Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

“And you already know my opinion.” Tangeni fingered the lieutenant’s insignia on his tunic. “Without Lord Embrey, Professor Reardon would have been hanged and the flying dinosaur would have snatched you for certain.” He turned away. The two men sat in complicit silence, watching the oil lamp.

Marvellous. I’m being bullied by my own personal press-gang!

But at this moment, Reardon and Tangeni were the two most important men to her in London. For the sake of the mission, it behoved her to keep them happy. And after all, her boycott of Embrey was personal. If rescinding it would benefit the plight of the camp…so be it.

“Very well, let him in.” She glared at her first officer but he merely shrugged in reply. Reardon opened the door, called for Embrey. A cool gust brushed her face and made the lamp flame flicker while the handsome blond traitor strolled in.

“Where’s Billy?” Reardon asked his aristocratic comrade.

“Below, eating supper with Kibo and Djimon. The lad’s become quite popular since he pipped the pterosaur.”

“With your steam-pistol, was it not?” Verity seized the chance to segue into civil conversation with him. Ignoring their rancour altogether seemed the only way to proceed. And he looked improbably dashing in the wavering light.

He addressed her briefly, “Yes, ma’am. My pistol.” His glance ricocheted off her. “Reardon, this had better be deuced important. The lads in the fo’c’sle are setting up a game of gin rummy. They fancy they’ll own my estate before morning, while I beg to differ-”

“Oh, you needn’t play gin rummy to count your good fortune, old chap.” Reardon’s subtle rebuke made Verity smile.

“I see. And to what do I owe this privilege?”

“We’re to confer on…all the essentials of our survival,” the professor replied. “Most important, Verity here is eager to know how I plan to return us to our own time.”

Embrey looked up, striking electric sparks in her gaze. “The lady has a healthy curiosity.”

Yes, and the gentleman is eyeing my breasts. She attempted to repel him with a scowl. He continued to watch her, to study her. She cleared her throat, distracting him.

“ Eembu is thirsty?” Tangeni rose and stood between her and Embrey, perhaps to dispel the awkward moment.

She looked at up at her first officer. “Yes. There’s a kettle of hot water on the sideboard.”

“I know. I gave it to you.”

“Really? Fiddlededee.” She shook her head at how girlish that sounded.

“Tea?”

“No. I’ll have something with a little bite.”

“A posset? I see you have the ingredients already prepared.”

“I do?” She deflected Embrey’s latest questing glance, and gathered herself. “Yes, of course I do.”

“I know. I gave them to you.” Tangeni began whistling tunelessly to himself.

Why, the smug…

Embrey called over to the Namibian, “I’ll have a brandy, my good man-neat, and you can keep the spoilers.”

“I apologize, Lord Embrey. Spoilers?”

Verity sighed and crossed her legs. “He means he just wants the brandy, Tangeni.”

“Ah. Sorry, my English is coming on in leaps and bounds but-”

“I know. I gave it to you.” Verity flicked him a wink, which tickled him no end.

“I will forego my libation,” Reardon interrupted, “if the three of you will desist from this childish parlour game. Good Lord!” His birdlike head pivots, eyeing each of them in turn, reminded Verity more of a flustered headmaster than a scientist whose genius potentially rivalled that of Sir Isaac Newton. “Now, back to the business at hand?”

“Go ahead, old boy. You mustn’t let our parlour game perturb you.” Embrey threw him a wink. “We’re all ears-truly. Look. Tangeni’s are whoppers.”

Verity cleared her throat. “Pray proceed, sir.”

“Very well. Here is what I propose we do.” As Tangeni drew the curtains across the static view of night-time London, Reardon craned his neck and peered high to the southwest, at Big Ben’s clock face. The professor went on, “With the resources at our disposal, we are quite able to restore the giant furnace and steam engine which power my machine. All we require are steady supplies of fuel for the furnace-without petroleum and with little coal, wood will have to suffice-and plenty of water for the boiler. I suggest we dig a well to the fresh water beneath us. Anyone able to wield an axe should be put to cutting trees, preferably in the western forest away from the baryonyx.”

He retrieved a notepad, its pages dry but ruffled by the damp, and a small pencil from his trouser pocket. While scribbling something, he muttered to himself before adding aloud, “You can guarantee my safety while I work in the factory, Verity?”

“I can. As many men as you need.”

“Then by my reckoning, provided the wrench through time didn’t inflict serious damage, and if those materials I mentioned are easily procurable, my machine should be in working order before the week is out.” He licked his fingertip and flicked the page. “However, my Harrison clock requires absolute accuracy. Its primary lens array cannot be damaged in any way. If that is intact, and I am able to initiate the influx and refraction of psammeticum energy, I believe we will have success, ladies and gentlemen-I mean friends,” he corrected himself, lifted his chin proudly, then shut his notebook and put it back in his pocket. “Now, what else would you like to know?”

“What went wrong?” Embrey asked between sips of his brandy. “This talk of recreating the experiment is all well and good but how, for the love of God, did we wind up in the Cretaceous?”

Verity sat up. “Precisely. That is our conundrum, Professor. What’s to stop your machine from behaving like a complete arse next time? You say we ought to have travelled back to 1901?” She motioned to the curtain and beyond. “Forgive us if we don’t sprinkle confetti on your record, sir.”

“Fair enough. But what choice is there?” Reardon shrugged one shoulder and held out his hand. “Within the parameters of its design, the machine is as accurate as I can possibly make it. I have no idea whatsoever why it veered so far off course. Interference from the storm perhaps. But the disparity between seven years and a hundred million years suggests time itself has some underlying property we have yet to comprehend. Fear not, though-I will divine it soon enough, perhaps after the next jump.”

Embrey scoffed, “Very presumptuous, old boy. And if you don’t mind me saying so, wrongheaded.”

“Which part?”

“Restarting that mechanism without the foggiest idea of where we might end up. We’d be as well to stay here indefinitely-where we know there’s food and water, where we have defensible buildings-as fling ourselves onto your temporal roulette again. Who knows when or where we’d find ourselves? Underwater? A billion years into the future? Or further into the past? In Genesis perhaps, inside a piping volcano?”

“Then you stay here, Embrey.” Reardon swatted away the marquess’s protest. “But as soon as my machine is in working order, I am making a second trip. And a third, and however many it takes me to reach 1901. Anyone who wishes to join me is welcome. Anyone else can pick his own grave.”

A cheer from below deck set Verity ill-at-ease. She nervously picked at her nails. Suddenly, the problem was not a scientific one but rather a nebulous, cosmic gamble. Her colleagues had been right to invite Embrey in after all. He was frank and pragmatic. Reardon, on the other hand, now struck her as quite insane-a man railing against the forces that had wronged him in his past. Part Ahab, part Quixote, he was both their only chance of escape and their biggest liability.