“Ah,” cried Ace, bringing his hands from behind his back; “look at this. I could hardly have picked it up with psychic feelers.”
“This” was a newlaid egg, sixty-seven years old. Or was it? Trips in time are confusing that way.
Barbara was upset, more than I thought warranted. “Oh, Ace, how could you be so foolish? We darent be anything but spectators, as unseen as possible.”
“Why? Ive a notion to court my grandmother and wind up as my own grandfather.”
“Don’t be stupid. The faintest indication of our presence, the slightest impingement on the past, may change the whole course of events. We have no way of knowing what actions have no consequences—if there can be any. Goodness knows what your idiocy with the egg has done. It’s absolutely essential not to betray ourselves in any way. Please remember this in future.” “You mean, ‘Remember this in past,’ don’t you?”
“Ace, this isnt a joke.”
“It isn’t a wake either. I can’t see the harm in bringing back tangible proof. Loss of one egg isnt going to send the prices up for 1885 and cause retroactive inflation. Youre making a mountain out of a molehill—or an omelette out of a single egg.” She shrugged helplessly. “Oliver, I hope you won’t be so foolish.”
“Since I don’t expect to arrive in, say, 1820, I can safely promise neither to steal eggs nor court Ace’s female ancestors.”
He was gone for five minutes. The barn had apparently not yet been built in 1820 and he found himself on a slight rise in a field of wild hay. The faint snick of scythes, and voices not too far off, indicated mowers. He dropped to the ground. His view of the past was restricted to tall grass and some persistent ants who explored his face and hands until the time was up and he returned with broken spears of ripe hay clinging to his clothes.
“At least that’s what I imagined I saw,” he concluded.