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Of course, the dean-still alive and still counting grant-dollars when Dad died-probably felt quite foolish, I
imagine, when Dad left the school a million dollars free and clear in his will, with a codicil canceling the
bequest on the ground that the dean lacked vision. But that was merely posthumous revenge. For years
before that
1 don't wish to dictate, butpleasedon't have any more of the breadsticks. The clear soup, eaten
slowly to prevent a too-sharp appetite, will do.
Anyway, we managed somehow. Dad kept the equipment we had bought with the grant money, moved
it out of the university and set it up here.
Those first years on our own were brutal, and I kept urging him to give up. He never would. He was
indomitable, always managing to find a thousand dollars somewhere when we needed it.
Life went on, but he allowed nothing to interfere with his research. Mother died; Dad mourned and
returned to his task. I married, had a son, then a daughter, couldn't always be at his side. He carried on
without me. He broke his leg and worked with the cast impeding him for months.
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So I give him an the credit. I helped, of course. I did consulting work on the side and carried on
negotiation with Washington. Buthe was the life and soul of the project.
Despite an that, we weren't getting anywhere. An the money we managed to scrounge might just as well
have been poured into one of the Chrono-funnels-not that it would have passed through.
After an, we never once managed to get a grapple through a funnel. We came near on only one
occasion. We had the grapple about two inches out the other end when focus changed. It snapped off
clean and somewhere in the Mesozoic there is a man-made piece of steel rod rusting on a riverbank.
Then one day, the crucial day, the focus held for ten long minutes-something for which the odds were
less than one in a trillion. Lord, the frenzies of excitement we experienced as we set up the cameras. We
could see living creatures just the other side of the funnel, moving energetically.
Then, to top it off, the Chrono-funnel grew permeable, until you might have sworn there was nothing but
air between the past and ourselves. The low permeability must have been connected with the long holding
of focus, but we've never been able to prove that it did.
Of course, we had no grapple handy, wouldn't you know. But the low permeability was clear enough
because something just fen through, moving from theThen into theNow. Thunderstruck, acting simply on
blind instinct, I reached forward and caught it.
At that moment we lost focus, but it no longer left us embittered and despairing. We were both staring in
wild surmise at what I held. It was a mass of caked and dried mud, shaved off clean where it had struck
the borders of the Chrono-funnel, and on the mud cake were fourteen eggs about the size of duck eggs.
I said, Dinosaur eggs? Do you suppose they really are?
Dad said, Maybe. We can't tell for sure.
Unless we hatch them, I said in sudden, almost uncontrollable excitement. I put them down as though
they were platinum. They felt warm with the heat of the primeval sun. I said, Dad, if we hatch them, we'll
have creatures that have been extinct for over a hundred million years. It will be the first case of
something actually brought out of the past. If we announce this-
I was thinking of the grants we could get, of the publicity, of all that it would mean to Dad. I was seeing
the look of consternation on the dean's face.
But Dad took a different view of the matter. He said firmly. Not a word, son. If this gets out, we'll have
twenty research teams on the trail of the Chrono-funnels, cutting off my advance. No, once I've solved
the riddle of the funnels, you can make all the announcements you want. Until then-we keep silent. Son,
don't look like that. I'll have the answer in a year. I'm sure of it.
I was a little less confident, but those eggs, I felt convinced, would arm us with all the proof we'd need. I
set up a large oven at bloodheat; I circulated air and moisture. I rigged up an alarm that would sound at
the first signs of motion within the eggs.
They hatched at 3 A.M. nineteen days later, and there they were-fourteen wee kangaroos with greenish
scales, clawed hindlegs, plump little thighs, and thin, whiplash tails.
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I thought at first they were tyrannosauri, but they were too small for that species of dinosaur. Months
passed, and I could see they weren't going to grow any larger than moderate-sized dogs.
Dad seemed disappointed, but I held on, hoping he would let me use them for publicity .One died before
maturity and one was killed in a scuffle. But the other twelve survived-five males and seven females. I fed
them on chopped carrots, boiled eggs, and milk, and grew quite fond of them. They were fearfully stupid
and yet gentle. And they were truly beautiful. Their scales
Oh, well, it's silly to describe them. Those original publicity pictures have made their rounds. Though,
come to think of it, I don't know about Mars Oh, there, too. Well, good.
But it took a long time for the pictures to make an impression on the public, let alone a sight of the
creatures in the flesh. Dad remained intransigent. A year passed, two, and finally three. We had no luck
whatsoever with the Chrono-funnels. The one break was not repeated, and still Dad would not give in.
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