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such as William Stout, Richard
Bell, Linda Broad, and John Sibbick have done for prehistoric life what Chris
Foss did for spaceships.
Patterning replaced monotones, and color took its rightful place in our
picture of the ancient world.
Great gray eminences such as the sauropods and therapods were colorized not by
Ted Turner but by reason and logic. Suddenly they were transformed from
towering symbols of a bygone eon into living, breathing creatures. They
acquired Color. Color for attracting mates, color to warn, color to
camouflage. Nature did not invent man and the paintbrush simultaneously.
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Previously the Mesozoic was thought to be a dull place. Dinosaurs were large
like elephants, so naturally they were portrayed in elephantine gray.
The later mammals fared no better. Herbivores were as brown as bison. The big
cats and catlike carnivores were sandy yellow, like lions. It was obvious and
most likely inaccurate. The ancient environments were as varied as those of
today. As animal life expanded to fill spe cific niches in those environments,
what more natural than that they should change color and size to fit them? No
less could be expected of possible subspecies of
Smilodon.
As far as I'm concerned, someone who hunts for food occupies higher moral
ground than do those of us who go to the supermarket to buy our meat
preslaughtered. But one who hunts for a ' 'trophy " dwells below the moral and
intellectual level of a diseased Neanderthal. To the former, respect and even
admiration. To the latter, this story.
There is a beautiful painting done in colored scratchboard and airbrush by the
noted California wildlife artist Lewis Jones that illustrates this tale.
Thackeray enjoyed the pleistocene.
Oh, he also liked the nest of the Quaternary period, but the Pleistocene was
his favorite. It contained a greater variety of large animals than any other
part of the Quaternary. And if you were lucky, you might catch a glimpse of
one of the protohominids that might or might not be your great-grandpa several
million times removed.
It was a shame, though, that the time puncture didn't encompass any more than
the Quaternary. Still, one to five million years gave a man plenty of room to
explore. If you tried for anything more recent than one million, the
Chronovert just sat in its station stall and whined petulantly. Try for beyond
five million and the Chronovert (and likely as not its passenger, too) ended
up a pile of expensive slag.
If only the technicians could add another hundred million years to the
puncture! What he wouldn't pay to be able to come back with the head of a
tyrannosaur or a Deinonychus to mount in the aerie he'd built above Santa Fe.
The boys at the club would vote him a life membership, at least.
Of course, those limp-wristed wimps who belonged to the Time Preservationist
Society would launch into their usual tirades, just as they did now whenever
he or a friend brought back a trophy.
Ranting and raving they'd be about preserving the ecology and inviolability of
the past. Well, he knew why they were so vitriolic in their condemnation of
the Quaternate hunters. It was because none of the faggots had the guts to
travel in the past themselves.
He scrunched lower in his seat. Snow was falling steadily outside the blind.
The camouflaged tent kept him concealed and cozy warm. Ice goggles let him
penetrate the drifting whiteness with relative ease.
The Wincolt .50-caliber lay close at hand, its forty-round high-power drum
locked tight into the barrel, telescopic heat-sensitive sight ready to warn
him if anything came within killable range, laser pickup itching to pick out a
fatal spot. Thackeray was proud of his equipment. After all, he was a
sportsman.
He reached behind the cushioned, electrically warmed chair and picked up the
thermos of coffee.
Part of his muffler blew into his mouth, and he irritably shoved it aside
while he sipped the hot Kona.
Beyond the triangular entrance to the blind and downslope tumbled a foaming
river. To his right lay the edge of the primordial ice sheet. Somewhere
beneath those miles of solid ice lay land that in his own time would be the
province of Canada, subterritory of British Columbia.
Behind him were the almost modern crags of the Canadian Rockies. Beautiful
country still, but not as wild and dangerous as this. Only a few cougars and
bears roamed the modern Rockies. The
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Quaternate Rockies, on the other hand, were alive with all manner of
impressive beasts. And no game wardens. The National Rifle Association had
seen to that.
Thackeray relished a challenge. Most of his fellow hunters preferred the
warmer regions to the south. The area around the La Brea tar pits was
particularly popular. You could always count on bringing back a decent
mastodon head from there or, if you were lucky, a cave bear. Dire wolves were
thick as fleas. An animal trapped in tar wasn't too hard to stalk.
Well, Thackeray had had enough of that. After all, he was a sportsman.
There was no thrill if there was no challenge, no work, no discomfort
involved. Anyway, he'd
already grabbed off the best the tar pits had to offer. His trophy room was
crammed full of record and near-record heads:
Smilodons, dire wolves, American lions, giant ground sloths, mammoth and
mastodon, and a new, as yet unclassified smaller relative.
Now he was after the only major trophy that had eluded him: the woolly
rhinoceros. The paleontologists had decided that the woolly rhino had never
been very common. The mammoths were more efficient subglacial browsers, the
musk-oxen more intelligent . . . Competition was tough.
Hell with that, Thackeray had decided. He wanted a woolly rhino head, and by
God, he meant to have one. He was convinced the paleontologists were in league
with the preservationists, anyway.
Surely the history of the Earth wouldn't suffer from the loss of one lousy
rhino.
The wind howled mournfully around the blind. If there was a real storm coming,
he'd have to close up and wait it out. Or worse. He glanced over a shoulder.
Behind him squatted a tubular metal chair surrounded by a molded plastic body
impregnated with special circuitry. He could always climb back into the
Chronovert, pack up his equipment, and be whisked back to the time station in
twenty-second-century Albuquerque.
To do so would be to admit failure. Thackeray didn't like to fail. He didn't
like it in himself, .and he didn't like it in his employees, who unfortunately
could only be fired and not shot. Besides, Chronoverting was expensive, even
for one of his considerable wealth.
Not many could afford to Chronovert. Not many had the financial wherewithal or
the health (he was only forty-three).
He was determined to have that woolly rhino head for his trophy room. He'd
reserved room for it on the west wall, a blank space he was sick of listening
to comments about. That smarmy oilman from
Qatar, Musseb Ihq, had noticed it right off during the New Year's party.
Well, Tuq didn't have a rhino, either. Thackeray knew because he'd visited the
oilman's home. This was one time he intended to be first.
Unless the paleontologists beat him to it. They were hunting woolies, too, but
for breeding and study. Thackeray decried the waste of good travel money.
The heat sensor on the Wincolt's sight beeped once.
Quickly he put down the thermos, wiped coffee from his lips. He raised the
weapon and cradled it on his lap as he stared out through the drifting snow.
The river was a good location for a blind. It flowed from the base of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]