Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (17 page)

“Oh, shit!” said Donahue. “Let us back in. At least you’re armored.”

“Please replace the tool kit first,” said Quatermain. “We can’t leave it here for some unsuspecting animal to injure itself on.”

Tarica raced to the back of the vehicle.

“Open the goddamned trunk!” he bellowed.

“Sorry,” said Quatermain. The trunk opened, Tarica hurled the tool kit into it, and it slammed shut.

“You shouldn’t have yelled so loud,” said Quatermain, as the ground began to shake. “The sound of the human voice seems to enrage the gigantosaur. He will be here in nineteen seconds.”

“Let us in, damn it!” yelled Donahue, tugging at the door.

“I am afraid I can’t, sir,” said Quatermain. “I am obligated to protect the company’s property, which is to say: myself. And the odds are 28.45 to one that you both can’t enter me and close the door before he reaches us.”

Tarica looked behind him. It seemed that the entire world consisted of one gaping gigantosaur mouth.

“I hate safaris!” he yelled, diving under the vehicle.

“I hate safari cars!” screamed Donahue, joining him as the gigantosaur’s jaws snapped shut on empty air, sounding like a clap of thunder.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Tarica.

“I’ll tell you what we’re
not
going to do,” replied Donahue. “We’re not going to crawl out from under this thing.”

They lay there, tense and silent, for half a minute. Then, suddenly, they became aware of a change in their surroundings.

“Do you notice it getting lighter?” asked Tarica.

“Yeah,” said Donahue, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Do not worry about me, sirs,” said a voice high above them. “I am virtually indestructible when my doors and trunk are locked. Well, 93.872 percent indestructable, anyway. Besides, it is a far better thing I do today than I have ever done.”

They looked up and saw Quatermain sticking out of both sides of the monster’s jaws. The gigantosaur tensed and tried to bring his jaws together with full force. Six more teeth broke, he dropped the vehicle (which missed Tarica and Donahue by less than two feet), and raced off, yelping like a puppy that had just encountered a porcupine.

“If you gentlemen will lift me off my side,” said Quatermain, “I will change my tire and we will continue the safari as if nothing happened.”

The men put their shoulders into the task, and a few moments later Quatermain was upright again.

“Thank you,” said the vehicle. “Please re-enter me now, while I go to work on the tire.”

They climbed into the car, and the door closed and locked behind them.

“Four hours and seventeen minutes and I’ll be as good as new,” said Quartermain. “Then we’ll travel to the Marisula Delta and explore an entirely different ecosystem.”

“Let’s just travel back to the safari office,” said Tarica. “I’ve had enough.”

“Me, too,” added Donahue.

“You want to end your safari four days early?” asked Quatermain.

“You got it.”

“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you, sirs,” said Quatermain.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your company paid for five full days,” explained Quatermain. “If you do not experience all five days, we could be sued for breach of contract.”

“We’ve experienced five days’ worth,” said Tarica. “We just want to go home.”

“Clearly your travel has left you mentally confused, sir. You have actually experienced only 21 hours and 49 minutes. I am not aware of confusion taking this form before, but I suppose it can happen.”

“I know how long we’ve been here, and I’m
not
confused,” said Donahue. “Take us back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

“As soon as the safari is over. My tire will be ready in four hours and thirteen minutes, and then we will proceed to the Marisula Delta.”

Tarica tried the door. “Let me out!”

“I am afraid I cannot, sir,” said Quatermain. “You might try to find your way back to the spaceport. If you do, there is a 97.328 percent likelihood that you will be killed and eaten, and should you make it back intact, there is a 95.673 percent chance that a breach of contract suit will be brought against my owners. Therefore, I feel I must fulfill our contract. Sit back and try to relax, sir.”

“We’ll starve.”

“Not to worry, sir. I will be able to feed you right where you are.”

“We can’t sleep in this thing,” complained Donahue.

“My understanding of human physiology, which I should note is encyclopedic, is that when you get tired enough you can sleep anywhere.” A brief pause. “All your needs will be provided for, sir. I even have a one-month supply of plastic bags.”

IT WAS FIVE DAYS later that Quatermain pulled up to the spaceport.

“Serving you has been a true pleasure, sirs,” it intoned as Tarica and Donahue wearily opened the door, raced around to the back, and grabbed their luggage. “I hope to see you again in the near future.”

“In your dreams!” growled Tarica.

“I do not dream, sir.”

“
I
do,” muttered Donahue. “And I’m going to have nightmares about this safari for the rest of my life.”

A squat robot, looking for all the world like a fire hydrant on wheels, rolled up, took their bags from them, and led them to a small waiting spaceship.

“This isn’t the same spaceliner we took here,” said Tarica dubiously. “It looks like a small private ship.”

“Your Stellar Voyages ship is not available, sir,” said the robot, as it placed their luggage in the cargo hold “This ship was supplied, gratis, by the safari company as a sign of their appreciation.”

“And to dissuade us from suing?” asked Donahue.

“That, too,” agreed the robot.

The two men climbed into the ship and strapped themselves into the only two seats provided.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” said the ship as the hatch closed and it began elevating. “I trust you enjoyed your once-in-a-lifetime safari experience on the planet Selous. I will be returning you to Earth. I come equipped with all creature comforts except sexual consorts”—it uttered an emotionless mechanical chuckle—“and have a gourmet kitchen at your disposal.”

“What happened to the ship we were supposed to be on?” asked Tarica.

“I regret to inform you that it was destroyed in an ion storm just as it was entering the system,” answered the ship.

“Uh… we’re not going through that same storm on the way out, are we?” asked Donahue.

“Yes, sir,” said the ship. “But there is no need for concern, sir. I am a new model, equipped with every conceivable safety device. I am far more maneuverable than a—” The ship shuddered for just an instant. “Just some minor space debris. Nothing to worry about. As I was saying, I am far more maneuverable than a spaceliner, and besides, this is my home system. Every ion storm during the past ten years has been charted and placed in my data banks.”

“So you’ve flown through them before?” said Tarica.

“Actually, no,” said the ship. “This is my first flight. But as I say, I am fully equipped and programmed. What could go wrong?”

Tarica cursed under his breath. Donahue merely checked to make sure there was a small paper bag near his seat.

“I am sure we’re going to get along splendidly together,” continued the ship. “You are Mr. Tarica and Mr. Donahue, am I correct?

“Right,” said Tarica.

“And my name was clearly discernable in bold letters on my nose as you entered me,” said the ship proudly.

“I must have missed it,” said Tarica. “What was it?”

“I am the
Pequod
.”

Donahue reached for the bag.

Story notes:

This story is a tribute to a dear friend, and a one-time collaborator, the late Robert Sheckley. It's exactly the kind of story he was doing in the 1950s, before he began experimenting—which reached its apex in Dimension of Miracles—with a form of humor that only worked as science fiction.

Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award-winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He is the winner of 5 Hugos, a Nebula, and other major awards in the USA, Japan, Spain, Poland, Croatia, Catalonia, and France.

Mike is the author of 71 novels, close to 300 stories, and three screenplays, and is the editor of 41 anthologies. He recently took on the editorship of the
Stellar
Guild line of books and
Galaxy's Edge
magazine as well.

by Konstantine Paradias

The first step toward realizing it’s your fault that everything’s gone wrong is admitting that you were, at the time, the only man with a functioning time machine.

The second step is, of course, admitting that you stole it from its original owner, by bashing his head in with a shovel when he wasn’t looking. And that you left the poor bastard unconscious out in the rain, telling yourself that you’d be back fifteen seconds of real time later to help him using copious applications of your now almost inexhaustible capital, considerable connections, and a first aid kit.

Because what you were going to do was step into that time machine, go back to the past, and make your life so much better. Armed with the knowledge of other people’s financial and personal successes, you would venture into the times of the monkey-men (or your dad’s) and there proceed to build yourself a financial empire.

The third part toward accepting how the entire mess might actually be your fault, is realizing that you don’t know the first thing about driving a time machine. That, as you look at the series of knobs, flashing lights, levers, revolving spigots, glass tubes, masses of wires and circuitry with the complexity of fractals, you don’t think: Dear God, what is this thing?

Instead, you say: “Yeah, I got this.”

As you start pressing buttons and flicking unlabeled switches and turning spigots and prodding screens, listening to impossible gadgetry rev and whirr and roar beneath the dashboard and inside the unknowable bowels of the machine, you don’t-for-one-moment-stop-to-consider: I have no idea what I’m doing.

Instead, you say: “Alright! Rev it up!”

As the time machine screeches, roars, and a previously obscured dial pops out of the dashboard, proceeding to spin and whistle madly, your instincts (honed by a steady diet of science fiction books and serials) tell you that this is obviously the date dial, through which you can adjust your destination. You’re so busy winding it, flipping it to your date of choice that you don’t stop for one moment to consider that: None of those numbers are dates. And that smaller dial, why is it pointing to Mil?

You just say: “Come on, baby! 1960, let’s go!”

So the time machine roars once more, shudders like a cheetah in heat and then it jumps. You find yourself in a forest with pine trees tall as houses blocking your view. It jumps again and you’re on a hill, overlooking a glade, where men in long robes wave sickles and gnash their teeth at the sight of you. You jump again and this time you’re in a jungle. Then you’re in a marsh. Then you’re standing beneath the shadow of a great mountain. Then you just jump and jump and jump and jump…

When the time machine screeches to a halt so sudden that it sends you flying, you find yourself landing in the middle of a field of tall grass, beneath a sky that’s baby-room-wallpaper blue. The air smells clearer, fresher, yet still alien. You take a whiff, look at the empty fields around you that stretch on forever, and as you notice a group of upright monkeys, you think: This doesn’t look like Woodstock at all.

The upright monkeys approach and you’re naturally scared. You never liked monkeys, anyway: they’re like caricatures of people, all hair and big stupid eyes and mouths full of sharp teeth. One of them (the biggest and bravest of the bunch), reaches out his long, misshapen hand to touch you. He’s unarmed, but you’ve seen 2001: A Space Odyssey; you know it’s only a matter of time before he finds a big enough bone to smash your ribs.

The rock’s in your hand before you know it. It’s jagged and it barely fits in your palm, therefore perfect. You whack the upright monkey with it, because you’ll be damned if you let another one of those things bite you in the ear like that circus one did, when you were six. The upright monkey squeals, snarls. and claws blindly at empty air, so you crack it on the head again and again. When it’s down, you sit on its chest and keep bashing it, until it’s good and quiet. Not once, at any point do you stop to think: Jesus Christ, what am I doing? What if I’m altering history?

What comes out of your mouth is: “Yeah! Yeah! Get some! Get some!”

So you throw away the rock. The upright monkey ladies begin to swoon for you once they’re done soiling themselves in terror. The monkey-men begin to divvy up the corpse to offer to you, their new master. Long story short, you end up spending the night with them, showing off that trick you learned with your lighter back in college. Somehow (and not in any way that you can actually describe), a great fire breaks out that consumes the entire valley of tall grass, and you run back to your time machine.

Panicked, you press buttons again, flicking every switch, but this time, you turn all the dials away from you. You sneak a look at the dial, which now reads: 1800 Mil.