more people believe they are than in any other period of history.'
'And what do they gain from it?'
'A life in which they are able to pursue opportunities without restraint in a quest for personal fulfillment.'
'Fulfillment?'
'The sense that you have explored your inherent abilities to their utmost.'
'Yes, I understand,' replied Beresford, thoughtfully. 'But surely if a person's opportunities are unbounded, then the possibilities increase? Doesn't that make it impossible to explore them all, and extremely difficult to settle upon any one area which can be explored to the point of fulfillment?'
Oxford looked up and frowned. 'You make a good point, Henry. It's true that many people in my time are frustrated not by limitations but by an inability to make choices. They feel their lives are without direction and struggle to find their place in society.'
'Whereas the humble `Victorian' labourer,' mused Beresford, 'knows his place almost from birth and almost certainly never gives thought to an idea so ephemeral as `fulfillment' except, I venture to suggest, in reference to a hearty meal and a pint of ale!'
'Done!' exclaimed Oxford.
'What?'
'The control unit. Fixed! It's a makeshift repair but it'll get me home, where I can give it a proper overhaul before coming back.'
'To 1837, you mean?'
'I have some business in 1840 to take care of first, but yes, I'll come back, Henry. I'll bring you a gift from the future as a token of thanks for the hospitality you've shown me these past few days.'
'For how long will you be gone?'
'My Lord Marquess, the concept still eludes you, doesn't it? I'll be back mere seconds after my departure, even if I'm away for years from my perspective. Would you have Brock fetch my suit from upstairs?'
'Certainly,' responded Beresford. He pulled a cord that hung beside the fireplace. 'You intend to leave at once, then?'
'There's no time like the present.' Oxford smiled.
The valet appeared, was given his instructions, bowed, and departed.
Beresford lifted a bottle of red wine from beside his chair and took a swig from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Oxford eyed him disapprovingly. 'It's a little early, don't you think?' he asked.
'My dear friend-it's never too early!' advised the marquess, languidly. 'Besides, it's a wonderful restorative.'
'Curing a hangover with red wine is a sure way to become an alcoholic.'
'Nonsense! Besides, I can assure you that if you really do disappear into the future right before my eyes, the shock is liable to kill me unless I take a spot of wine to soften the blow!'
Brock reappeared carrying the time suit with its attached cape, the boots with their stilts, and the helmet. Oxford took the items, picked up the control unit, and followed Henry Beresford out of the room, along the hallway, around a corner, and into the big ballroom. They crossed this, opened the veranda doors, and exited the house.
The man from 2202 slipped into his suit and affixed the control unit to his chest. He placed the helmet on his head, pushed his feet into the boots, heaved himself up onto his stilts, then bent and shook the hand of the man from 1837.
'You really believe it, don't you?' said Beresford.
'Yes. Wait here. I'll be back in what for you will be just a moment.'
He strode out onto the grass.
Oxford had managed to restore a channel between the control unit and the helmet. It transmitted his instructions, which were read straight from his brainwaves, but the connection wasn't stable enough for the augmented reality function.
He set his destination: ten o'clock on the evening of February 15, 2202; location: the garden of his house in Aldershot. He hoped his supper hadn't gone cold.
It was a sunny day and his batteries required less than two minutes before they were fully charged.
'Okay,' he muttered to himself. 'Let's go home and start again.'
He waved at the marquess then bounded forward and jumped into the air.
'Now!' he ordered.
Reality blinked.
He fell and landed on flat ground beside a tree.
It was night.
It was not his garden.
He looked around. The lights of a small town shone behind him. A tall fence lay ahead, on the other side of a road. Low buildings were just visible in the darkness beyond it. Beside a gate, he saw a sentry box and standing in it, a man in uniform.
The man lifted something to his mouth and a spark of light flared.
Bloody hell. He was smoking! No one smoked in 2202.
Oxford, concealed by the tree, took a couple of steps until he was better able to see the sign above the gate. It read: British Army. North Camp. Aldershot.
This was not possible.
There had been a military base there since 1854 but it had been demolished in 2079 to make way for the town's expanding suburbs.
'Right place, wrong time!' he muttered, moving out of cover.
He approached the sentry rapidly, his stilts making a metallic clacking on the road surface. It attracted the man's attention.
'Christ Almighty!' the soldier exclaimed as he saw the tall gangly figure. 'Stop! State your name and b-'
Oxford slapped the weapon aside and, in a sudden fit of temper, took the man by the throat.
'What's the date?' he demanded.
The sentry's face went slack. 'Wha-wha-wha-?' he gibbered.
'The date!' spat Oxford, and struck the soldier's face with the flat of his palm, once, twice, thrice, until some semblance of comprehension crept into the staring eyes.
'What's the date?' he repeated. 'Day, month, year?'
'Fri-Friday, M-March the ninth,' stuttered the soldier.
'Year?' urged Oxford, shaking the man.
'1877.'
Oxford's hand dropped and he stepped back in surprise.
The soldier fumbled for his rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger. A bullet scored the side of Oxford's helmet, jerking his head painfully. A shout came from off to the right. He heard the sound of booted feet running on the road. He turned, paced away, ordered his suit to take him back to Darkening Towers, leaped into the air, and landed in sunshine.
'You were gone less than two minutes,' called the marquess. 'I'm convinced, Mr. Oxford! You vanished right before my eyes! It was simply astonishing! I say, what's wrong with your helmet?'
The time traveller stumbled across the grass and collapsed to his knees at Beresford's feet. He reached up to remove his headgear and yelled in pain as heat blistered his hands.
'Careful! There's some sort of blue flame dancing around your head,' advised the marquess. 'Wait a moment!'
He ran into the mansion and emerged moments later holding a curtain, which he'd ripped down from inside one of the veranda doors. Wrapping it around the helmet, he lifted it from Oxford's head and dropped it onto the grass. The curtain started to burn. Beresford used the tip of his boot to pull it away. The blue fire flickered around the uncovered black dome then shrank and died.
'I didn't get home,' said Oxford, yanking his boots off.
'To the future? Why not? Where did you go?'
