Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

“How closely have you inspected it?” he asked her.

She cracked a smug grin. “With magnifying glasses, spectrometer goggles, and the highest-powered microscope from your workshop. Their conclusion is beyond doubt.”

He let the concept swim in his brain for a moment. There had to be some mistake-bureaucratic Leviacrum amateurs jumping to conclusions. Before he could swallow something this unlikely, he would have to perform his own rigorous tests. “You mean to tell me you didn’t find a single-”

“Give us some credit, Professor,” she said. “And if you don’t believe me, scrutinize it at your leisure. It is unprecedented, and some of my colleagues believe it changes everything-your experiment, our so-called accidental destination, the prudence of us even attempting time travel again. They believe we must reassess our entire venture.”

“And you?”

“I think we must take every precaution to ensure our next time jump is our last, at least until we can get to the bottom of this miraculous-and troubling-side-effect.”

The more Cecil tried to compartmentalize her concerns, the more they threatened to flood his reasoning altogether. If the theory held up, it was potentially more startling than time travel itself. He clasped his hands on the back of his skull and tried to squeeze his elbows together.

“Oi, riddlers-stop speaking in code.” Verity prodded Cecil out of his funk. “Spectro-whatsists? Magnifying micro-spiffy-ometers? What’s got you both in such a muck-sweat?”

“Not my curds and whey comment, I pray?” Embrey shrugged.

As Cecil stepped back, the sound of his shoe tapping on the concrete echoed around the factory. He glanced round at his machine and then gazed up to the rickety platform on which he’d spent so much time watching, waiting for salvation, for the elusive combination to God’s temporal lock. And now that he’d opened it, what else had he uncovered?

“Do either of you believe in God?” Miss Polperro asked his companions.

They both nodded.

“But have you ever seen Him, heard His voice?”

“Not sober,” replied Embrey.

“Never,” said Verity.

His hands trembling for the first time in a long time, Cecil pulled out his pipe, then sheepishly put it back in his pocket.

Miss Polperro faced the three of them, her cruel features quivering. “It is our contention that science has surpassed its limit here.” Her lip and chin trembled. “And that we may have just found evidence…of the divine.”

Embrey and Verity shared a puzzled look.

No, that superstitious angle probably wasn’t the most fecund way to introduce a discovery like this. “Or let us put it a different way,” Cecil said. “Somewhere in this factory is the most extraordinary spider ever born-”

“Or created, ” countered Agnes Polperro.

“My friends, this web appears to be flawless. Not just to the naked eye but, insofar as they have ascertained, irreducibly flawless. And as it must have been created since the time jump-the flood would have washed it away otherwise-it appears time travel has affected this spider in a most profound way.” He roved his fingers over the lilac thread, careful not to touch. “It has inspired him to spin an infinitesimally perfect web.”

“Nothing anyone says will change your mind, I take it?” Verity didn’t need an answer from Reardon, and none came. She’d thought him a little eccentric before, even self-absorbed, but there was a lot more to it than that. No one else seemed to realise how damaged he really was-whenever he mentioned his wife and son it was with a flippant matter-of-factness, as though he spoke with them daily. The others seemed to mistake it for an odd quirk, a side of his dotty professorial charm. Perhaps it took another wounded, driven soul to recognise his torment. But she’d honoured Bernie by becoming the best aeronaut she could possibly be, a reasonable enough pursuit. And perhaps she might one day come to terms with a world without her. Perhaps. Reardon, though, could never say goodbye to his loved ones, heal, and move on in the natural way. Without knowing how he would achieve it, he was bound on this relentless, messianic quest the way a clock hand spins in pursuit of its elusive destination.

The sun beat down on his unkempt silver hair, and he had to shade his eyes with a fixed salute. She knelt at his side in the middle of the street and handed him her pith helmet.

“Thank you.” He pointed to his toolbox. “Would you hand me a five-eighths spanner from the rack?”

She did so. But the labyrinthine design of his Harrison clock didn’t make a lick of sense to her. Every tiny cog and shaft from its brass innards was spread on the blanket before them. Nothing individually, these were nonetheless the components of a bona fide miracle.

A miracle. But what had Reardon really tapped into with time travel? The mysterious spider’s web was beyond science, Miss Polperro had said, beyond even the professor’s understanding. Was there actually a divine force at work here, or was Briory’s godless theory correct and the temporal explosion had simply misfired somehow, copying that web pattern in its most efficient geometric form-perfection?

Either explanation opened a can of worms. If it was divine, why hadn’t God intervened further and saved dozens of lives? Why leave only a cryptic clue of His presence? And why had He guided them to the Cretaceous? More questions than answers.

If this was all a trick of science, what undiscovered forces had conspired to deliberately reshape the web that way? Nothing infinitesimally perfect could be an accident. Even she knew that. So why couldn’t she subscribe to Miss Polperro’s doom-mongering? The machine was dangerous, not just to the camp but to space and time itself. Should she ban Reardon from using it again, or, as someone else had suggested, destroy the infernal thing once and for all?

While kneeling beside him, watching him reassemble complex mirror arrays and energy conductors as though he were piecing together a jigsaw already complete in his mind, she began to see the conundrum from Reardon’s point of view.

If one can travel through time, fate needn’t be absolute.

An illicit spark blazed through the fog of her memory and, for one breathless moment, Bernie was alive and well somewhere in the world…in 1908. By dint of Verity’s temporal intervention, Bernie could avoid the fire in Benguela and live on to a ripe old age. Fate be damned! The idea left her shivery, excited and craving more…

I could bring Amyn back, as well! My beautiful fiance…have our wedding after all. And then Captain Naismith. I could bring them all to England, keep them out of harm’s way. By God, Reardon’s right! To not try would be the real folly.

“Professor, I think I’ve made my decision.” She sat up straight.

He grunted in reply, without looking up.

Verity went on excitedly, “If you can get a handle on navigating through time, sir. If you manage to solve this great puzzle of when-and-why, I am with you. These iniquities in fate’s design deserve to be undone. To hell with the consequences! Our first duty is to those we love, to safeguard their lives against all malign forces, even death. The way I see it, God has allowed you to invent this great unraveller. Ergo, the laws of fate are not sacrosanct. I’d say using it for love is more than justifiable.”

“Indeed.” He snatched a glimpse of her while wiping his brow, then resumed his work. “Everything within our power. We’ll never be complete if we don’t try. Let God stop it if He must.” Reardon sounded like he was reciting a mantra. “I’m glad you’re seeing it my way, Verity. If only the others had your vision.”