Authors: Chad Oliver
Knowledge
can
be
a
frightening
thing,
but
it
can also
prevent
you
from
worrying
about
nonexistent
dangers.
Mark
knew
that
he
needed
to
waste
no
time worrying
about
dinosaurs
or
other
reptilian
monsters, since
they
had
died
out
millions
of
years
before
the
first men
were
born.
And
there
were
men
in
the
Last
Ice Age—strange
men
.
.
.
Mark
got
to
his
feet
and
examined
himself.
He
was dressed
in
blue
jeans,
which
would
be
strong
and
able to
take
rough
wear,
and
a
long-sleeved
wool
shirt
that would
at
least
help
to
keep
him
warm.
His
shoes
were less
promising,
moccasin-type
loafers
that
would
probably
prove
useless
in
ice
or
snow.
He
emptied
his pockets
as
a
check
and
found
the
usual
things—a
handkerchief,
a
comb,
a
pocket
knife,
a
small
box
of
matches that
he
carried
in
order
to
light
his
uncle’s
pipe
when Doctor
Nye
forgot
his
own
matches,
which
was
most
of the
time,
and
a
billfold
containing
ten
dollars
in
bills and
a
few
coins.
He
smiled—the
money
wouldn’t
come in
too
handy
where
he
was
going.
There
was,
however,
one
fortunate
circumstance; Doctor
Nye’s
.45
was
still
hanging
in
its
holster
from the
side
of
the
sphere.
Mark
took
the
gun
down
and looked
it
over.
It
was
loaded,
as
always,
with
a
clip
of six
cartridges.
There
was
no
bullet
in
the
chamber,
for safety’s
sake.
Six
shots,
hardly
enough
for
what
he might
have
to
face,
but
they
would
have
to
do.
Mark buckled
on
the
holster
and
felt
a
little
better.
Then
he
sat
down
again
to
wait—there
was
nothing else
to
do.
He
had
no
way
of
knowing
how
much
time had
passed
inside
the
sphere,
nor
did
he
know
how long
the
journey
would
take.
He
was
hungry,
since
he had
missed
supper,
but
that
was
no
index.
He
was always
hungry.
He
tried
to
sleep,
but
it
was
impossible.
He
was
more wide-awake
than
he
had
ever
been
in
his
life.
But
he closed
his
eyes
and
attempted
to
get
what
rest
he
could. What
were
his
chances,
really?
He
didn’t
know.
But he
did
know
that
he
was
not
going
to
give
up.
He would
try,
give
it
the
best
he
had
in
him,
and
that
was all
anyone
could
do.
And
he
knew,
too,
that
he
was fortunate
in
being
as
well
educated
as
he
was.
He
was not
going
into
the
Ice
Age
unequipped,
and
he
suspected
that
what
he
carried
in
his
head
would
in
the long
run
prove
more
valuable
to
him
than
the
.45
he carried
in
his
holster.
Mark’s
first
awareness
that
the
space-time
machine had
stopped
came
when
he
suddenly
noticed
a
complete
absence
of
sound.
It
was
dead
quiet
in
the
lead sphere.
He
opened
his
eyes.
The
gray
atmosphere
was gone
and
the
air
seemed
stale
and
flat.
The
red
light
in the
control
panel
was
off
and
the
yellow
light
had replaced
it.