image, which was even now rapping left-handedly upon the door. A cruel smile appeared upon the duplicate’s face as it turned and strode purposefully away, bound for the backyard wall.
Norman gnawed upon his knuckles. Now would certainly seem like an ideal time for a bit of a test run. He climbed rapidly into the driving seat and fastened his safety belt; as he had no way of telling exactly which way up time was when you travelled through it he did not wish to fall out. Carefully, he swung a pair of great calliper arms, heavily-burdened with switch-boxes and levers, about him, and, turning the ignition key, put the machine into reverse. Lights pulsed and flashed, and the great brazen wheel tumbled on above him, a ring of sparks encircled the machine in a twinkling halo. The sudden crash of brickwork informed the aspiring time traveller that an unwelcome visitor had just entered his backyard. The buzzing and hammering of the mechanism increased at a goodly rate; but to Norman’s dismay he did not appear to be going anywhere, either backwards, or forwards, or even upside down. “Get a move on,” shouted the distraught shopkeeper, thumbing switches and squinting up at the kitchen clock in the hope of a fluctuation. The machine shook and shivered. The lights flashed and the engine roared. The sounds of splintering woodwork as the kitchen door parted company with its hinges were swallowed up in the cacophony.
Norman’s fearsome replica stood in the doorway clearing its throat and rubbing its hands together.
Norman flung levers in all directions and waggled the joystick. The creature stalked towards him wearing a most unpleasant expression. It reached down slowly and grasped one of the runners, meaning to up-end the whole caboodle. Norman cowered back in his seat, kicking at any levers which lay beyond his reach. The creature strained at the runner but the thing would not shift. Norman stared up at the great wheel spinning above, its gyroscopic effect was such that the machine could not possibly be overturned. The robot, being Norman to its finger ends, twigged this almost instantaneously, and abandoned this futile pursuit to deal with matters more directly. Its hands stretched towards Norman’s throat. The wee lad shrank away, burbling for mercy. The demon double clawed towards him, its eyes blazing hatred, and its lips drawn back from gnashing, grinding teeth; the talons were an inch from Norman’s throat. Norman unceremoniously wet himself. Not the wisest thing to do when surrounded by so much unearthed electrical apparatus.
“Oooooooooooh!” Norman’s voice rose to an operatic soprano as the charge caught him squarely in the nuts, arched up his backbone and shot out through the top of his head, setting his barnet ablaze. A great jolt rocked the machine, sparks cascaded roman candle style from every corner, and the humming and throbbing rose to a deafening crescendo. As if suddenly alert to the possibility of imminent explosion the robot drew back its hands. It dropped them once more to the runner then straightened up and backed towards the door. Norman batted at his cranial bonfire and squinted through the now rising smoke. To his amazement he saw the creature back away through the doorway and the shattered kitchen-door rise magically behind it, to slap back into its mountings, pristine and undamaged. Norman’s eyes flew towards the kitchen clock. The second hand was belting round the face like a propeller. It was travelling anti-clockwise. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha.” Norman clapped his hands together and bounced up and down in his seat, oblivious to his scrambled goolies and smouldering top- knot.
He was travelling back in time!
The second hand was gathering speed, increasing to a blur, followed now by the minute and the hour. The kitchenette began to grow vague and fuzzy and then in a flash it vanished.
The kitchenette door tore from its hinges and crashed down on the linoleum. Norman’s duplicate stood horribly framed in the doorway, staring into the fog of smoke which now filled the otherwise empty room. A look of perplexity swept over the robot shopkeeper’s face. Data retrieval and logic modification channels whirred and cross-meshed, and finally spelt out absolutely sweet bugger all. Which certainly served them right.
26
Norman held fast to his seat and stared forward into the darkness. Strange lights welled up before him, swung past to either side, and vanished away behind. He experienced no sensation of motion; it was as if he was somehow travelling outside of space and time altogether. He was in limbo. Norman looked at his watch. It had stopped. He scrutinized the date counter he had optimistically screwed on to one of the enclosing calliper arms; a tangle of wires dangled from beneath it. He had forgotten to link the thing up. Where was he, and more importantly when was he? He might have been travelling for an hour or a year or a century. He had no way of telling. He had best put the machine out of gear and cruise to a halt before he slipped back too far. The idea of finding himself trampled on by a dinosaur was most unappealing.
A terrible fear took a grip upon his heart. Exactly what would he find when he stopped? He could wind up in the middle of Rorke’s Drift with the Zulus on the attack. Or even in the sea or inside the heart of a mountain. There was no way of telling. Perhaps if he slowed down just a bit he could spy out a safe place to land. Norman’s hand hovered over the controls, a look of imbecility folding his face in half. He had pulled off The Big One this time and no mistake, but where was it going to get him? In big big trouble, that was where. Norman did his best to weigh up the pros and cons. Could he get killed in the past before he had even been born? Was such a thing possible? The situation he was now in lent sufficient weight to the conviction that nothing was impossible. The words of the great Jack Vance filled his head, “In a situation of infinity, every possibility no matter how remote must find physical expression.” He had that sewn into a sampler over his bed.
It was all too much for the shopkeeper and he slumped dejectedly over the controls and grizzled quietly, resigning himself to oblivion. What had he done? What in the name of dear Mother Earth had he done?
“Norman,” a voice called to him from out of the void. “Norman.”
“Who’s that?” Norman squinted into the darkness. “I know that voice.”
“Norman,” the voice grew louder. “Halt the apparatus, you will slip beyond reach.”
Norman hammered at the controls; he tore the ignition key from the dashboard, and a sudden rush of air buffeted him back in his seat. Light popped and flashed about him, the machine rattled and shuddered and with a great sigh, daylight spun into view from the end of a long dark tunnel and broke in every direction. Norman shielded his face, closed his eyes and prepared to make what peace he could with his Creator. There was a hefty whack and a moment of terrible silence. Norman flinched and cowered.
Warm sunlight tickled his fingers and the sound of birdsong filled his ears. Still not daring to look, Norman sniffed. The sweet scent of flowers, sweeter than any he had previously smelled – or was that now would smell? – engulfed him.
He had died, that was it. Died and gone to the good place. Hope always sprang eternal in the wee lad. Norman uncovered his eyes and peered through his fingers. The time machine rested in an Arcadian glade upon a richly-forested hillside, bordering a beautiful valley which swept in gentle rolls down to a picturesque and meandering river. Very nice indeed. This far exceeded his highest hopes of what Heaven might look like. The trip had been well worthwhile after all. Rising high above the hills beyond the river stood a shimmering white fairytale castle, pennants flying in the breeze. It was the stuff of storybooks, of childhood innocence. It was wonderful. Pushing back the calliper arms, Norman unclipped his safety belt and, plucking gingerly at his still damp trouser seat, set his feet upon the lush green carpet of dew-soaked grass. It was paradise; the enchanted glade.
“Norman.” The voice loosened the lad’s bowels, but he had nothing left to yield. “Norman.” An old man was approaching, hobbling upon a cane. He was clothed in a flowing robe of deepest black, embroidered richly with stars and pentacles and magical symbols picked out in silvern thread. Upon his head he wore a tall conical hat of identical craftsmanship. He sported a long white beard and was the very picture of all one might reasonably expect of Merlin the Magician.
Norman peered at the approaching apparition. He knew that face, that stooping gait, as well as he knew anything. A choked voice rose from his throat. “Professor Slocombe?”
The magician put his long finger to his lips. “All in good time, he said. “Welcome, Norman.”
“Where am I?”
