Read Online The Dinosaur Chronicles by Joseph Erhardt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Erhardt
Ads: Link
experienced the synthesis personally. The effect was something like a voice broadcast over soft static.
But how to reply? Ferguson knew little of the large, insectoid race of which the Tarapset was a member. After some thought, he responded with the obvious. “The red giant is a weak star. If the world were any farther, it would still be frozen, as it was for most of its history.”
“In my mind,” the Tarapset said, “I understand. Nonetheless, actually seeing the situation is much different.”
Ferguson knew what the creature meant. If the Tarapset’s presence was imposing, the red giant’s was overwhelming. And, there was the psychological hit of coming to live on a dying planet. The bloating of its star had made the world a habitable, even pleasant place for the moment, but its spring would be brief and come only once. “The astrophysicists,” he said, “say the situation will be stable for another twenty thousand years.”
“Then,” the Tarapset added, “matters will again become more interesting.”
The star would lose its momentary quiescence and resume its expansion. The planet would be boiled dry and any life on it would come to an end.
Which was, of course, why they called the planet Evensong.
And, in a decision Ferguson once described as the most arrogant assessment of Man’s future yet given, the Interworld Association had decreed that no permanent settlements would be allowed on Evensong, only research stations and retirement communities .
“We can make plans to leave before that happens,” Ferguson told his accoster.
The Tarapset produced a rough, rolling rendition of laughter, and Ferguson stared. The alien had evidently made a study of human social interactions. And why not? Thought Ferguson. If it intended to live on Evensong, it would have to know the people with whom it would associate. Ferguson doubted there was even one other of its kind on the planet.
The effort required for such cross-cultural understanding by a being so unlike a man had to be considerable. Ferguson nodded his appreciation and soon found himself trading introductions with what he could only think of as an overgrown bug—a beetle on steroids.
And later, because immigrants tended to settle in the most-recently built (and most vacant) of the planet’s communities, it came as no surprise to Ferguson that Tar F’set’s bungalow sat less than a kilometer from his own.
—
Ferguson pressed the sash control again, creating a centimeter-high opening. How quickly the room had become stuffy. But Ferguson remembered. His mind forwarded a year, and he recalled the exact date: April 34, local calendar.
—
In his yard, Ferguson sat hunched over a deck table. On the other side, Tar F’set, who had no need of chairs, rested on his six legs. After several wavings of antennae, the bug grabbed his King’s Rook with his mandibles and deposited the piece deep into Ferguson’s portion of the chessboard.
Ferguson had lathed, carved and stained the chesspieces himself. The lumber he’d gotten at the community general store. Life had hardly begun on Evensong before some ancient catastrophe had hurled the planet from its original orbit into one that would put it in deep-freeze for billions of years. So while the potential for life was there, all of the flora and fauna had been imported. But the local white oak was dense and even, and Ferguson had been satisfied with the results.
True, he could have bought one of the holographic sets, but as he’d told a neighbor, you couldn’t slam down a holographic piece when issuing check , and that took half the life from the game.
Ferguson watched the rook land and stared at the Tarapset with barely-controlled frustration. Six weeks earlier he’d taught the bug the game, and in the last two weeks winning for Ferguson had become as realistic a proposition as walking up a wall.
“Losing to you, Tar F’set, has become a repetitive, though admittedly interesting, experience.”
But how to reply? Ferguson knew little of the large, insectoid race of which the Tarapset was a member. After some thought, he responded with the obvious. “The red giant is a weak star. If the world were any farther, it would still be frozen, as it was for most of its history.”
“In my mind,” the Tarapset said, “I understand. Nonetheless, actually seeing the situation is much different.”
Ferguson knew what the creature meant. If the Tarapset’s presence was imposing, the red giant’s was overwhelming. And, there was the psychological hit of coming to live on a dying planet. The bloating of its star had made the world a habitable, even pleasant place for the moment, but its spring would be brief and come only once. “The astrophysicists,” he said, “say the situation will be stable for another twenty thousand years.”
“Then,” the Tarapset added, “matters will again become more interesting.”
The star would lose its momentary quiescence and resume its expansion. The planet would be boiled dry and any life on it would come to an end.
Which was, of course, why they called the planet Evensong.
And, in a decision Ferguson once described as the most arrogant assessment of Man’s future yet given, the Interworld Association had decreed that no permanent settlements would be allowed on Evensong, only research stations and retirement communities .
“We can make plans to leave before that happens,” Ferguson told his accoster.
The Tarapset produced a rough, rolling rendition of laughter, and Ferguson stared. The alien had evidently made a study of human social interactions. And why not? Thought Ferguson. If it intended to live on Evensong, it would have to know the people with whom it would associate. Ferguson doubted there was even one other of its kind on the planet.
The effort required for such cross-cultural understanding by a being so unlike a man had to be considerable. Ferguson nodded his appreciation and soon found himself trading introductions with what he could only think of as an overgrown bug—a beetle on steroids.
And later, because immigrants tended to settle in the most-recently built (and most vacant) of the planet’s communities, it came as no surprise to Ferguson that Tar F’set’s bungalow sat less than a kilometer from his own.
—
Ferguson pressed the sash control again, creating a centimeter-high opening. How quickly the room had become stuffy. But Ferguson remembered. His mind forwarded a year, and he recalled the exact date: April 34, local calendar.
—
In his yard, Ferguson sat hunched over a deck table. On the other side, Tar F’set, who had no need of chairs, rested on his six legs. After several wavings of antennae, the bug grabbed his King’s Rook with his mandibles and deposited the piece deep into Ferguson’s portion of the chessboard.
Ferguson had lathed, carved and stained the chesspieces himself. The lumber he’d gotten at the community general store. Life had hardly begun on Evensong before some ancient catastrophe had hurled the planet from its original orbit into one that would put it in deep-freeze for billions of years. So while the potential for life was there, all of the flora and fauna had been imported. But the local white oak was dense and even, and Ferguson had been satisfied with the results.
True, he could have bought one of the holographic sets, but as he’d told a neighbor, you couldn’t slam down a holographic piece when issuing check , and that took half the life from the game.
Ferguson watched the rook land and stared at the Tarapset with barely-controlled frustration. Six weeks earlier he’d taught the bug the game, and in the last two weeks winning for Ferguson had become as realistic a proposition as walking up a wall.
“Losing to you, Tar F’set, has become a repetitive, though admittedly interesting, experience.”
Similar Books
