Prehistoric Clock by Robert Appleton Read Free Book Online

to find survivors.”
    “Of course, of course. I’ll come with you. A quarter mile—my word! The ionization spread like wildfire. It must have been the storm. Water is conducive to ionised psammeticum—however else could the blast have reached so far but through the raindrops? They were charged before the explosion.”
    Radius? Ionization? Raindrops? “Who are you, sir? What do you know about all this?”
    As though the question had defused his mania, the man stopped, his gaze frozen on the little boy. He offered his hand to Embrey. “Cecil Reardon. Unwitting architect of this fiasco, I’m afraid. I’ll explain everything later. But first, we must do what we can.”
    So he’s the reckless…
    “Lord Garrett Embrey. Considering which way best to murder you, you pompous son of a bitch!” With his free hand, he drew his steam-pistol and thrust it in Reardon’s white face. “Do you realize what you’ve done ? This is Leviacrum work, isn’t it? Those evil—”
    “No, old boy. It is most assuredly not.” Reardon neither flinched nor batted an eyelid at the eight inches of brass trained on his temple. His calm words unnerved Embrey. “I meant no harm to anyone, and I mean none now. This was all an accident beyond my control.”
    “Time travel? What madness—”
    “Mine and mine alone. And God willing, if my machine has not suffered too much damage, this madness may yet be undone. Embrey—” the lunatic lowered the barrel with his finger, “—this can wait. Let us help the injured.”
    Clearly mad—he didn’t seem fazed by the weapon or the cataclysmic events around him—Reardon also had to be the most disarming fellow Embrey had ever met. Pomp without passion, reserve without fear, manners without guile. It was as though he’d jettisoned all but the most skeletal qualities of what made an English gentleman and then spread his own persona thin over the emptiness inside. The result was distant but oddly endearing. Embrey reckoned that if he didn’t owe the man a bullet, he might grow to like Reardon. At the very least, the fellow had kept a cool head, and that was nothing to sneeze at in such a dire situation.
    “Come with me.” Embrey holstered his pistol and began picking his way through the fallen bricks at the north side of the factory. “And by the way, you managed to bring down an airship,” he shot back. “I seriously doubt you can undo that. ”
    “Doubt needs no blusher—” Reardon tripped but kept his balance, “—to leave the race red-faced.”
    Embrey rolled his eyes and fingered his holster. Don’t tempt me, lunatic.
    White steam columned from the ruined eastern portion of Reardon’s factory. The area grew hot as they clambered over the collapsed bricks and girders. “This section was a steelworks.” Reardon shielded his face from the heat. “It adjoins a larger set-up in the next building. I tell you, the steam cloud—it almost cooked me when the floodwater hit the molten steel. You’ve never heard a racket like it.”
    “What exactly do you do, Reardon?” Embrey spied several dark-skinned men busying about the airship’s deck. The vessel had to have flown in from Africa.
    “I own a few industrial properties in London, one in Liverpool.” The man caught up and tossed his dinner jacket around the boy. “There. That’ll help keep him dry.”
    Embrey removed it, handed it back. “The sun will dry him quickest.”
    White, stencilled letters on the iron airship’s bow read Empress Matilda. One of the massive twin balloons flew well enough but its sister bobbed low on its rigging, perhaps suffering a slow puncture. The vessel itself lay beached in the mud, a section of the stone embankment having collapsed onto its starboard side, pinning it down. It would not be difficult to free, however. With a little elbow grease and provided the crew could repair and refill the sagging envelope, the airship should be able to fly again.
    “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking,