Rivers of Time

The Raja and I had decided to make our first shift of camp in a south-southwest direction, to get near the sauropod swamp. We would not go directly to the borders of the swamp, as we had done on other safaris. For one thing, the lowlands round the swamp are heavily grown with cycads willows, so you have to worm and hack your way through them. The ground is muddy underfoot, so you gain half a centimeter in stature with every step, from the mud that sticks to the soles of your boots.

While the Raja and I are well hardened to this sort of thing, we find that for most of our clients it's just too bloody exhausting. The last thing we want is to have a client drop dead of a heart attack; bad for business. Having poor young Holtzinger eaten by a tyrannosaur almost put us into bankruptcy.

There is, however, a stream of modest size, which feeds into the swamp to the east. The Raja has named it the Narbada; says he's waiting to come upon a really big river before he calls it the Ganges or the Brahmaputra. The ground is more negotiable and the vegetation less crowded than nearer the swamp.

Besides, we had that OTV of Redmond's with us. I didn't see how we could ever get it through that great thicket bordering the swamp. When we got it there, if we weren't careful where we parked it, it would sink out of sight in the ooze and never be seen again.

We routed our sahibs out early, so Black and his boys could strike the camp. They'd become bloody efficient at it; in less than an hour after the tents were vacated, they had the whole thing bundled up and loaded on the jacks.

There were no special incidents on the way to our new camp on the Narbada. We saw a few dinosaurs and other animals, including a big ankylosaur, the squatty armored kind. This bloke just hunkered down and waved that big tail with a bone club on the end, to warn us not to get close enough to bother him.

Redmond said he had better ride the Cayuse, since he was used to it. And he did, maneuvering it around obstacles with the confidence of an old-timer. The rest of us hiked.

By early afternoon we had arrived, and in another two hours the boys had the new camp set up. Then the Raja asked Redmond if he could have a tryout with the Cayuse. He was full of boyish enthusiasm, although in fact he's a mature family man just as I am. Redmond said certainly, and showed him how to work the controls.

Where the Narbada River makes a bend, there's a wide, sandy beach on the inner side of the curve. We were camped on the flat above the beach. Away went Chandra Aiyar, waving his hat and yelling:

"Yippee! Git along, little dogie!" and other American stockman expressions.

He ran it up and down the beach, going faster and faster. Then, at one end of his travel, he whipped it into another tight turn, only this time he made the turn where the dirt beneath his wheels was wet. The Cayuse skidded, spun round wildly, and went into the Narbada with a tremendous splash, taking the Raja with it.

The Cayuse fell over on its side in somewhat less than a meter of water, pinning the Raja's leg beneath it. By bending and stretching, he could just barely get his face out of water. He shouted:

"Help! Blub-blub!"

Everybody yelled and began to run around like a bunch of headless chooks. I roared for Black and the boys to fetch a rope.

"Gonna tie it to him and pull him out?" asked Redmond.

"Don't be a fool!" yelled Ligonier. "He's pinned, can't you see? First we've got to haul the machine off him. Can I take it out there, Reggie?"

"That's really my job," I said. "The swamp has some big crocs that make those of our time look like lizards. If one of them comes up the river ..."