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Authors: Robert J. Sawyer
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sixty-odd million years is an impossibly long time to conceive of."
"We conceive it; we remember a time twice as long ago," the troodon said.
"My God. You remember, what, a hundred and thirty million years ago?"
"Intriguing that you own a god," said Diamond-snout.
I shook my head. "You’ve got a history of a hundred and thirty million years?" Dating back from here at the end of the Cretaceous, that would be around the Triassic-Jurassic boundary.
"History?" said the troodon.
"Continuous written record," said Klicks. He paused for a moment, I guess realizing that the jelly creatures couldn’t possibly have writing as we know it, since they didn’t have hands. "Or a continuous record of the past in some other form."
"No," said the troodon, "we do not that have."
"But you just said you remembered a time a hundred and thirty million years ago," said Klicks, frustration in his voice.
"We do—"
"So how can you—"
"But we not aware that time travel is possible," said Diamond-snout, overtop of Klicks. "Last night, that black and white disk that crashed into the ground. That was your vehicle for time displacement?"
"The
Sternberger
, yes," said Klicks. "Its technical name is a Huang temporal phase-shift habitat module, but the press just calls it a time machine."
"A time machine?" The reptilian head bobbed. "That phrase appeals. Tell how it works."
Klicks appeared irritated. "Look," he said. "We know nothing about you. You’ve crawled around in our heads. What the hell are you?"
For the first time, I noticed the way the troodon blinked, an odd gesture in which it closed its left eye, opened it, then briefly closed its right. "We entered you only to absorb your language," Diamond-snout said. "Did no harm, yess?"
"Well—"
"We could enter you again to absorb additional information. But time-consuming process. Clumsy. Language center obvious in brain structure. Much mass devoted to it. Specific memories much harder to faucet. Faucet? No, to tap. Easier you tell us."
"But we could communicate better if we knew more about you," I said. "Surely you can see that a common set of references would make it simpler."
"Yess. See that and raise you — No, just see that. Common reference points. Links. Very well. Ask questions."
"All right, then," I said. "Who are you?"
"I am me," the reptile said.
"Great," muttered Klicks.
"Unsatisfactory response?" asked the theropod. "I am this one. No name. Name not link."
"You’re a single entity," I said, "but you don’t have a name of your own. Is that it?"
"It is that."
"How do you tell yourself from others of your own kind?" I asked.
"Others?"
"You know: different individuals. One of you is inside this troodon; another is inside that one. How do you distinguish yourselves?"
"I here. Other is there. Easy as 3.1415."
Klicks hooted.
"What are you?" I asked, annoyed at Klicks.
"No link."
"You are an invertebrate."
"Invertebrate: animal without a backbone, yess?"
"Yes. What are your relatives?"
"Time and space."
"No, no. I— Damn. I want to know what you are, what you evolved from. You’re unlike any form of life I’ve seen before."
"As are you."
I shook my head. "I’m not too dissimilar from the dinosaur you are now inhabiting."
"Dinosaur is efficient creature. Strong. Keen senses. Yours are dull by comparison."
"Yes," I said, irritated. For years, I’d explained to people that dinosaurs weren’t the sluggish, stupid creatures so often portrayed in cartoons, but somehow I didn’t enjoy hearing the same sentiments expressed by a reptilian mouth. "But we are more similar than different. Each of us is bipedal — that means we each have two legs—"
"Bipedal links."
"And we each have two arms, two eyes, two nostrils. Our left sides are nearly perfect mirror images of our right sides—"
"Bisexual symmetry."
"Bilateral symmetry," I corrected. "Clearly, the dinosaur and I are related — share a common ancestor. My kind did evolve from ancient reptiles,
"We conceive it; we remember a time twice as long ago," the troodon said.
"My God. You remember, what, a hundred and thirty million years ago?"
"Intriguing that you own a god," said Diamond-snout.
I shook my head. "You’ve got a history of a hundred and thirty million years?" Dating back from here at the end of the Cretaceous, that would be around the Triassic-Jurassic boundary.
"History?" said the troodon.
"Continuous written record," said Klicks. He paused for a moment, I guess realizing that the jelly creatures couldn’t possibly have writing as we know it, since they didn’t have hands. "Or a continuous record of the past in some other form."
"No," said the troodon, "we do not that have."
"But you just said you remembered a time a hundred and thirty million years ago," said Klicks, frustration in his voice.
"We do—"
"So how can you—"
"But we not aware that time travel is possible," said Diamond-snout, overtop of Klicks. "Last night, that black and white disk that crashed into the ground. That was your vehicle for time displacement?"
"The
Sternberger
, yes," said Klicks. "Its technical name is a Huang temporal phase-shift habitat module, but the press just calls it a time machine."
"A time machine?" The reptilian head bobbed. "That phrase appeals. Tell how it works."
Klicks appeared irritated. "Look," he said. "We know nothing about you. You’ve crawled around in our heads. What the hell are you?"
For the first time, I noticed the way the troodon blinked, an odd gesture in which it closed its left eye, opened it, then briefly closed its right. "We entered you only to absorb your language," Diamond-snout said. "Did no harm, yess?"
"Well—"
"We could enter you again to absorb additional information. But time-consuming process. Clumsy. Language center obvious in brain structure. Much mass devoted to it. Specific memories much harder to faucet. Faucet? No, to tap. Easier you tell us."
"But we could communicate better if we knew more about you," I said. "Surely you can see that a common set of references would make it simpler."
"Yess. See that and raise you — No, just see that. Common reference points. Links. Very well. Ask questions."
"All right, then," I said. "Who are you?"
"I am me," the reptile said.
"Great," muttered Klicks.
"Unsatisfactory response?" asked the theropod. "I am this one. No name. Name not link."
"You’re a single entity," I said, "but you don’t have a name of your own. Is that it?"
"It is that."
"How do you tell yourself from others of your own kind?" I asked.
"Others?"
"You know: different individuals. One of you is inside this troodon; another is inside that one. How do you distinguish yourselves?"
"I here. Other is there. Easy as 3.1415."
Klicks hooted.
"What are you?" I asked, annoyed at Klicks.
"No link."
"You are an invertebrate."
"Invertebrate: animal without a backbone, yess?"
"Yes. What are your relatives?"
"Time and space."
"No, no. I— Damn. I want to know what you are, what you evolved from. You’re unlike any form of life I’ve seen before."
"As are you."
I shook my head. "I’m not too dissimilar from the dinosaur you are now inhabiting."
"Dinosaur is efficient creature. Strong. Keen senses. Yours are dull by comparison."
"Yes," I said, irritated. For years, I’d explained to people that dinosaurs weren’t the sluggish, stupid creatures so often portrayed in cartoons, but somehow I didn’t enjoy hearing the same sentiments expressed by a reptilian mouth. "But we are more similar than different. Each of us is bipedal — that means we each have two legs—"
"Bipedal links."
"And we each have two arms, two eyes, two nostrils. Our left sides are nearly perfect mirror images of our right sides—"
"Bisexual symmetry."
"Bilateral symmetry," I corrected. "Clearly, the dinosaur and I are related — share a common ancestor. My kind did evolve from ancient reptiles,
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