Galaxy's Edge Issue 46 by Lezli Robyn

Author:Lezli Robyn [Robyn, Lezli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, magazine, science fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, science fiction magazine
ISBN: 9781649730688
Publisher: Arc Manor
Published: 2020-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

Copyright © 2015 by Edward M. Lerner.

Michael Swanwick is the recipient of the Nebula, Theodore Sturgeon, and World Fantasy Awards and five Hugo Awards. His recent novel, The Iron Dragon’s Mother, completes a trilogy begun twenty-five years ago with The Iron Dragon’s Daughter. Just out is City Under the Stars, co-authored with the late Gardner Dozois.

TRICERATOPS SUMMER

by Michael Swanwick

The dinosaurs looked all wobbly in the summer heat shimmering up from the pavement. There were about thirty of them, a small herd of what appeared to be Triceratops. They were crossing the road—don’t ask me why—so I downshifted and brought the truck to a halt, and waited.

Waited and watched.

They were interesting creatures, and surprisingly graceful for all their bulk. They picked their way delicately across the road, looking neither to the right nor the left. I was pretty sure I’d correctly identified them by now—they had those three horns on their faces. I used to be a kid. I’d owned the plastic models.

My next-door neighbor, Gretta, who was sitting in the cab next to me with her eyes closed, said, “Why aren’t we moving?”

“Dinosaurs in the road,” I said.

She opened her eyes.

“Son of a bitch,” she said.

Then, before I could stop her, she leaned over and honked the horn, three times. Loud.

As one, every Triceratops in the herd froze in its tracks, and swung its head around to face the truck.

I practically fell over laughing.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” Gretta wanted to know. But I could only point and shake my head helplessly, tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks.

It was the frills. They were beyond garish. They were as bright as any circus poster, with red whorls and yellow slashes and electric orange diamonds—too many shapes and colors to catalog, and each one different. They looked like Chinese kites! Like butterflies with six-foot wingspans! Like Las Vegas on acid! And then, under those carnival-bright displays, the most stupid faces imaginable, blinking and gaping like brain-damaged cows. Oh, they were funny, all right, but if you couldn’t see that at a glance, you never were going to.

Gretta was getting fairly steamed. She climbed down out of the cab and slammed the door behind her. At the sound, a couple of the Triceratops pissed themselves with excitement, and the lot shied away a step or two. Then they began huddling a little closer, to see what would happen next.

Gretta hastily climbed back into the cab. “What are those bastards up to now?” she demanded irritably. She seemed to blame me for their behavior. Not that she could say so, considering she was in my truck and her BMW was still in the garage in South Burlington.

“They’re curious,” I said. “Just stand still. Don’t move or make any noise, and after a bit they’ll lose interest and wander off.”

“How do you know? You ever see anything like them before?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I worked on a dairy farm when I was a young fella, thirty, forty years ago, and the behavior seems similar.”

In fact,

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