“It won’t work.”
Jefferson ignored Rachel’s jibe, tightening his lips, while soldering the final panel’s wires.
“Did you hear me?” The administrator crossed her arms.
“It’ll work.” Jefferson slid the panel into the machine’s last slot. Partly from safety concerns, but mostly to avoid arguing, he checked his settings for the fifth time.
“You’ve screwed up again,” Rachel accused. “You never follow protocol. You always lose track of details.”
“This will work.” He thumbed a switch, testing the power source.
“We’ll see.”
He tossed the object of the experiment, a plastic letter opener, toward the open metal box in the corner. It fell in after bouncing off the lid, which then shut.
A perfect shot!
“Showoff!” Rachel snapped.
Jefferson smirked.
After a moment, Rachel asked, “Well?”
“The machinery has to warm up first, no?” Once the gauge’s needle passed the red line, Jefferson turned each knob in sequence, then pulled the master switch.
Electricity charged the air. Then the mechanism went dead.
Rachel laughed. “I told you!”
“It’s supposed to turn itself off!” Jefferson opened the box. “See! The letter opener’s gone!”
Rachel opened the box in the opposite corner, and laughed again. “It’s not here.”
Jefferson blinked. “It’s got to be!” He crossed the room. Looked inside. Reached inside. Nothing.
“Why build a matter-transmitter, anyway?” Rachel chided for the umpteenth time. “You can’t connect it to the main system, so it’s useless past twenty yards.”
She ducked to avoid hurled copy of the May 1978 Popular Inventions magazine.
“Sorehead!” Rachel chided. “I’m done. It’s past lunchtime.”
“That’s why I bring mine!” he shouted.
He looked for the paper bag with its drawing of a bright red bell. He’d put it down where he was certain he’d find it again…
Or would have, if he’d remembered to check the first box instead of showing off his pitching skills.
Jefferson wondered if he’d ever find out what happened to his burrito.
And the letter-opener.
And if he could repeat the effect with other objects.
§
Standing on his hind feet no longer hurt Gungol, although it was still less practical. Had he not been racing on all fours, he’d have missed the incongruous red patch on the granite-hard earth.
Even then, he’d have ignored it, save for the enticing aroma. Gungol was, after all, searching for food. He nibbled the skin, barely edible, then peeled it off.
The warm heart in the center was a different matter, like no fruit or vegetable he’d ever tasted. By the time he considered sharing it with his mate, Chula, it was gone. He licked his lips.
Still, the odd-shaped object next to the food might interest her. He clenched it in his teeth, avoiding its sharp edge, and continued toward the distant bushes.
These were lush with purple berries, but peculiarly shaped, narrow at the bottom, widening at the top, protected by thorns. He could reach the fruit, but not without multiple cuts and scratches. He knew from experience he could only satisfy his hunger so far before thrusts into the greenery became too painful.
He sat beside the bush, chewing the few retrieved edibles, fingering the strange object.
This new possession might prove useful. He gripped the dull end, poked the other into the bush. At least his hand avoided further injury.
He accomplished little beyond grazing the fruit, until the sharp edge abruptly sliced through a stem. The berry fell, bouncing off two other branches before striking the ground. He easily collected it.
Gungol’s second attempt went faster. Fascinated, he stopped only when darkening skies reminded him night predators would soon appear.
Clenching his new-found tool between his teeth, he hurried toward the protection of his cave.
A feasting carnivore appeared in his path. He adopted a more circular route, through unfamiliar territory. He would return to his original path, once he ensured he was past the threat.
Moving along on all fours, he felt the earth give way beneath his left palm. Gungol saw his hand sink past the wrist. The ground meant to swallow him up! His mouth went slack in fear.
His new-found tool dropped into the mire.
By the time Gungol extracted his arm, the wondrous object was gone.
A rising gibbous moon shed enough light for him to reach his cave without further mishap. Distracted by his first contact with quicksand, angered at losing his new tool, he ignored his mate, Chula, as she huddled asleep in the back of the cave.
Such respite was beyond his bewildered mind. Frustrated, he toyed with some loose rocks near the cave entrance, smashing one against the other until they shattered.
One cracked lengthwise. He was about to smash it again when struck by the familiarity of the new shape. If he broke off a few more bits, it might function much like the lost tool.
He began a more careful trimming.
Wakened by the incessant battering of stone against stone, hungry after her own poor hunting day, Chula crawled toward the cave entrance.
Gungol turned at the sounds. Recognizing his mate, he grunted, shrugged, and returned to his task.
Chula moved closer, for a better view her companion’s task. She grunted in skeptical disapproval. When he did not respond, she grunted again.
He turned on her, snarling.
She growled and backed off.
Distracted, he struck a false blow. The rock he’d been carefully working on split in half. He issued a low grumble.
His mate grunted in triumph, then dodged as he angrily threw the remains of his shattered tool at her. The fragments skimmed past her.
One smashed the skull of a small rodent as it scurried out of Chula’s path.
Gungol stared at the lifeless creature. It reminded him of other dead animals he’d seen taken down by predators. He wondered if its flesh might be as tasty as the meal he’d happened on earlier.
And if he could repeat the effect with other prey.
Gordon Linzner, founder and former editor Space and Time Magazine, author of four published novels and scores of short stories in numerous magazines and anthologies, is a full member of the Horror Writers Association and a lifetime member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association.
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