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.
Extraordinary.
“Perhaps we should give you a chance to think over our proposal, Professor Reardon?” Wallingford touched his earlobe as he glanced at Miss Polperro-a signal for them to leave. “When you’re better rested perhaps?”
“No, that’s quite all right. You can have my answer now. I agree to all your terms, and I will gladly join your Atlas Council or whatever the blasted thing is called. But I would like three things in return.”
The curious tilt of Wallingford’s head betrayed his genuine surprise. Had he not expected to discuss terms so soon? All the better. “Yes?” he asked.
Gritting his teeth, Cecil half sat up and bunched his pillow behind him against the brass bars at the head of his bed. “Firstly, unconditional, posthumous pardons must be given to Lord Garrett Embrey, his father, Marquess Embrey, and his uncle, Lord Fitzwalter. The highest military service commendation must go to Lieutenant Verity Champlain and her second in command, Lieutenant Tangeni. All these must be announced in the Times before I even think about resuming work.”
The crookbacked politician’s fake smile barely masked his chagrin. “I believe that can be arranged, but-”
“Secondly, I demand to know why Embrey’s family was victimized.”
“That one I can answer personally,” Wallingford said. “Both his father and uncle were highly influential men, in business and in politics. We gave them an invitation to join the Atlas Club, along with a brief explanation of its purpose, and they refused. In today’s seditious climate, such a refusal cast doubt upon their loyalty to the Crown. After the Benguela fire, we thought it prudent to make an example of aristocratic officers for a change, to remind our armed forces that no one, no matter their station or privilege, is above the law.”
“So you hanged two innocent men?”
“For the greater good, yes. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. In every country it has long been a vital method of ensuring general obedience during wartime.”
“Tried and tested or not, it’s repugnant. Not to mention evil.”
“If you can come up with a better way, Professor, be my guest.”
Cecil narrowed his eyes at the little bastard. “Just give me that chance.”
Miss Polperro’s angry scoff only redoubled his grit. “Why not appoint yourself Prime Minister while you’re at it.” She paced to the far wall, chunnering to herself.
“Ha! And thirdly, I want you two to summarize for me, here and now, the grand purpose behind these godforsaken towers that reach for the clouds for no apparent reason.” He glared at Wallingford, who sniffled and checked his pocketwatch. “Is that too much to ask?” He filled those words with as much scorn as he could manage-not as much as he’d hoped, for curiosity had got the better of him. He’d longed to know the answer to this riddle for most of his life. He’d even worked in the tower for many years without having so much as an inkling as to why it had been built in the first place.
Wallingford blinked rapidly, no doubt considering all the angles before formulating his response, as all political creatures are wont to do. “Very well, Professor. A brief summary you shall have. I’m quite certain the other Council members would not begrudge you that if you accede to our request.” His sharp glance across to his schoolmarm colleague met with a bitter, resigned shrug.
Well, well. How the tables have turned. It seems I do have the winning hand after all.
“How much do you know of the Atlas comets?” Wallingford asked.
“Little except the name.” Comets? Whatever next?
“They are three comets of varying mass, whose wide, unusual orbits around our sun occasionally bring them within close proximity to the earth.”
“Yes, I saw a painting once,” Cecil said. “The 1714 comet shower-lit the western sky with brilliant blue sparks for a full day and night.”
“Correct, but do you know what the blue sparks actually were?”
“Hmm, I’ll hazard a guess at highly concentrated psammeticum in either solid or gaseous form.”
“Very good, Professor.” Miss Polperro unhooked the clock from his wall and hurled it against the skirting board, sending clockwork innards and glass smithereens all across the floor. The crash spun Wallingford around. A moment later he began to chuckle, and Miss Polperro grinned at him. Some kind of private joke they shared, one Cecil would rather not be in on.
And she called me mentally unstable!
“Three comets, two imminent encounters with the earth,” she said. Her little colleague bowed in acquiescence to her scientific expertise. “The next encounter, in two years’ time, will be similar to that of 1714. We
