s why I’m here tonight, representing us. Thrust into the gap, as they say.” She grinned and added, “Or perhaps into the pit, with the lions. I suppose the Department called you here for the same reason?”

Zetternick let his hand brush against his trousers. “I cannot say,” he smiled and winked, “just who it was who called me here.” The parry, as given, would satisfy the lurid imaginings of a younger diplomat.

Zetternick turned to the others who had gathered to meet him. The rest of the guests had already resumed their interrupted conversations and were presently ignoring him. Of those who moved to greet him, most were inconsequentials—cultural attaches and third and fourth ministers who knew him only by reputation. But at the end of the line one man waited whom Zetternick did recognize, and after finally shaking that hand, he said, “Hold a minute, will you, Henry?”

The stocky man with the military bearing nodded, and Zetternick flagged down a passing waiter, hoping the shake in his arm wouldn’t show. He lifted a glass of champagne with his right hand as he fished a tablet from his watch-pocket with the other; his cane he held hooked over his left wrist. A moment later, having chased the pill with the liquid, Zetternick turned back to his acquaintance. “At my age,” Zetternick said, “tablets and capsules supply the greater portion of my fiber.”

Major Henry Cheswick-Howell smiled, then sobered once more. “The situation’s not so bad that they dragged you out of retirement, is it?”

“I came of my own accord,” Zetternick said flatly.

“It’s that bad, then.” Cheswick-Howell sighed and glanced at a wiry, weather-beaten man standing in the corner of the great hall, a man who had clustered around him a small but rapt audience of listeners. “Nojon thinks he’s the incarnation of old Ghengis, and he’s ready to prove it. But I don’t understand it, Walter. The Mongolian-Siberian combination has some kind of logic to it, geographically at least, but I’d always thought the Kazakhs had more sense—certainly enough to stay out of it.”

“Influence, Henry.” Zetternick took another sip of his champagne. “And history. Bad political unions often come in threes, though I’m not certain why.”

“Do you think the States will support China in this mess? Militarily, I mean?”

Zetternick nodded. “They’ve no choice. China’s too large a market to have a portion of it devastated and annexed by the Combine. And the People’s Republic would never have stood down militarily if it hadn’t been for the Sino-American defense pact, so there’s a moral commitment as well.”

“For as much as moral commitment has value in a political crisis,” Cheswick-Howell said dryly. “Are you going to be at the conference tomorrow?”

Zetternick smiled weakly. “I have no standing. And tomorrow I shall be elsewhere.”

As Zetternick sipped again, a third man joined them. White-haired, with a trace of original thick blond waves, the man offered his hand, which Zetternick graciously took. Later, he again casually smeared his right hand against his cummerbund.

The third man introduced himself as Petyaski, undersecretary attached to the Russian mission. He said to Zetternick, “It is an honor to meet you, Ambassador. Even after all these years, your efforts in the disagreeable Persian affair are still a matter for discussion in my country.”

Zetternick bowed slightly. “Not ambassador any longer, my friend. But how is Mme. Kharkova?”

Petyaski glanced at Cheswick-Howell. Zetternick said, “He’s all right.”

Petyaski answered, “The Ambassador is in Hanoi, as you suggested. She still has influence with old Ho, and she may be able to keep the Vietnamese out of the coming conflict. Perhaps.”

“Wolves,” Cheswick-Howell muttered. “The Norasian Combine threatens the Sinos and all the other border countries sit ready, salivating, just waiting to take their piece. I understand the Indians have troops massing—”

“Shhh,” Zetternick advised as a dark-skinned, turbaned man approached and passed. “Fine now. Yes, I know about the build-up.”

“You have kept yourself remarkably informed,” Petyaski said.

Zetternick ignored the compliment. “Have you seen Gauchard?”

Both Petyaski and Cheswick-Howell shook their heads. The major said, “He likes to come in late. Gives him a better entrance. More dramatic.”

Petyaski nodded. “M. Gauchard appears pleasant, but everywhere he goes—”

“Trouble follows,” Zetternick finished. “I tried to meet him once, do you know? I was vacationing in Paris eight years ago, during the Algerian crisis. But my attempts were unsuccessful.”

“He was working for the Lybians then,” Petyaski sniffed, “just as he works for Nojon now. A man without loyalty.”

“Technically,” Cheswick-Howell corrected, “he works for the Combine as a whole, in the federal branch of their foreign office.”

“But Nojon gives him direction,” Petyaski countered. “You never see him sidling up to the Kazakh or Siberian ministers.”

“Nojon is the driving force behind the Combine,” the major agreed, and as he and Petyaski traded comments, Zetternick put down his champagne and worked his legs and cane in the direction of a dark-skinned, sharp-featured man with heavy lines etched into his face.

It took Zetternick the better part of minute to cross the twenty paces. First, he had to avoid bumping into others moving more swiftly and less carefully, who crossed his path. And second, the bright lights and reflections—reflections that poured off glasses and mirrors and shiny metal shelving—were smearing in his vision, a side-effect of the tablets in his watch pocket.