Prehistoric Clock by Robert Appleton Read Free Book Online Page B

put it to good use under the African’s scrutiny.
    Tangeni nodded, threw Billy a wink and then motioned across the deck. “You must stay aboard the Empress, of course. From what I see, it is the safest place in London.” He tossed one of his crewmen a length of cable. “Until Eembu wakes, I am in charge and you are my guests. But she is not badly injured.”
    “And when she wakes?” Reardon asked.
    The acting skipper shrugged.
    “We understand.” Embrey offered his hand and Tangeni shook it firmly. “Thank you for your hospitality. Where might we find something to eat? I heard Billy’s stomach rumble a moment ago.”
    “On the deck below. Ask for Djimon. Tell him you are friends of Tangeni.”
    “Much obliged. Oh, and one more thing—” Embrey eyed the intriguing redhead again, “—what does Eembu mean?”
    The helpful officer smiled, baring his perfect white teeth. “ Eembu short for eembulukweya. In Oshiwambo language it means ‘trousers’. Lieutenant Verity Champlain—she get many affectionate nicknames in Africa. But it is unusual for omukulukadi —woman—to wear trousers, so that name stayed. It was given to her by a former medicine man now working for the British in Benguela. As he is held in high regard, the name brings her great honour. She is Eembu, and she did amazing things today.”
    “I see. In that case, I can’t wait to meet her.”
    “Nor I,” added Reardon.
    Embrey escorted Billy to the B-deck hatchway, then glanced back. The reverence these crewmen seemed to have for their female captain was not something he’d encountered before. Striking. Intriguing. And the officer had just referred to her as “amazing”? Just who the deuce was she?

Chapter 6
Dislocated
    Embrey and the boy looked so snug together in their nest of windproof jackets and blankets in a quiet corner of the fo’c’sle on C-deck, Cecil didn’t want to wake them. It had been a long double-day spread across two seasons and two epochs, and dusk was beginning to fall. But he couldn’t rest without setting the others’ minds at rest. He must at least give the survivors something to hope for.
    Then he would figure out when they were, and why the differentiator had failed to locate 1901. Indeed, the latter was the most pressing concern of all, for if he couldn’t harness that power, if he was not its master, he might never get to find Lisa and Edmond.
    He wrapped himself in a cotton blanket and then snatched a few spam ration tins from the supplies Djimon had given them. If the refugees ashore needed more, he would solicit Tangeni for aid right away. He reckoned Embrey might do that if he were awake, and for the time being, Cecil chose to model himself on his young blond comrade—a man of impeccable moral fibre. People needn’t see the real Cecil Reardon, the “shadow of a man confined to the rafters of a sad existence,” as one ex-colleague had described him in the Times last year.
    He stole ashore and made his way along the embankment toward Bridge Street. Prolonged, grinding bird caws drew his gaze skyward, but all he saw were the silhouettes of bat-like wings slicing through the gloaming high above. Impossible to classify. In the meantime, he figured the overturned tri-wheeler and its ice cream trailer might make a useful haulage vehicle if the group needed to gather lumber for his furnace or hunt for food.
    The survivors had lit a fire on the corner of Parliament Street and Bridge Street, and were roasting meat on makeshift grills.
    “I say—dig in, old chap.” The nearest gentleman righted a wicker chair on the pavement and patted the seat for Cecil. “You’re the lostest thing we’ve seen for hours. Where the deuce have you been?”
    “On the airship over there, with—”
    “The darkies, we know. Never been right ones for mixing with civilized folk, our African brothers. Nothing against them, mind you, they’re damn good in a scrap, I hear, and they’re working wonders over there in Benguela. You