“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.
A serious dilemma faced the camp, and every person would have to decide it for himself; trust Reardon’s machine would work properly this time and return them to the twentieth century, or remain in prehistory forever, find a measure of solace in…whatever one found solacing in a world of bees and dinosaurs.
Her gaze set upon Embrey. He sipped his brandy. A distant roar silenced the cheers below.
Chapter 10
It felt strange after all these years of practising clandestine science to be giving an open tutorial on the inner workings of his Harrison clock, but even his friends had started to doubt his ability to return them to their own time. Today he would inspect every millimetre of the device and determine what, if anything, he needed to adjust in order to instigate a second time jump. Embrey’s and Verity’s objections were simply foolish. For castaways to remain stranded when they had a chance of returning home-whatever the risk-made absolutely no sense. They’d prefer to scratch a living among the deadliest predators the world had ever seen? Devolve into human scavengers? He’d give them a matter of weeks, at best.
No, the Empress Matilda had served her purpose in letting him identify the current geological era. Billy’s book had also helped. Pinpointing 1908 A.D. after a 110–120 million year misfire might appear a far-fetched proposition but he believed utterly in the mechanics of his machine. Somethin g external had affected the refraction process- some contaminant he’d overlooked, perhaps an atmospheric anomaly endemic to a storm environment. Had the charged air that night exacerbated the psammeticum reaction somehow, catalysed some kind of exponential energy shift?
It sure as hell wasn’t random, as the others had conjectured. Science did not subscribe to randomness, and this machine was his masterpiece. The only way to determine the cause of the disparity was to repeat the experiment until it worked according to plan. And if it didn’t…well, maybe it was God intervening after all. Maybe the Almighty could not allow him to unpick fate’s cruel tapestry. Maybe his Lisa and Edmond could never… maybe, maybe, maybe…
He gritted his teeth and shook all doubt from his mind. A sickly whiff of burnt rubber and petrol made him gag as he led his entourage around the side of his factory to the front entrance. Embrey and Verity, both armed and alert, followed close behind. Six other aeronauts carried rifles.
When he reached the loading bay doors, a short man wearing a fancy waistcoat stepped out. “Ah, there you are, Professor. We’ve been waiting for you.” Cecil recognized him from Agnes Polperro’s retinue. He’d visited the factory for the inspection shortly before the time jump.
“Excuse me?” Thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, Cecil approached. “What the devil do you mean, skulking about inside my workplace? For God’s sake, man, this place has to be off limits. Tell him, Verity.”
She stepped forward with three of her men and stood akimbo. “He’s right. I told you not to interfere in any way with Professor Reardon’s machine. Now who’s with-”
“Lieutenant Champlain,” a woman’s curt voice shot out from the shadowy interior, “nice of you to visit.” Agnes Polperro marched past her doorman, drawing her retinue of twelve well-dressed men with her onto the concrete outside. Verity faced her while looking askance at the men’s vexed expressions. What on earth were they doing here? Why the unanimous frowns?
Embrey and the remaining aeronauts strode forward to even the odds.
“Miss Polperro, can we help you with something?” Verity adjusted her pith helmet. “I thought I made it quite clear this factory is under my jurisdiction.”
“I daresay things have changed somewhat in your absence.” The unpleasant schoolmarm nodded and whispered to Carswell, one of the drunken politicians who’d tried to hang Cecil that first night.
Cecil’s lungs tightened. He gasped for air. Reliving those awful moments he’d endured at the end of a rope- throat warped shut, toes tingling, head swelling like a balloon-he began to shake. But the idea of his worst enemies
