Robert Appleton: Prehistoric Clock

“We’re very glad you’ve recovered, Professor Reardon.” Wallingford’s crooked back and hawkish stare reminded Cecil of a rhamphorhynchus, a small, prehistoric lizard-like bird with a hideous countenance.

“I’m-” he swallowed the dryness once more, “-I’m not.”

“Oh, come now, sir. You are the most talked-about man in all the empire-nay, the world. To us here in the Leviacrum, your achievement has outstripped that of any scientist who ever lived. Surely that is worth waking up to.”

Cecil didn’t respond. This feeble buttering-up preamble wasn’t worthy of such a noted diplomat as Wallingford-it reeked of desperation.

“We’ll get straight to the point, then.” Miss Polperro pressed the bridge of her thick-rimmed spectacles higher up her nose and strode forward. Her chin still bore the dark print of his uppercut, but the bruise had healed somewhat. He guessed a week had passed. “I make no apologies for my actions in the prelude to the time jump, Professor, as I still maintain, no matter how it turned out, that having the boy accompany us was too great a risk. In my opinion we were lucky.”

She nursed the bruise on her chin with a handkerchief.

“That being said, I never meant you personally any ill-will during our time spent in prehistory, as any witness will attest. No, my sole preoccupation was to return as many British residents as possible to our own time, and that we achieved together, Professor. While you reassembled your machine, I ensured the men in my charge remained alive and motivated. We may have clashed on a technicality, but I want you to know that I hold you in the highest esteem as both a scientist and a gentleman. Whatever transpired during those weeks adrift in time after the initial cataclysm, you have little to reproach yourself over. In fact you have earned the utmost respect of the Council.”

Careful words designed to divorce his culpability from his achievement. Cecil sensed they were about to focus on the latter, while the former would be glossed over. Good news and bad news apportioned with guile, packaged for surreptitious ends-politics at work if ever he’d heard it.

He lifted his head a fraction, enough to see to the foot of his bed. Again, only his left toes responded. Recalling the awful weight pinning his right leg in the factory and Tangeni’s words-” Whatever happens, you have lost that leg, Professor. Nothing can be done”-he reached down under the blanket. The smooth, metallic surface shocked him for a moment. It began part way down his thigh and clearly represented a full, artificial limb-under cover, the foot appeared equal in size to his natural left one.

“How long was I unconscious?” he asked, to distract from the shocking new revelation.

“In a coma for two days, sedated for a further four. But you’ll want to see what Professor Sorensen has invented for you.” Before Cecil could protest, Miss Polperro peeled back the blanket to reveal his newfangled perambulatory gift. He tried shutting his eyes but it was no use. He had to know.

A shiny brass leg shaped in every way like a human one, with a complex knee joint governed by gears and levers, it was both a monstrosity and thing of unparalleled beauty. Extraordinary care and craftsmanship had wrought it, not to mention an ingenuity far surpassing any artificial appendages he’d ever seen or read about. Sorensen had always been brilliant but this almost defied belief.

“When you are well again our technicians will instruct you on how to walk on it.” She tapped the metal shin with her knuckles. A slight vibration tickled his upper thigh.

Wallingford stepped forward, thumbing his lapels. “We would also like to invite you to join our most elite committee, the Atlas Club, wherein you will immediately be appointed to the Leviacrum Council itself. Such is our regard for your splendid accomplishments, Professor Reardon. What say you, sir?”

Fear the Greeks bringing gifts.

“Not unconditional, I presume.” Cecil knew.

Wallingford pouted, rocked on his heels as he cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not. As pardonable as the destruction of Westminster may be to us in the Council in light of the scope of its ramifications for science, the British people are demanding that you face trial for the most serious capital offences. If we were to hand you over to the judicial system, if you were to set foot outside this tower, you would hang, Professor. Of that there is no doubt.”

“No, I don’t doubt it either.” And he’d already been hung once. Not his jolliest memory. “So your offer is to spare my life in exchange for the secret I possess. That right?”

“You put it succinctly, sir, but yes, that is what we propose. You would continue your work in the laboratories and hopefully not only emulate your great achievement but refine it as well, with the full resources of the Leviacrum and all its eminent scientists at your disposal. You would be the spearhead of humanity’s conquest of time itself. For that, we guarantee your inclusion in every decision governing the use of time travel, and also complete autonomy in any future endeavours you wish to pursue.

“But you can never again leave this tower, and no civilian may be permitted to visit you. Only those who already work in the tower will have that privilege. Would that that were flexible, Professor, but I’m afraid the Council has insisted upon its strict im-”

Wallingford froze, his contorted lips set to wrap around the next syllable, still as a clay figurine. His eyes didn’t blink. Not even the subtle rocking of the posture one can always discern if he scrutinizes a still-life actor closely enough. No, the crookbacked politician had quite literally, insensibly, been petrified!

What the hell?

The hands on the clock on the far wall were not moving. Very odd. Nor were the shadows of passing clouds dimming the room even slightly. He craned his neck to peer out through the large porthole windows. There were clouds but no movement, birds but no progress through the sky, distant airships as still as dead, swatted flies stuck to a great blue mural.

He massaged his aching frown with his forefinger and thumb. Either he was still dreaming after all, or something profoundly wrong had just occurred.

“At five past eight, twice a day, Professor.” Miss Polperro waved her hand in front of Wallingford’s face, eliciting no reaction. So why wasn’t she affected?

“I think we’d be wise to keep it to ourselves,” she said, “until we can fathom the cause. It is a most peculiar thing-it began the day we arrived back, and the survivors of the time jump appear to be the only ones free to move about inside this…glitch in time. We are the only ones immune. Now, say nothing of it, for it lasts for only forty-one seconds each time. That is no great hardship.” She checked her pocketwatch, then shuffled back to her original position. “Remember, twice a day at five past eight. Be ready for it.”

“I’ll…I will.” Cecil gazed at the Madame Tussaud’s politician, waiting for a sudden reanimation. When it came, there was that stutter again, time’s needle stuck on its gramophone disc, that he’d experienced as 1908 had manifested after the latest time jump.

“-plementation. There can be no exception to that.” Wallingford resumed as though nothing had happened. Indeed, from his point of view, nothing had happened.

Cecil lay back, took several deep breaths. The more he considered that idea of the gramophone needle and the circular disc, the more it seemed to fit this bizarre phenomenon. Somehow, the rip in time had caused this glitch. If each day were considered a revolution of time, then five past eight, when they’d originally departed for the Cretaceous, was the damaged moment-the time at which 1908 stuck, twice daily, like the needle upon the scratched disc. Had it recurred here like clockwork all the while they’d been away? If so, no one would have known, just as they didn’t now. Only the time travellers were aware of it, remained unaffected by it.