And they began to shift and change as he stared.
When he had first seen it, the phenomenon had scared him silly. But now
he was used to it.
As he watched, the hills changed into different ones. Different
vegetation and strange life stirred on them.
He saw dinosaurs this time. A herd of them, not very big ones. Middle
Triassic, more than likely. And this time it was only a distant view — he
himself was not to become involved. He would only see, from a distance, what
ancient time was like and would not be thrust into the middle of it as most
often was the case.
He was glad. There were chores to do.
Watching, he wondered once again what more he could do. It was not the
dinosaurs that concerned him, nor the earlier amphibians, nor all the other
creatures that moved in time about the hills.
What disturbed him was that other being that lay buried deep beneath the
Platteville limestone.
Someone else should know about it. The knowledge of it should be kept
alive so that in the days to come — perhaps in another hundred years —
when man’s technology had reached the point where it was possible to cope
with such a problem, something could be done to contact — and perhaps to
free — the dweller in the stone.
There would be a record, of course, a written record. He would see to
that. Already that record was in progress — a week by week (at times a day
to day) account of what he had seen, heard and learned. Three large record
books now were filled with his careful writing and another one was well
started. All written down as honestly and as carefully and as objectively as
he could bring himself to do it.
But who would believe what he had written? More to the point, who would
bother to look at it? More than likely the books would gather dust on some
hidden shelf until the end of time with no human hand ever laid upon them.
And even if someone, in some future time, should take them down and read
them, first blowing away the accumulated dust, would he or she be likely to
believe?
The answer lay clear. He must convince someone. Words written by a man
long dead — and by a man of no reputation — could be easily dismissed as
the product of a neurotic mind. But if some scientist of solid reputation
could be made to listen, could be made to endorse the record, the events
that paraded across the hills and lay within them could stand on solid
ground, worthy of full investigation at some future date.
A biologist? Or a neuropsychiatrist? Or a paleontologist?
Perhaps it didn’t matter what branch of science the man was in. Just so
he’d listen without laughter. It was most important that he listen without
laughter.
Sitting on the porch, staring at the hills dotted with grazing
dinosaurs, the listener to the stars remembered the time he had gone to see
the paleontologist.
‘Ben,’ the sheriff said. ‘you’re way out in left field. That Daniels
fellow wouldn’t steal no chickens. He’s got chickens of his own.’
‘The question is,’ said Adams, ‘how did he get them chickens?’
‘That makes no sense,’ the sheriff said. ‘He’s a gentleman. You can tell
that just by talking with him. An educated gentleman.’
‘If he’s a gentleman,’ asked Adams, ‘what’s he doing out here? This
ain’t no place for gentlemen. He showed up two or three years ago and moved
out to this place. Since that day he hasn’t done a tap of work. All he does
is wander up and down the hills.’
‘He’s a geologist,’ said the sheriff. ‘Or anyway interested in geology.
A sort of hobby with him. He tells me he looks for fossils.’
Adams assumed the alert look of a dog that has sighted a rabbit. ‘So
that is it,’ he said. ‘I bet you it ain’t fossils he is looking for.’
‘No,’ the sheriff said.
‘He’s looking for minerals,’ said Adams. ‘He’s prospecting, that’s what
he’s doing. These hills crawl with minerals. All you have to do is know
where to look.’
‘You’ve spent a lot of time looking,’ observed the sheriff. ‘I ain’t no
geologist. A geologist would have a big advantage. He would know rocks and
such.’
‘He didn’t talk as if he were doing any prospecting. Just interested in
the geology, is all. He found some fossil clams.’
‘He might be looking for treasure caves,’ said Adams. ‘He might have a
map or something.’
‘You know damn well,’ the sheriff said, ‘there are no treasure caves.’
‘There must be,’ Adams insisted. ‘The French and Spanish were here in
the early days. They were great ones for treasure, the French and Spanish.
Always running after mines. Always hiding things in caves. There was that
cave over across the river where they found a skeleton in Spanish armour and
the skeleton of a bear beside him, with a rusty sword stuck into where the
bear’s gizzard was.’
‘That was just a story,’ said the sheriff, disgusted. ‘Some damn fool
started it and there was nothing to it. Some people from the university came
out and tried to run it down. It developed that there wasn’t a word of truth
in it.’
‘But Daniels has been messing around with caves,’ said Adams. ‘I’ve seen
him. He spends a lot of time in that cave down on Cat Den Point. Got to
climb a tree to get to it.’
‘You been watching him?’
‘Sure I been watching him. He’s up to something and I want to know what
it is.’
‘Just be sure he doesn’t catch you doing it,’ the sheriff said.
Adams chose to let the matter pass. ‘Well, anyhow,’ he said, ‘if there
aren’t any treasure caves, there’s a lot of lead and zinc. The man who finds
it is about to make a million.’
‘Not unless he can find the capital to back him,’ the sheriff pointed
out.
Adams dug at the ground with his heel. ‘You think he’s all right, do
you?’
‘He tells me he’s been losing some chickens to a fox. More than likely
that’s what has been happening to yours.’
‘If a fox is taking his chickens,’ Adams asked, ‘why don’t he shoot it?’
‘He isn’t sore about it. He seems to think the fox has got a right to.
He hasn’t even got a gun.’
‘Well, if he hasn’t got a gun and doesn’t care to hunt himself — then
why won’t he let other people hunt? He won’t let me and my boys on his place
with a gun. He has his place all posted. That seems to me to be
un-neighborly. That’s one of the things that makes it so hard to get along
with him. We’ve always hunted on that place. Old Amos wasn’t an easy man to
get along with but he never cared if we did some hunting. We’ve always
hunted all around here. No one ever minded. Seems to me hunting should be
free. Seems right for a man to hunt wherever he’s a mind to.’
Sitting on the bench on the hard-packed earth in front of the ramshackle
house, the sheriff looked about him — at the listlessly scratching
chickens, at the scrawny hound sleeping in the shade, its hide twitching
against the few remaining flies, at the clothes-line strung between two
trees and loaded with drying clothes and dish towels, at the washtub
balanced on its edge on a wash bench leaning against the side of the house.
Christ, he thought, the man should be able to find the time to put up a
decent clothes-line and not just string a rope between two trees.
‘Ben,’ he said, ‘you’re just trying to stir up trouble. You resent
Daniels, a man living on a farm who doesn’t work at farming, and you’re sore
because he won’t let you hunt his land. He’s got a right to live anywhere he
wants to and he’s got a right not to let you hunt. I’d lay off him if I were
you. You don’t have to like him, you don’t have to have anything to do with
him — but don’t go around spreading fake accusations against the man. He
could jerk you up in court for that.’
2
He had walked into the paleontologist’s office and it had taken him a
moment fully to see the man seated toward the back of the room at a
cluttered desk. The entire place was cluttered. There were long tables
covered with chunks of rock with embedded fossils, Scattered here and there
were stacks of papers. The room was large and badly lighted. It was a dingy
and depressing place.
‘Doctor?’ Daniels had asked. ‘Are you Dr. Thorne?’
The man rose and deposited a pipe in a cluttered ashtray. He was big,
burly, with graying hair that had a wild look to it. His face was seamed and