Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

“The darkies, we know. Never been right ones for mixing with civilized folk, our African brothers. Nothing against them, mind you, they’re damn good in a scrap, I hear, and they’re working wonders over there in Benguela. You know them personally, sir?”

“Not before tonight, but I can vouch for them one and all. They’ve shown us every kindness.”

“Hear! Hear!” an inordinately tall, thin man supping a glass of brandy joined in. “Let’s invite our Air Corps friends over. Seeing as we’re all stuck here, wherever the devil here is, let us at least start off on the right foot.”

“I’ll second that,” another man bellowed from behind the flames.

“You’d second the plagues of Egypt if you were bloody Pharaoh,” shouted another.

“An’ goin’ off your fizzog, Moses tested a few of ’em on you first.”

Laughter roared around the campfire, and Cecil could hardly believe that earlier the same day, London’s roots had been ripped up around this very spot. These men, many of them undoubtedly members of the gentlemen’s club, seemed to be taking it all in their strides. Or was it merely Dutch courage? He declined a silver hip flask containing what smelled like whisky.

“Do any of you blokes know what happened? The airship crew is understandably bemused. Some fainted with the shock. Have you any ideas?” Cecil tested.

“None of us blokes had a rotten clue.” The beanpole wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “But the lady here seems to have put two and two together rather ingeniously-says the fellow responsible is probably dead. What was that name again? Rourke? Rankin?”

“Reardon,” came a reply through the flames. Cecil recognized Miss Polperro’s voice immediately, that schoolmarm abruptness sending a shiver down his spine. Why had it not occurred to him she and her lickspittle cronies would still be in the vicinity? Ah, hell. Of course the one person who could blot his copybook had to be here waiting with her poisonous agenda. He still had time to sneak away to the ship before she saw his face. Time to regroup, to try another tact. But what excuse could he give? What pressing “And your name, sir?” the first man asked innocently.

“My name?” Um…er…hell.

“Aye.”

“Cecil.”

“Glad to know you, Cecil.” The man loosened his bowtie and shirt collar and then shook hands. “Tomorrow we’re heading over to this Reardon’s factory, see if we can’t put our heads together and figure out what went wrong. Miss Polperro put it nicely. ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.’ Darned clever.”

Cecil scoffed. “I think you’ll find that was Newton.”

He shrank to nothing as soon as the words tripped from his lips. The woman sprang up and rushed around the fire, probably to confirm her suspicions. Peering over her thick-rimmed spectacles, she gave a sly smirk. “It’s Reardon. He tried to trick you all. His name is Cecil all right-Professor Cecil Reardon. He’s the one responsible for all this.”

Another man yelled, “Quick, grab him before he gets away!”

“Whoa! Whoa! I’m not going anywhere. What are you talking about?” He leapt to his feet and backed away from the angry mob, hands out in submission. This could easily turn ugly if he did try to escape. Every instinct tugged at him to flee, but his stubborn brain would not relent. These people needed someone to blame, that was all. After he’d explained himself, they would see reason. “Take your seats and I’ll-”

Several furious voices erupted. “String him up!”

“What? That’s insane. ”

“We’re not the ones who buggered up time. Let him dangle!”

“You idiots don’t know what you’re doing!”

“No, leave him be.” Miss Polperro’s shrill voice barely registered through the cacophony. “We need him to undo what he’s done.”

Their frenzy would not abate. He kicked and punched at a dozen crazies while they manhandled him off his feet and carried him like a trophy sacrifice to the nearest lamppost. “Hand me that rope-Okay, good and tight-Don’t throttle him yet, haul him up first-That’s it, round the bastard’s neck-Meddle with God’s laws? You can argue the toss with him after you swing! — Loop it over, Carswell, that’s the way-You three, help me pull on this end-Good one, Delaney, he earned that fist-Now, on three…

“One…two… three. ”

The coarse loop tightened, dug into his windpipe. He could neither gasp nor scream. His fingers couldn’t get between the rope and his Adam’s apple. A sickening pressure squeezed his tongue from his mouth and his eyeballs up into his brain. His head threatened to explode like an over pumped hydrogen balloon.

Two gunshots rang out.

His feet slapped the pavement and he crumpled in a heap, dazed.

“Back off or we’ll see if Whig blood really does run red. That means you, Carswell.” The voice sounded like Embrey’s, but where had he A terrible roar unlike anything he’d ever heard flooded Cecil’s gasping brain. He coughed, curled himself into a ball on a scrunched tablecloth. Again the roar, this time followed by the dull clap of shoes running in every direction.

“What the hell was that?” someone cried.

“It came from the forest!”

“Everyone get indoors, whatever it is.”

Weak hands grappled with his limp shoulder, unable to lift him.

“Ma’am, let me carry him. You’d best get inside.” Embrey’s voice again. This time, Cecil struggled onto his knees, coughing his guts up. “Easy-I’ve got you, old boy.” The young man’s frown made him look a decade older in the firelight. As he crouched, Cecil spied the two pistols steaming in Embrey’s hip holsters. “Up you go.” The lad heaved him onto his shoulder and made for the gentlemen’s club. Another roar sounded much closer this time. Half way up the steps to the front door, Embrey spun northwards, yelled, “Christ Almighty!”

The tip of a long, crooked shadow jerked up the street after them. The ground shook in its wake, and a rampant, thumping rhythm made him fear the building itself would collapse. Embrey halted in the vestibule, lowered Cecil against a glass display cabinet that held bound books, trophies and assorted political guff.

“Here, take this.” His young friend offered him one of the steam-pistols. “If anyone makes a try for you, put his seat up for re-election on the spot. Don’t hesitate.” He spun to the doorway and murmured, “Jesus! I’ll be a son of a…”

“W-what is that thing?”

“Beats me, Professor. Something gigantic.” Embrey puffed, then touched the flat of the brass barrel to his temple. He moved his lips as though miming a prayer.

Cecil started forward, then crabbed back in horror as a huge lizard-like tail swung over the road outside, knocking the chairs and fire stack over. Sparks and cinders spilled onto the junction. A blood-curdling roar shattered the stained glass window in the reception area to their right. The beast reacted. Thump, thump. A monstrous snout poked against the gap, its nostrils as big as rugby balls. Cecil squeezed the moist pistol grip until his fingertips squeaked on the rubber. He daren’t move or make another sound. The creature’s breaths sounded like the rasps of a slow-moving steam train.

A distant clatter drew it back across the street. The monster reacted to the thunder of falling rubble with another roar. Manmade noise-had that intrigued it? Embrey’s pistol shots? What exactly was this thing? For the sake of his experiment, he must know.

Embrey tried to hold him back from the doorway but Cecil gained a clear, unforgettable view of the first dinosaur any human had ever seen alive.

“My God, it’s colossal.”

“And bent on feeding by the looks of it. Down, Professor. Keep down.”