Once upon a time…

There was a writer named Ray Bradbury. In 1952 he published a story called “A Sound of Thunder.” It was about a hunter named Eckels, who payed big bucks to a time machine company called Time Safari, Inc., to travel back to the time of the dinosaurs to hunt T-Rexes. Only animals that are just about to die are selected as targets, and the hunters can shoot them moments before death.

Travis the guide explains that hunters must strictly obey their guides and “stay on the path,” an anti-grav walkway that touches nothing, as touching anything at all in prehistoric times could have huge evolutionary impacts rippling up to the present day.

As they leave the futuristic present for the ancient past in their time machine, Eckels remarks that he’s so relieved Keith, the liberal candidate, was winning the election. Soon, the men arrive in the midst of a jungle that existed 60 million years ago.

They scout their prey, and find T-Rex. He is massive and terrifying, and Eckels, overwhelmed, becomes sick and staggers back to the ship. Only he steps off the path. When they get back to the present, something’s not right. It’s all different somehow. And then they see that…

𝘌𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead.

“Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!” cried Eckels.

It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. Eckels’ mind whirled. It couldn’t change things. Killing one butterfly couldn’t be that important! Could it?

His face was cold. His mouth trembled, asking: “Who – who won the presidential election yesterday?”

The man behind the desk laughed. “You joking? You know very well. Deutscher, of course! Who else? Not that fool weakling Keith. We got an iron man now, a man with guts!” The official stopped. “What’s wrong?”

Eckels moaned. He dropped to his knees. He scrabbled at the golden butterfly with shaking fingers. “Can’t we,” he pleaded to the world, to himself, to the officials, to the Machine, “can’t we take it back, can’t we make it alive again? Can’t we start over? Can’t we-”

He did not move. Eyes shut, he waited, shivering. He heard Travis breathe loud in the room; he heard Travis shift his rifle, click the safety catch, and raise the weapon.

There was a sound of thunder.