Robert Sawyer - End of an Era

“Does the word ‘stasis’ mean anything to you?”

“It’s Greek for standstill. What do I win?”

“And that’s all it means to you?”

“Mr. Thackeray, I value my privacy greatly. I don’t wish to seem rude, but I am uncomfortable on the phone.”

I mustered my courage. “All right, Dr. Huang. I put it to you: are you, or were you, doing experiments involving the cessation of the passage of time—a process you referred to as stasis?”

“Where did you get that notion?”

“Please, it’s very important that I know.”

She was silent for several seconds. “Well, yes,” she said at last, “I guess ‘stasis’ would have been a good name for it, although I never called it that. Experiments? Hardly. I came up with a few interesting equations, but that was before—that was a long time ago.”

“So stasis is possible. Tell me: did your research give any indication that—that time travel would be a practical consequence of your equations?”

For the first time, the voice at the other end of the line had real strength. “I see now, Mr.—Thackeray, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Thackeray, you are a crackpot. Good-bye.”

“No, please. I’m dead seri—”

Dial tone. I told the phone to redial, but the number in Vancouver just rang and rang and rang.

Martians.

I’d had a hard enough time typing the words “time travel.” But tapping out M-A-R-T-I-A-N-S seemed like asking for a trip to the funny farm. I guess there really are more things in heaven and earth, Brandio, than are dreamt of in my philosophy.

It was close to noon, the hot Mesozoic sun beating down from a silvery-blue sky intermittently visible through gaps in the thick foliage above us. Insects buzzed everywhere, and I kept batting my arms to disperse them.

The three troodons were close enough that I could smell the stench of raw meat on their breath. Their pebbly green skin was almost iridescent in the bright sunlight and their giant yellow eyes reflected back so much light they almost seemed to glow.

“Martians,” I said softly—the word came easier to the tongue than it does to the fingertips. “Incredible.”

The lead troodon, Diamond-snout, did its patented one-two blink. “Thank you,” it rasped, speaking for the Martian jelly creature within its skull.

“But what are you doing here?” I asked.

The elongated green head tilted to one side. “Talking to you.”

“No—I mean, what are you doing here, in general? Why did you come to Earth?”

“Come to? Pass out of unconsciousness? No link.”

I shook my head. “What was the purpose of your trip to Earth?”

“Purpose not changed,” said Diamond-snout pointedly. “Still is.”

“Okay, okay. What is the purpose of your trip to Earth?”

“Me first,” said the troodon. “What your purpose?”

I sighed. There seemed to be little point in telling the thing that it was violating Miss Manners’s rules of etiquette. Klicks, standing about a meter away from me, and not taking his eyes off the silent troodon closest to him, answered. “We’re scientists. Does that—link? Scientists. Ones whose profession is the quest for knowledge. We came here to discover what we could about the ancient past. We’re particularly interested in the event at the boundary between—”

“—in studying the lifeforms of this time,” I said, cutting him off, a sudden wave of caution overtaking me. It seemed a good idea not to mention right off that most of the life on this world was about to be destroyed.

“Ah!” crowed Diamond-snout, evidently unperturbed by my having interrupted Klicks. “We are colleges.” It looked down, then did that strange one-two blink again. “No, colleagues. We, too, came to this place because of the life here.”

“One small slither for Martian,” said Klicks, “one giant leap for Martiankind.”

“No link,” said the Martian through the troodon’s mouth.

Klicks looked at the ground. “Me neither,” he said.

“ ‘Martian’ means of or pertaining to Mars?” asked Diamond-snout, turning its attention back to me. When finished speaking, it left its narrow jaws hanging open, showing serrated teeth.

“Yes,” I said.

“There are things of or pertaining to Mars that we do not wish to be lumped together with.” Given the plastic nature of the Martians, I wondered if “lumped together” meant the same thing to them as it did to me.

“What should we call you, then?”

“When we occupy creatures with versatile speaking orifices, the term we use for what we are is Hhhet .” It sounded more like a throat-clearing than an English word.

“Het it is,” I said.

Klicks threw up his hands. “Martian, Het, what difference does it make? Brandy, we have to talk.”

“Talk?” said the Het.

“Confer,” I said.

“What have pine trees to do with this?” said the Het.

“ Confer ,” I said. “Not conifer.”

“Oh,” the Het said. “A chitchat.”

“Exactly.”

“But is that not what we are now having?” it said. “A tit-to-tit?”

“A tete-a-tete ,” I corrected. “Professor Jordan means he’d like to talk to me alone.”

“Alone?”

“In private.”

The troodon blinked. “No link.”

I pointed back the way we’d come. “Our time machine is back that way. May we return to it?”

“Ah,” said Diamond-snout. “Yes, we wish to see it.”

The three troodons stepped slightly away from us, and we started walking south. Klicks bent over to scoop up his elephant rifle. The one troodon that had been doing all the talking tipped its head at the rifle. “A weapon?” it hissed.

“Kind of,” said Klicks.

“Not very efficient.”

“Best we could afford,” he said.

We came out of the forest and onto the mud plain. Ahead of us was the soft dirt crater made by the Sternberger ’s impact and, high on the west side of the crater wall, the Sternberger itself, indeed looking like a hamburger or a TV flying saucer. Sticking up from the center of its roof was the small instrumentation dome.

“If this is a time vessel,” rasped Diamond-snout, “then assume do I that it will return to where it came from. Conservative?”

“Conservative?” I said, completely lost.

Klicks grinned. “He means ‘right’ I think.”

The troodon’s head bobbed. “Right. You will return to origin, right?”

“That’s right,” said Klicks. “The time-displacement effect will hold us back here for"—he consulted his watch—"almost exactly three more days, then, like reeling in a fish, we’ll be hauled back to our launch point.”

“It happens aut-o-mat-ic-al-ly?” asked the troodon.

“Yes,” I said. “The actual Huang Effect apparatus is located in the future. There aren’t any moving parts or controls within our timeship related to time travel, except for the stasis-field unit. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Enough,” said the troodon, but exactly how I was supposed to take that, I couldn’t say. “And where is launch point?”

“Oh, it’s right here,” Klicks said. “We call this area the Red Deer River valley in our time. It’s pretty rough territory.”

“And all your time-travel missions are launched from there?”

“Actually,” Klicks said, “time travel is quite new to us. Ours is the first crewed mission back to here.”

“Is Earth muchly different in your time?” asked the troodon.