‘It’s a good thing I noticed you were missing,’ Lucy told her, taking Claire’s arm. ‘Were you dreadfully afraid?’
Claire sighed, and let herself be guided by Lucy like a convalescent patient, unable to think of anything except Captain Shackleton’s gentle eyes. But had they looked at her with love? His speechless-ness and bewilderment were definite symptoms of infatuation and suggested that he had. In any era they were the typical signs of someone smitten. But even if it were true, what good was it to her if Captain Shackleton had fallen in love with her since she was never going to see him again? She let herself be helped on to the time-tram, as if she had no will of her own.
Dejected, she leaned back in her seat, and when she felt the violent judder of the steam engine starting up, she had to stop herself dissolving into a puddle of tears. As the vehicle shunted through the fourth dimension, Claire wondered how she would endure having to go back and live in her own dull time, especially now she was sure that the only man with whom she could be happy would be born long after she was dead.
‘We’re on our way home, ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Mazursky, unable to conceal his contentment at nearing the end of that eventful journey.
Claire looked at him with annoyance. Yes, they were on their way home to the dreary nineteenth century, and they had not jeopardised the fabric of time. Of course Mazursky was pleased: he had prevented a silly young girl from destroying the universe and avoided the telling-off he would have received from Gilliam Murray had he failed. What did it matter if the price had been her happiness? Claire was so infuriated she could have slapped the guide there and then, even though she knew Mazursky had only been doing his duty. The universe was more important than the fate of any one person, even if she was that person. She tried to curb her irritation at the guide’s beaming face. Fortunately, part of her rage evaporated when she looked down and saw that her hands were empty. Mazursky had not done such a perfect job after all – how far could a mere parasol affect the fabric of time?
Chapter XXIII
When the girl and the guide vanished along the steep path, Captain Derek Shackleton left his hiding-place and paused to look at where the woman had been standing, as though expecting to discover a trace of her perfume or her voice lingering in the empty space, some sign of her presence that would prove she had not been a figment of his imagination. He was still reeling from the meeting. He could scarcely believe it had happened. He remembered her words: ‘I’m Claire Haggerty Captain, and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world,’ she had said, with a charming curtsy. But this was not all he remembered. He was surprised by how clearly the image of her face was etched in his mind. He could conjure, clear as day, her pale visage, her slightly wild features, her smooth, shapely mouth, her jet black hair, her graceful bearing, her voice. And he remembered the look in her eyes. Above all he remembered the way she had gazed at him, enraptured, almost in awe, with mesmerised joy. No woman had ever looked at him like that before.
Then he noticed the parasol and flushed with shame as he remembered why she had dropped it. He went over and carefully picked it up, as though it were an iron bird fallen from some metallic nest. It was a dainty, elegant parasol that betrayed the moneyed status of its owner. What was he supposed to do with it? One thing was clear: he could not leave it there.
Parasol in hand, he set off to where the others were waiting for him, taking the opportunity to collect himself as he walked. To avoid arousing their suspicions, he must hide his agitation at his encounter with the girl.
Just then, Solomon leaped from behind a rock, brandishing his sword. Although he had been daydreaming, the brave Captain Shackleton reacted in a flash, striking the automaton with the parasol as it bore down on him, baying for his blood in his booming metallic voice. The blow glanced off Solomon, but it took him by surprise, and he teetered for a few seconds before toppling backwards down a small incline. Clutching the by now rather dented parasol, Shackleton watched his enemy rattle down the hill. The clattering sound came to an abrupt halt as the automaton hit a pile of rocks. For a few moments, Solomon lay stretched out on his back covered with a thick layer of dust thrown up by his fall. Then he tried laboriously to pick himself up, cursing and hurling insults, which the metallic timbre of his voice made sound even more vulgar. Loud guffaws rang out from the group of soldiers and automatons who were looking on.
‘Stop laughing, you swine! I might have broken something!’ groaned Solomon, amid further guffaws.
‘It serves you right for playing pranks,’ Shackleton chided him, walking down the incline and offering him a helping hand. ‘Won’t you ever tire of your silly ambushes?’
‘You were taking too long, my friend,’ the automaton complained, allowing Shackleton and two others to pull him to his feet. ‘What the hell were you doing up there anyway?’
‘I was urinating,’ the captain replied. ‘By the way, congratulations. That was a great duel. I think we did it better than ever before.’
‘True,’ a soldier agreed. ‘You were both superb. I don’t think you performed so well even for Her Majesty.’
‘Good. The fact is, it’s much easier to perform when you know the Queen of England isn’t watching you. In any case, it’s exhausting running around in this armour,’ said Solomon. After he had freed himself, he gulped air like a fish. His red hair was stuck to his head, his broad face covered with beads of sweat.
‘Stop complaining, Martin,’ said the automaton with the gash in his chest, who was also removing his head. ‘At least you’ve got one of the main roles. I don’t even have time to finish off a soldier before I kick the bucket. And on top of that I have to blow myself up.’
‘You know it’s harmless, Mike. But if you insist, we can ask Murray to switch some of the roles round next time,’ suggested the young man who played the part of Captain Shackleton, in an attempt to keep tempers from fraying.
‘Yes, Tom. I can play Jeff’s role and he can play mine,’ agreed the man playing the first automaton to fall, pointing to the soldier whose task it was to slay him.
‘Not on your life, Mike. I’ve been waiting all week to be able to shoot you. Anyway, after that Bradley kills me,’ said Jeff, pointing in turn to the lad concealed inside one of the throne-bearing automatons, who had an S-shaped scar on his left cheek reaching almost to his eye.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, referring to what was in Tom’s hand.
‘This? A parasol,’ Tom replied, holding it up to show the group. ‘One of the passengers must have left it behind.’
Jeff whistled in amazement. ‘It must have cost a fortune,’ he said, scrutinising it with interest. A lot more that we get for doing this, at any rate.’
‘Believe me, Jeff, we’re better off working for Murray than down a mine, or breaking our backs on the
