Chapter 2

Mack eased back out of sight while telling himself that Brontosaurs had been vegetarians, but did this one know that? His every instinct shouted for him to run. The thing was as big as a locomotive, and that was without counting the tail. Obviously, the creature had seen Mack as soon as he topped the rise. So much for the Paleontologists’ poor eyesight theory.

This time I’ve cracked for real.

It looked only vaguely like the artists’ conceptions he had seen in books, but there was no doubt what he saw. Nothing from his time looked remotely like this — it was a dinosaur all right. He could feel the wind on his face, the warmth of the sun on his body; surely if he were nuts, things wouldn’t feel this real. He walked warily back to the edge of the forest. Choosing a thickly foliaged tree, he climbed high into it for a, hopefully, safer look at his surroundings.

After working his way through the larger branches, he hesitantly moved aside the leaves and looked again. The brontosaur was still chewing happily away. If it was a figment of his imagination, it was a hungry figment, for it was eating the vegetation with gusto. There was another of the giant reptiles about a half mile farther up the valley; a mile or so east, he could make out something big standing among some trees.

He sat in the tree and watched, captivated, as the nearest brontosaur moved from small tree to small tree, stripping the limbs from the larger and uprooting the smaller; its long neck allowing it to reach high into the larger trees as well. The brontosaur would occasionally pause to chew, with branches falling from either side of its mouth as the great teeth cut limbs into what Mack guessed were three inches or more in diameter. As the colossal beast moved clumsily about, Mack tried to estimate its size. He kept telling himself that he was overestimating, but, all told, nose to tail, the beast had to be seventy or eighty feet long, and the legs were at least three feet in diameter just above the knee. As the colossus floundered about in the marshy soil, Mack wondered how flesh and bone could support all that weight. Years had passed since anthropology class, and he couldn’t remember just when brontosaurs had lived, but he knew he had to be many millions of years into prehistoric time.

Surely, the life of a puny human — me — is impossible in this place. Looking around once more in case a carnivore was approaching, he thought, My kaleidoscope has gotten me into this. Can I reverse direction on the threads in order to return to my own time? It seems logical.

Nestling himself securely in a fork of the tree, he closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the spiraling threads of color, but, of course ... they wouldn’t come.

Oh, this is just ... great. Once again, he remembered his promise to Janie and refrained from cursing, but he was sorely tempted.

The frequent recurrences of the colors had lost him his job and made it impossible for him to find another one. Now his old faithful kaleidoscope that had hounded him like his creditors, wouldn’t come when he needed it.

After a while, he climbed down the tree, his belly having decided there were more important things to consider.

I’m starving. I have to find something to eat, and soon.

A cautious trip into the woods eventually brought him back to a stream. He followed it until late afternoon before he saw anything that looked edible. He flung a dead branch into a tree about twenty feet tall, dislodging some type of fruit roughly the size of grapefruit. There wasn’t any fruit on the tree’s lower limbs, and he assumed that animals had eaten all they could reach, for the higher limbs were laden, indeed. When he had four of the gray-green fruit on the ground, he stooped to pick them up, promptly discovering their prickly covering. Might as well give these things a try anyway, he thought as he cautiously peeled away the tough outer skin of one of them with his knife. With a flat rock for a seat, he sliced a wedge out of his strange-looking find and tentatively tasted a small piece.

It was firm and tasted somewhat like a raw potato, but sweeter. He took another bite, then moved to the crest of a nearby hill where he could see in every direction while he waited for any reactions his stomach might produce.

How will I survive if I have to stay here for any length of time? Surely, if I managed to get here with my kaleidoscope, I can leave the same way. He leaned against a tree, not daring to close his eyes, and again tried to bring the colors back — still with no success.

What do I have with me that I can use as a weapon?

He already knew what he had in his pockets but emptied them into his lap anyway. My lock-blade survival knife that Janie gave me for my birthday, the lighter I use to light my camp stove and lantern, some change, my keys and billfold. Not nearly what I would wish in order to survive in the woods, even in my time. At least I always keep my knife in my pocket to have on my part-time jobs, and it has come in handy many times. He opened the blade and stared at the knife, his eyes misting as he thought of Janie. The knife was expensive. The three-inch blade is made of quality high-carbon steel, maintains a razor edge and seldom needs sharpening, even with all the times I’ve used it. Just for fun, I used to shave with it on my hunting trips. Since it folds up, it’s easy to take with me everywhere.

A sobering thought struck. If I had slipped my shoes off before lying across the bed, I would be out here barefoot. That gave him food for thought.

In college, he had read a book about the last member of an Indian tribe. Ishi of Two Worlds, he thought the title was. Required reading for an anthropology course, the book told how the Indian, hungry and desperate, was caught stealing food. An anthropologist heard of the incident and managed to have the Indian released into his custody. The anthropologist documented Ishi’s particular methods of making bows and arrows as well as many of the other things he did. Mack had hunted with a modern bow, and having made a bow himself, he had found the description extremely interesting, although quite different from the bow he had constructed.

That was a long time ago, but if I don’t get a means of defending myself soon, I’ll be lunch for something. I’ll start on the project tomorrow — if I’m still here and alive, that is.

That last thought bothered him, but his stomach didn’t appear to have any problem digesting the samples, so he ate two of the odd fruit and gathered several more. Having nothing to carry them in, he cut some vines from a tree and made a crude net. After placing the fruit inside it, he slung the net over his shoulder and made his way back to the edge of the woods.

Mack stopped to gaze at the line of bluffs in the distance. There might be refuge there if I can find a cave, but I dare not start this late in the day, since I suspect those bluffs are at least two miles away. Should I not find a tree with a profusion of closely-spaced limbs, I would have little to protect me during the night when the cat seems to hunt. That was a prospect he was going to avoid if at all possible. Goose bumps formed as he remembered the cat mauling the base of the tree. He hoped the animal had found plenty to eat today — I don’t want to be the subject of another stalk tonight.

He turned back and scanned the tree line looking for a tall, thickly-branched tree. When he spotted one, he started toward it.

I wonder if I can cook the fruit, but ... on second thought, a fire might call more attention to me than it would be worth. Maybe I should wait until I’ve armed myself and found a place of sanctuary — if they exist, and I can find one.

When he arrived at the tree he had picked for his perch, he hung the net bearing his fruit well off the ground before searching the area for likely wood to make a bow and arrows. He found several trees that seemed to have dense wood and settled on something that looked a lot like white oak. He painstakingly cut two poles of the dense wood for bow material. The wood was straight and hard, its denseness presenting a real challenge for his knife, even as sharp as it was. He cut some arrow-sized poles as well, adding them to his cache. They were reasonably straight, but not nearly straight enough for arrows; however, he could correct that.

The eerie feeling of things being almost right kept haunting him. The trees generally looked like trees, although many were truly gigantic, but the bark on most was rougher than it should be, and the leaves were generally larger also. Things just smell ... wrong. Maybe it’s because I’m not supposed to be here at all. I come from the twenty-third Century, not this wonderland of dinosaurs and prehistoric flora.

Intellectually, Mack knew (assuming he wasn’t nuts) that things should be different, but still, he felt uneasy. He tried to shake the feeling, but it persisted, hovering much of the time just below his conscious awareness.

He found more vines and yanked them out of the trees where they were growing. I won’t risk them holding my weight, but if I wrap enough of them around me, they should keep me from falling out of the tree while I sleep. After making several trips, he carried the wood, vines and his fruit harvest high into the tree he had chosen for the night.

When he had secured his possessions with vines, he sat in a fork of large limbs and made several separate loops around himself so he could sleep without worrying about falling from his perch. It would not be a comfortable night, but at least he was now in no danger of falling. The dense limbs should keep the monster cat from forcing its way to his perch high off the ground — he hoped.

It had worked once; it should work again. If worse came to worst, and the cat managed to reach his perch, he thought he would be able to jump to a nearby tree as a final escape route. If the cat tried to follow, the limbs would surely break and send it to the ground. With his perch secured, he spent the rest of the waning afternoon weaving his net into a more usable sack. Hopefully, it would hold.

If I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll gather all the fruit I can carry before starting for the bluffs.

The trunk of the tree and the limb he was sitting on bore into his body, the discomfort increasing as the hours dragged slowly onward. He knew he had dozed some, but when he did finally fall soundly asleep, he dreamed of Janie. Fortunately, this time, I didn’t dream of the wreck. But the vivid dream only made him miss her anew.

Dawn came with shrouded skies and the threat of rain amplifying the feeling of loneliness that had plagued him since he had lost his wife.

How have I managed to get myself into this mess? Is it even worth it trying to go on? It would be simpler to sit on the ground and wait for the cat; I don’t stand a chance out here, anyway. What’s the use in struggling against nature when I have virtually nothing to defend myself with? Nothing like the well-equipped time traveler, he mused — a pocketknife and a lighter. At least I won’t have to make a fire with a couple of sticks. Then again, because of my hunting trips with my father and later with my friends, I’ve learned several ways to make a fire. Oh, well, the lighter is new and should last for quite a while if I’m stingy with it.

Feeling sorry for yourself again, aren’t you, Boy? Janie would be ashamed of you, he told himself. You’re not dead yet.

He tried anew to relax and conjure up the kaleidoscope. He did get a swirl of colors, but the unusual sounds broke his concentration enough to keep him from focusing on the colors. Day finally arrived, and disgusted, he threw his bow makings to the ground, grabbed his newly made sack with his fruit and carefully climbed down. After walking to the stream, he drank his fill. What can I use to carry water in? A trip to a stream every time I get thirsty could become a real hassle.

After locating the tree again, he brought down more of the fruit with the same stick he had used before. With his sack stuffed, he settled it firmly on his shoulder, then stopped by for his bow and arrow makings before starting for the bluffs.

Slowly and as quietly as he could, he left the last cover and looked out at the grasslands. The plains, as he had discovered yesterday, extended for miles to the east and west; indeed, he could see no end to them. To the north lay the mountains, with the bluffs that were his goal, part of the foothills. The slightly rolling land around him had clumps of trees and bushes interspersed with the meadows. Ground fog, concentrated mainly in the lower places, kept him from seeing more than half of the area. The region where the brontosaurs were yesterday was lost in the white mist, concealing nothing that would like him for breakfast, he hoped.