An inventor develops a time machine, which works exactly once—and brings some dinosaur eggs into the present—eggs which turn out to have an entirely unexpected value.

I think I tend to like this story better than it probably deserves by virtue of its being one of the comparatively good stories in Buy Jupiter and Other Stories—but it isn’t all that bad, really. The idea of a malfunctioning time machine isn’t new to sf, but I think Asimov manages to put a novel twist on it, and his narrative keeps you from realizing why the protagonist is so admired until the very end. Not fantastic, but nice.

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