A Thing of the Past. John Russell Fearn
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things.”
“And what about the scientists? They’ll want to have a look at this geologic masterpiece, won’t they?”
“They can do it within the next week; you won’t have filled the shaft in by then—” Masterson glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to be going, but I thought you’d like the facts before I turn in the official report. I’ll tip off the scientists to come and have a look if you like.”
Cliff nodded. “Do that. Tomorrow I’ll have the boys start the sealing process.”
On that the geologist departed, and Cliff stood thinking, gazing through the wide-open window towards the garage at the bottom of the garden.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Joan asked him, drifting to his side.
“I don’t know. It just crossed my mind that I’m sticking to that egg, no matter what. I can’t see what Bill’s getting goose pimples about. If there’s anything queer in the egg, it can be put to sleep instantly.”
“No guarantee it will even hatch.”
With a mutual thought in their minds and their meal over, they strolled out through the kitchenette door into the garden. The evening was hot and misty with a promise of thunder to come. These were everyday phenomena, though. In the garage there was a thing of the past, and down under the Earth there was also a region upon which man had never set eyes for eighty million years until Cliff had descended the shaft.
“No harm in seeing how the egg’s going on,” he said as he and Joan reached the garage doors.
“No harm at all. That’s why we’re out here, isn’t it?”
Cliff opened the doors and looked on the floor at the rear of his two-seater car. The egg was in the cardboard box as he had left it, the lid removed. Nothing had happened yet, anyway.
“Perhaps not warm enough,” Joan said.
“I think it’s just right, dear. The period from which this egg came, far as I can remember, was mild and humid—much as it is tonight. The conditions are quite favourable. Don’t forget it has to thaw out from the glacier as well.”
Joan stooped and sniffed at the shell. “Doesn’t smell at all, does it?”
“No reason why it should. It was probably quite fresh when the ice or whatever it was caught up. We’ll leave it for a day or two and see what happens.”
For an instant it was in Cliff’s mind to put his foot into the egg there and then, so strongly did Bill Masterson’s sombre warning cross his memory; then he shook his head to himself and closed the garage doors adamantly. He turned to find Joan looking into the misty sky. The sun was hidden in the heat haze low down on the horizon, so it was no effort to stare at the heavens for a prolonged period.
“What is it?” Cliff asked, expecting to see some aerobatics by a jet plane.
“That! I’m trying to make out what it is. Some sort of noiseless plane, isn’t it? I’ve heard that there is one on the secret list—”
Cliff looked long and earnestly, and at last he found the object that Joan’s sharper eyes had already detected. It was circling at a height of perhaps three hundred feet, making no sound whatever. Occasionally it dived; then it climbed again with the velocity of an anti-aircraft shell. In some ways it looked like an airplane. In other ways it looked like a bird— Bird? Impossible! There couldn’t be a bird of that size, not even the biggest eagle ever known. Why, at close quarters it must be gigantic. It was large enough even seen from three hundred feet below.
“What in the world is it?” Joan demanded at last. For answer Cliff fled into the house and returned after moment or two with powerful field glasses. Quickly he focussed them as he stared aloft.
“For the love of heaven!” he gasped. “It’s—it’s a pterodactyl! A flying lizard!”
“Huh?” Joan looked blankly at his startled face; then he thrust the glasses into her hands.
“Look for yourself! You’ve seen drawings of pterodactyls as much as I have. If that isn’t one I’m crazy!”
Joan looked, only to confirm Cliff’s opinion. The flying horror was partly like a bat, partly like a lizard and having a gun-grey body of apparently tremendous toughness. At a rough estimate Joan guessed the wingspan to be about eighty feet. It kept on circling steadily as if searching for some thing—or else sighting some object or other with its intensely keen eyes.
“It’s crazy, but it’s right,” Joan exclaimed, lowering the glasses. “Or is it right? Maybe it’s some kid’s toy kite shaped like a monster. You know how the youngsters play around with scientific things these days—”
“No use kidding ourselves, Joan; it’s a pterodactyl. And there’s only one place where it could have come from, and that is the shaft of the mining site. Being a bird it could easily fly from its underground prison.”
“But you didn’t see anything alive down there, did you?”
“No, but according to Bill Masterson a Jurassic cavern or something has been opened, and there could have been life that deeper canyon which I didn’t explore. The fact remains: that object up there couldn’t have come from anywhere else.”
They stood watching it for a time as its gyrations grew gradually less, until finally it seemed to be hovering far above, motionless.
“What’s it looking for, do you think?” Joan’s eyes were commencing to ache with the constant effort of staring aloft.
“I’m not sure, but I can hazard an uneasy guess. Right in this garage we have something prehistoric, and by some telepathic link, such as does exist among many birds and animals, that flying horror may be aware that an object of its own time and kin is down here.”
“Sort of inverted homing instinct, or something?”
“Like that—yes.” Cliff had the field glasses still to his eyes—then suddenly he let out a gasp.
“It’s diving!” Joan cried at the same moment. “Quickly! Into the house!”
With appalling swiftness the pterodactyl suddenly began a power dive, swooping with incredible speed from the misty heights, straight down towards the garden. Tripping and tumbling, Cliff and Joan blundered towards the house, gained the kitchenette and slammed the door. Then at top speed they raced into the adjoining living room and watched through the window. Spellbound they watched a scene that had certainly never been viewed before by modern beings.
The pterodactyl had reached the garden, and its size was apparent now as its great wings, dry and membranous, overspread the width of the lawn and became partly entangled with the parting fences on either side. It had a body as big as a man’s, yet a head like a vulture on an enormous scale. It was quite the vilest thing ever, its tremendously strong beak pecking and lashing at the strong garage doors.
“I—I feel sort of sick,” Joan whispered, white-faced. “What in the world do we do now?”
“Nothing,” Cliff snapped. “That thing’s carnivorous, and unlike the modern bird, it has triple rows of shark teeth. I just caught a glimpse of them. If we try and deal with that thing we’ll be ripped to pieces. It’s after that damned egg, sure as fate.”
“Call the police,” Joan urged. “They’ll do something.”
“Not on your life! The police might as well try and fight a tank as fight this. Leave it alone and watch what happens.”
Apparently the terrifying creature was becoming annoyed at finding the garage doors too tough for its onslaught. With a series of ear-splitting screams it flung itself in leathery fury against the barrier, its vast beak tearing great shards and splinters out of the woodwork—but the doors held, and at last the pterodactyl seemed to realise it was beaten. It withdrew and folded its wings, standing for a moment in the centre of the lawn like a colossal bat, its evil