Ray Bradbury
A Sound of Thunder
The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding warm water. Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare, and the sign burned in this momentary darkness:
TIME SAFARI, INC.
SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST.
YOU NAME THE ANIMAL.
WE TAKE YOU THERE.
YOU SHOOT IT.
Warm phlegm gathered in Eckels' throat; he swallowed and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed a smile as he put his hand slowly out upon the air, and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man behind the desk.
«Does this safari guarantee I come back alive?»
«We guarantee nothing,» said the official, «except the dinosaurs.» He turned. «This is Mr. Travis, your Safari Guide in the Past. He'll tell you what and where to shoot. If he says no shooting, no shooting. If you disobey instructions, there's a stiff penalty of another ten thousand dollars, plus possible government action, on your return.»
Eckels glanced across the vast office at a mass and tangle, a snaking and humming of wires and steel boxes, at an aurora that flickered now orange, now silver, now blue. There was a sound like a gigantic bonfire burning all of Time, all the years and all the parchment calendars, all the hours piled high and set aflame.
A touch of the hand and this burning would, on the instant, beautifully reverse itself. Eckels remembered the wording in the advertisements to the letter. Out of chars and ashes, out of dust and coals, like golden salamanders, the old years, the green years, might leap; roses sweeten the air, white hair turn Irish-black, wrinkles vanish; all, everything fly back to seed, flee death, rush down to their beginnings, suns rise in western skies and set in glorious easts, moons eat themselves opposite to the custom, all and everything cupping one in another like Chinese boxes, rabbits into hats, all and everything returning to the fresh death, the seed death, the green death, to the time before the beginning. A touch of a hand might do it, the merest touch of a hand.
«Unbelievable.» Eckels breathed, the light of the Machine on his thin face. «A real Time Machine.» He shook his head. «Makes you think, If the election had gone badly yesterday, I might be here now running away from the results. Thank God Keith won. He'll make a fine President of the United States.»
«Yes,» said the man behind the desk. «We're lucky. If Deutscher had gotten in, we'd have the worst kind of dictatorship. There's an anti everything man for you, a militarist, anti-Christ, anti-human, anti-intellectual. People called us up, you know, joking but not joking. Said if Deutscher became President they wanted to go live in 1492. Of course it's not our business to conduct Escapes, but to form Safaris. Anyway, Keith's President now. All you got to worry about is―»
«Shooting my dinosaur,» Eckels finished it for him.
«A Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Tyrant Lizard, the most incredible monster in history. Sign this release. Anything happens to you, we're not responsible. Those dinosaurs are hungry.»
Eckels flushed angrily. «Trying to scare me!»
«Frankly, yes. We don't want anyone going who'll panic at the first shot. Six Safari leaders were killed last year, and a dozen hunters. We're here to give you the severest thrill a real hunter ever asked for. Traveling you back sixty million years to bag the biggest game in all of Time. Your personal check's still there. Tear it up.» Mr. Eckels looked at the check. His fingers twitched.
«Good luck,» said the man behind the desk. «Mr. Travis, he's all yours.»
They moved silently across the room, taking their guns with them, toward the Machine, toward the silver metal and the roaring light.
First a day and then a night and then a day and then a night, then it was day-night-day-night. A week, a month, a year, a decade! A.D. 2055. A.D. 2019. 1999! 1957! Gone! The Machine roared.
They put on their oxygen helmets and tested the intercoms.
Eckels swayed on the padded seat, his face pale, his jaw stiff. He felt the trembling in his arms and he looked down and found his hands tight on the new rifle. There were four other men in the Machine. Travis, the Safari Leader, his assistant, Lesperance, and two other hunters, Billings and Kramer. They sat looking at each other, and the years blazed around them.
«Can these guns get a dinosaur cold?» Eckels felt his mouth saying.
«If you hit them right,» said Travis on the helmet radio. «Some dinosaurs have two brains, one in the head, another far down the spinal column. We stay away from those. That's stretching luck. Put your first two shots into the eyes, if you can, blind them, and go back into the brain.»
The Machine howled. Time was a film run backward. Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them. «Think,» said Eckels. «Every hunter that ever lived would envy us today. This makes Africa seem like Illinois.»
The Machine slowed; its scream fell to a murmur. The Machine stopped.
The sun stopped in the sky.
The fog that had enveloped the Machine blew away and they were in an old time, a very old time indeed, three hunters and two Safari Heads with their blue metal guns across their knees.
«Christ isn't born yet,» said Travis, «Moses has not gone to the mountains to talk with God. The Pyramids are still in the earth, waiting to be cut out and put up. Remember that. Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler-none of them exists.» The man nodded.
«That» — Mr. Travis pointed — «is the jungle of sixty million two thousand and fifty-five years before President Keith.»
He indicated a metal path that struck off into green wilderness, over streaming swamp, among giant ferns and palms.
«And that,» he said, «is the Path, laid by Time Safari for your use,
It floats six inches above the earth. Doesn't touch so much as one grass blade, flower, or tree. It's an anti-gravity metal. Its purpose is to keep you from touching this world of the past in any way. Stay on the Path. Don't go off it. I repeat. Don't go off. For any reason! If you fall off, there's a penalty. And don't shoot any animal we don't okay.»
«Why?» asked Eckels.
They sat in the ancient wilderness. Far birds' cries blew on a wind, and the smell of tar and an old salt sea, moist grasses, and flowers the color of blood.
«We don't want to change the Future. We don't belong here in the Past. The government doesn't like us here. We have to pay big graft to keep our franchise. A Time Machine is finicky business. Not knowing it, we might kill an important animal, a small bird, a roach, a flower even, thus destroying an important link in a growing species.»
«That's not clear,» said Eckels.
«All right,» Travis continued, «say we accidentally kill one mouse here. That means all the future families of this one particular mouse are destroyed, right?»
«Right»
«And all the families of the families of the families of that one mouse! With a stamp of your foot, you annihilate first one, then a dozen, then a thousand, a million, a billion possible mice!»
«So they're dead,» said Eckels. «So what?»
«So what?» Travis snorted quietly. «Well, what about the foxes that'll need those mice to survive? For want of ten mice, a fox dies. For want of ten foxes a lion starves. For want of a lion, all manner of insects, vultures, infinite billions of life forms are thrown into chaos and destruction. Eventually it all boils down to this: fifty-nine million years later, a caveman, one of a dozen on the entire world, goes hunting wild boar or saber-toothed tiger for food. But you, friend, have stepped on all the tigers in that region. By stepping on one single mouse. So the caveman starves. And the caveman, please note, is not just any expendable man, no! He is an entire future nation. From his loins would have sprung ten sons. From their loins one hundred sons, and thus onward to a civilization. Destroy this one man, and you destroy a race, a people, an entire history of life. It is comparable to slaying some of Adam's grandchildren. The stomp of your foot, on one mouse, could start an earthquake, the effects of which could shake our earth and destinies down through Time, to their very foundations. With the death of that one caveman, a billion others yet unborn are throttled in the womb. Perhaps Rome never rises on its seven hills. Perhaps Europe is forever a dark forest, and only Asia waxes healthy and teeming. Step on a mouse and you crush the Pyramids. Step on a mouse and you leave your print, like a Grand Canyon, across Eternity. Queen Elizabeth might never be born, Washington might not cross the Delaware, there might never be a United States at all. So be careful. Stay on the Path. Never step off!»
«I see,» said Eckels. «Then it wouldn't pay for us even to touch the grass?»
«Correct. Crushing certain plants could add up infinitesimally. A little error here would multiply in sixty million years, all out of proportion. Of c "И что?" Трэвис тихо фыркнул. «Ну, а как насчет лисичек, которые нужны эти мыши, чтобы выжить? Для нужды из десяти мышей лиса умирает. Для нужды из десяти лисиц лев вид. Для желания льва все манеры насекомых, стервятников, бесконечных миллиардов форм жизни брошены в хаос и разрушение. В конце концов все сводится к этому: пятьдесят девять миллионов лет спустя, пещерный человек, один из десяток на весь мир, идет охота на дикий кабан или сакет-зубчатый тигр для еды. Но ты, друг, наступил на всех тигров в этом регионе. Наступая на одну мышку. Итак, пещерный человек уставившись. И пещерный человек, пожалуйста, обратите внимание, не просто дорогой человек, нет! Он целая будущая нация. Из его пояснилось бы десять сыновей. От их чресла сто сыновья, и, таким образом, вперед к цивилизации. Уничтожьте этого человека, и вы уничтожаете гонку, народ, всю историю жизни. Это сопоставимо с убийством некоторых из внуков Адама. Стапа вашей ноги, на одной мышке, может начать землетрясение, эффекты которых могут встряхивать нашу землю и судьбы через время, к их самим основаниям. С смертью того, что один пещерный человек, миллиард других, но не наносил нерожденным, дросселируется в матке. Возможно, Рим никогда не поднимается на своих семи холмах. Возможно, Европа навсегда темный лес, и только азиатские воски здоровые и кишечные. Шаг на мышке, и вы раздавите пирамиды. Шаг на мышке, и вы оставляете свой печать, как Гранд-Каньон, по всей вечности. Queen Elizabeth может никогда не родиться, Вашингтон не может пересечь Делавэр, никогда не может быть в Соединенных Штатах вообще. Так что будь осторожен. Оставайтесь на пути. Никогда не стесняйтесь! »
«Я вижу,» сказал Экелс. «Тогда это не заплатит за нас даже прикоснуться к траве?»
"Верный. Сокрушение определенных растений может добавить бесконечно. Небольшая ошибка здесь умножается в шестидесяти миллионов лет, все из пропорции. Из C. | |
