Prehistoric Clock by Robert Appleton Read Free Book Online Page A

old boy, then yes, we ought to have ourselves a nice little surveillance bird before long.” Reardon retrieved a pipe from his breast pocket and began filling it. “Anything they lack, we will undoubtedly find here in the factories.”
    “If it ain’t all wrecked,” the boy argued in a broad Lancashire brogue. Embrey kept a reassuring hand on the youngster’s shoulder.
    “Sharp lad. You’ll go far,” the professor said. But that notion made Embrey shiver coldly. Unless they could reverse this awful happening, neither the youngster nor anyone else in fractured London would be going far at all. At least not in society. Perhaps…in lieu of an official criminal sentence, some malign supernatural force had incarcerated Embrey here instead, a place so remote that no telegram or ship-in-a-bottle might ever reach another soul.
    His face ached from an incessant scowl. He adopted his severest tone. “Reardon, when is this? How far have you flung us, and in which direction?”
    “I wish I knew.”
    “Good God, man. How can we find out?”
    “With observation and deduction.”
    “And you’re certain you can undo this thing?”
    “Not certain, no, but my machine will have stopped on the last differential sequence. It might not have located 1901, but I have finally found the chronometric settings to enable large scale time travel. My dear Embrey, this is, however heinous the pun, a watershed event for science. Many have died, yes, but consider the import of this misstep. I have conquered time, and without the Leviacrum’s meddling. We have done this ourselves, myself and those before me upon whose work I owe a debt. This is—”
    “Before you start polishing your laurels, professor, I must remind you that we are survivors , not pioneers. These people will not consider themselves privileged—however you spin it—and nor do I. So tread softly, sir. For the love of God, tread softly. If anything should happen to you, we’ll be stuck here.” Embrey glanced behind him. “And Big Ben will never strike again. You understand?”
    “Completely, old boy. I shan’t break the news until things have settled.”
    “See to it.”
    The African aeronauts lowered a steel ladder for Embrey and his companions to climb on deck. It was a fairly big ship, about a-hundred-and-twenty feet long, with large metal tail fins mounted on each of the four rudder propellers at the stern. A diligent, athletic officer who introduced himself as Tangeni gave the orders. Personnel to and froed between the central, arched-fore-to-aft storehouse and a makeshift hospital area at the bow. Over a dozen men and women in blue British Air Corps uniforms were being treated for injuries. Among them, unconscious on a generous bed of windproof jackets, lay a striking redhead. She was Caucasian, around twenty-five and wore a midshipman’s uniform. Her damp strawberry hair, cropped to little more than a bob, made her look somewhat tomboyish, and the baggy clothes certainly didn’t do her figure any favours.
    Embrey cocked his head to one side as he gazed at her, and asked Tangeni, “Who is she?”
    “Who? Eembu? She is captain of the Empress Matilda . Everyone on board owes his life to her. She and I, we make promise to eat ice creams on Piccadilly after the storm. That was…before God stepped in.”
    “Captain, eh?” He’d never have guessed it. Eembu more resembled a stowaway cabin girl than a Gannet skipper.
    “What are your names, gentlemen?” Tangeni removed his tunic and shirt, revealing a wiry, muscular body bearing many scars. He splashed his face with fresh water from the drinking cask.
    “I am Lord Garrett Embrey, this fellow is Cecil Reardon, Professor, and our young friend here—well, I don’t believe I heard—”
    “Billy Ransdell.”
    Embrey smiled to himself and ruffled the lad’s hair.
    “Any of you know what happened?” Tangeni asked.
    “As much as you, I’m afraid, old boy.” Embrey had always had a strong poker face, and he