was one astronomical photograph the staff of the Dominion Astrophysical Observatory had asked us to take that couldn’t be easily automated, and that was a traditional time-lapse night-sky photo. See, all our automatic cameras were off-the-shelf models, and they had automatic exposure timers, but none of them went past sixty seconds. The photo the DAO wanted required an exposure of four hours, and that demanded manual intervention.
I’d originally volunteered to bring along my Pentax to take this photo, but when I’d asked that jerk from my insurance company if my personal belongings would be covered if I took them 65 million years into the past, he didn’t miss a beat: “Sorry, Mr. Thackeray, that would mean that any loss or damage took place before the effective coverage date of your policy.” Oh, well. In the end, we’d borrowed a fancy electronic camera from the McLuhan Institute at U of T. It, too, only had a short-term exposure timer, but it also had a manual shutter and so I did what generations of sky photographers had done before me: I set up the camera in the dark, slipped a rubber band around its case to hold the shutter button down, then gingerly removed the lens cap.
The result would be a time-exposure photo—an electronic one, since this was a filmless camera—with arcs representing the paths of stars through the night sky. The common center of all these arcs would indicate Earth’s true north pole. Also, such a photo would show the tiny streaks of meteors. A count of those would give some indication of how much debris was floating around local space, and, given we knew how long the exposure had been for, a precise measurement of how many degrees the arcs encompassed would tell us the exact length of a Cretaceous day.
I fiddled with the tiny studs on my wristwatch—I always found the thing frustrating to operate—and set the alarm for four hours from now, which would be at something like 3:00 a.m. local time, so that I would get up and put the lens cap back on the camera.
I headed down the ladder, back through door number one, and into the habitat. Klicks walked over to me. “Here,” he said gently, proffering a cup of water and a silver sleeping caplet. I accepted them silently.
There was a long moment between us, a moment when we both thought over the words we had exchanged. “She did love you,” Klicks said at last. “For many years, she loved you deeply.”
I looked away, nodded, and swallowed the bitter pill.
Countdown: 2
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.
Like most people, I guess, I only remember my dreams when I wake during them. I was dreaming about Tess, her wild mane of red hair; her intelligent green eyes; her slim, almost girlish figure. It wasn’t Tess Thackeray, my wife, though. No, this was the reborn Tess Lund, a name that had been retired years ago but was now pressed back into active service by the liberation of divorce.
Tess was lying naked in bed, the twin light of two moons playing across her heart-shaped face, lofty Luna still accompanied by tiny Trick. Someone was in bed with her, but it wasn’t me. Nor was it a stranger, which probably would have been a less disquieting sight. No, the powerful brown arms wrapped around her pale waist belonged to Professor Miles Jordan,
I was observing them, a disembodied camera, through a window in her bedroom. It had changed since the days when I had shared that room with Tess: the furnishings were richer, more refined. Our old queen-sized bed had been replaced with an elegant Victorian four-poster. Its canopy, a tapestry of pension and benefit contracts, was raised high over their heads by thick brown poles carved from mahogany trunks.
Tess was talking to Klicks in that sexy, deep voice that always seemed so incongruous coming out of her tiny body. She was telling him about me, sharing with him all my deepest, darkest secrets—an endless succession of humiliations, defeats, and shames. She told him about my fascination with my cousin Heather and the horrible public scene Heather had made when I’d drunkenly tried to act on those emotions at her brother Dougal’s wedding. She told him about the time I was caught shoplifting at age thirty-four, walking out of a Lichtman’s with a stupid porno magazine that I was too embarrassed to take up to the cash counter. And she told him about the night a mugger beat the crap out of me in Philosopher’s Walk behind the museum, and, finding that picture of my mother in my wallet, had, cruelly, oh so cruelly, forced me to eat it.
Klicks listened raptly to everything Tess revealed about me, things so hidden, so private, so personal that Doc Schroeder would have given his eyeteeth to hear me divulge them on that sticky vinyl couch of his. Klicks heard secrets that should have been mine alone to carry to my grave. He knew my very soul. The thought of him living and knowing such things, having such power over me, was unbearable—
Klicks stroked Tess’s mane, his thick fingers passing gently through the orange strands the way mine used to, the way mine still ached to do each time I ran into her. I thought for a moment that he was going to laugh at what she had told him, but what he did was much, much worse, cutting me like troo-don teeth. “There, there,” he said, his too-smooth baritone the perfect complement to her throaty sexiness. “Don’t worry, Lambchop'—
Suddenly my disembodied being coalesced into physical form. I smashed my right hand through the window pane, the glass shredding my knuckles like mozzarella cheese. I was going to kill him—
“Huh?” Groggy, I reached down and pressed buttons on my wristwatch until I found the one that shut off the alarm. “Klicks?” There was no answer. I guess the alarm hadn’t awoke him. Perhaps he was still doped up by a sleeping pill. I must have been, too, for I imagined just for a second that yellow billiard-ball eyes were peering at me from out of the darkness. I rolled off my crash couch, felt my way along the back wall until I found door number one, and fumbled up the ladder into the instrumentation dome. I clipped the lens cap back onto the camera and removed the rubber band to release the shutter. Noises echoed in a funny way inside that tiny dome and it sounded like the main timeship door downstairs was swinging shut and the latch clicking closed.
I stumbled back down the ladder and reentered the habitat.
“Brandy?”
My heart jumped. “Klicks?”
“Yeah.”
“Did my alarm wake you?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t sleep.”
I thought about it for a moment. I probably could fall back to sleep easily enough—that medication was powerful stuff, but… “Want some coffee?” I said at last.
“Decaf? Sure.”
“Mind if I turn on the lights?”
“No.”
I fumbled for the switch and the overheads sputtered into activity. The brightness was stinging. I shielded my eyes and looked over at Klicks. He was alternating between having his left eye closed and his right, squinting.
“What about the Hets?” he said. “They’re going to ask us tomorrow if we will take them back to the future. What do we tell them?”
I filled two cups with water and put them in the microwave. “I still say we have to tell them no.”
“You’re wrong,” Klicks said slowly, most of the Jamaican lilt gone from his voice, a brief pause between each of the words. “We must help them get past whatever natural catastrophe caused their extinction.”
“Look,” I said, trying to summon my strength of will, “the Royal Ontario Museum is in for much more funding for this mission than is the Tyrrell. That makes me de facto mission leader, and, if necessary, I’ll invoke that right. We leave the Hets behind.”
“But we must take them forward.”
