"Stop it! Let's go upstairs now."
"Shall we? All right. Go where?"
"To the girl's room. Can you lead me there?"
"Yes. But she isn't there!"
"What?" It electrified Alan. "Not there!" He gripped Charlie. "What do you mean?"
"Don't! You hurt!" The lad jerked away.
"Sorry, Charlie! But hush, you make too much noise!"
"All right. But you hurt me. The girl isn't up there."
"Why in Heaven's name didn't you say so long ago? Where is she?"
Charlie gestured to the window. "Over there—in the laboratory. They took her over there—just before I went to let you in."
"They? Who?"
"The doc. And the Indian. That's Uncas, as we call him. Uncas was a Mohican—you know that."
"Where are they now?" Alan's heart sank. This changed his plans wholly. Was it true?
"They? Who? The girl? She's over there now. They locked her in over there—then they came back."
"Where? When was this?"
"About ten o'clock. I saw them start over here from the laboratory, but then it was time for me to go and let you in."
"They came over here—to the main building?"
"Yes. They're in the doc's rooms, I guess. They're getting ready for something. You'll see. That's what I've been waiting for—they'll be going back over to the laboratory soon."
Alan felt that it was true. There were many things which Charlie had said that fitted into Alan's own beliefs.
"Charlie, can you get us down there?"
"In the courtyard? Yes. Sure I can. Two or three ways. This isn't a jail—you can go where you like if you know the way. I've been almost everywhere, and nobody ever caught me."
They slipped into the dim corridor. A flight of stairs was near at hand. The lower story was wholly dark. Charlie found a cross hall and opened a door.
They were on the courtyard pavement. Near by an end of the inner building was visible as a dark outline; they moved noiselessly across the open space and crouched against the brick wall of the laboratory.
"How far are we from the door, Charlie?"
"Not far. There's a wheelbarrow there somebody left this afternoon. Let's hide by it."
They came upon the wheelbarrow. It was standing up against the laboratory wall. Its shelter was hardly necessary; the yard here was solid black.
"Where's the door?" Alan whispered.
"Right here. What you going to do?"
Alan stood at the door. His fumbling hands felt of it. There was no knob; an iron door, set in a brick and iron casement. His fingers felt a lock, sunk in the metal of the door.
Alan laid his bag at his feet. No chance of forcing this lock. Turber and the Indian would doubtless be coming presently. Whatever Alan could do must be done now.
In the solid darkness at his elbow, Charlie's voice whispered again: "What you going to do?"
Alan acted wholly upon impulse. He thought that the girl was inside, alone. She might be able to help—
He knocked, very softly on the door.
"What you—" Charlie began.
"Sh!"
He knocked again.
It happened unexpectedly; yet Alan by instinct was ready for it.
The door abruptly opened!
It swung, just a few inches; a guttural voice sounded, speaking unintelligible words!
Whatever surprise it was to Alan, the Indian within was undoubtedly far more surprised. Alan stuck his foot into the door opening; he shoved violently with his powerful body, his shoulder against the door. It yielded; opened wide with a rush, knocking the Indian backward.
Alan burst into the room. The Indian, unarmed, recovered his balance to find himself staring at Alan's leveled revolver.
"Don't you move! Put your hands up!"
Behind him, Charlie yelped shrilly: "He can't understand English! He's a Mohican!"
But Alan's menace was enough; the fellow backed against the wall. His hands went up.
"You've got him! You've got him!"
"Charlie, shut up!"
A confusion of swift impressions surged upon Alan. A small, bare room with a vague glow of light. The girl was here! She stood near the Indian. Frightened, shrinking against the wall; but she saw Alan, recognized him. She took a step forward.
Charlie was making too much noise. The door through which Alan had burst was open. If Turber saw the glow of light—or heard Charlie's voice—or if any one else heard this uproar—
A confusion of instantaneous impressions.
"Charlie, shut up! You'll have the whole place aroused! Take the girl out—she'll go with you! Grab her arm—we'll make a run for it."
The girl understood. If not Alan's words, at least his swift gestures. She moved toward Charlie. Alan backed, his weapon leveled upon the Indian. "Go on! Run, Charlie! Get her out at once! I'll follow. Get us to the tennis court."
Alan backed, with the two of them behind him. He had been in that room certainly not over thirty seconds. He left it with Turber's secret laid bare to him! The room had an archway, opening inward. Alan had stood facing it. Charlie had seen it and yelped with excitement.
In the inner court stood a large gray-white vehicle—a cabin airplane. A spread of canvas for a concealing roof was over it. A vehicle for traveling through Time—like the Time-traveling tower we had seen in Central Park!
CHAPTER V
THE FLIGHT IN CENTRAL PARK
Alan found himself outside the laboratory. Its door was open, with a yellow glow streaming out. Charlie, clinging to the girl, was with him. The glow fell on them; Alan shoved them aside.
"Which way, Charlie? We've got to get out of here!"
They stood in the darkness a moment against the laboratory wall. The hospital was aroused. A voice had shouted. Others were taking it up. Lights were showing in several of the windows. An uproar—growing now of its own momentum. Some one lighted a light in the reception room. A shade snapped up.
The courtyard was brightening with yellow glints of light. No one as yet seemed to notice the three figures standing by the wall.
"Which way, Charlie?" Alan was momentarily confused. They would have to pass through the lower part of the building, get into the garden, fight their way through if necessary.
The girl stood docile: Charlie was chattering with fright. A desperation was on Alan; he shoved at Charlie. "Come on!"
But he stopped abruptly. The Indian had come to the laboratory door. He shouted—vehement, guttural words. An answer came. Dr. Turber! The man appeared in the light of a lower doorway in the main building.
All thought of flight was momentarily stricken from Alan's mind. "Charlie, wait!" They were standing by the upright wheelbarrow. "Look!"
Turber came running. The shaft of light from the doorway picked out his running figure. He was heading for the laboratory door. Not to menace these intruders; knowing only that his secret was discovered. With his hospital in uproar around him, Turber was in flight.
The Indian disappeared back into the room; Turber went at a full run through its doorway. Alan had not thought to try and stop him. Instead, he moved to the door, fascinated.
The room already was empty; Turber had gone through it; was leaping into the vehicle of the inner courtyard. An instant. Then the huge aero—it was nearly a hundred feet long—with all its gray solidity, began melting. Dissolving. A wraith of a cabin with wings—a dissipating phantom—
The inner courtyard was empty!
Charlie's voice: "Look! There it is! There it is!"
From the top of the laboratory building—perhaps automatically operated by the going of the aero—the searchlight beam was standing up into the air!
Alan found his wits. "Charlie, for God's sake lead us out of here! You don't want to get caught in this affair."
Figures were now in the courtyard; voices, questioning; at a window of the first story a boy in white nightclothes stood gazing down. The excitement set him screaming—shrill, piercing, unearthly screams! Voices began shouting at him.
It was a welcome diversion. Alan gripped the girl by the arm. She seemed to understand what was going on. She ran with Alan as they followed Charlie across the courtyard, into a lower doorway. In a corridor a man opposed them. He ducked away from Alan's waving weapon.
Through a dim room, crowded with the silent machinery of a laundry. Through another door. A hall. At the foot of a staircase two nurses in dressing gowns saw the running figures and screamed.
Charlie fumbled at a door; opened it. They were in the side garden.
"Which way?" Alan demanded. "You go back! Nobody recognized you? Pretend you had nothing to do with it."
"This way! There's the tennis court—to fight and run away—live again to fight—"
There were people in the outer grounds now. The presence of intruders was recognized. A voice called, "Which way did they go?" One of the inmates began screaming again. Some one fired a revolver—several shots into the air to arouse the neighborhood.
At the little gate Alan paused. "Lock it after us! Throw the key away! Don't let them find it on you! Thanks, Charlie—you're a brick. Say nothing—know nothing."
"All right, I won't." He touched the girl. "Good-by—the maiden fair is gone!"
"Yes, Charlie. Thanks for what you did—we won't forget you—"
The gate thumped closed. Its lock turned. Charlie whirled and vanished in the shadows of the trees.
The girl clung to Alan's hand and ran swiftly, lightly as a fawn, beside him. The uproar at the hospital faded into the distance.
Within ten minutes, running through the darkness over the stony road, Alan and the girl were at our car.
We bundled the girl into the back seat. Nanette sat with her. "Wrap her in the cloak, Nanette! Is it there?"
"Yes."
"Move over, Ed," Alan said. "I'll drive."
In the silence other shots sounded off at Turber's. Alan hastily backed the car and turned it.
"Raising hell up there! But I got her!"
We sped away into the night.
The thing was clear to us now. This girl had come in a Time-traveling tower from the Past—or the Future. Turber also possessed a Time-vehicle; one more effective than the tower, since it seemed a vehicle also capable of traveling through Space. This girl undoubtedly knew Turber in some other Time-world. And feared him—just as Nanette feared him.
With purring motor we were speeding along one of the island's highways, almost deserted at this hour of the night.
"Which way you going, Alan? Not to the ferry?"
"No. West, over the bridge into Jersey. Get back to New York that way. We're safe enough."
"What are you going to do with the girl?" I asked.
He hardly knew. "Take her home, I guess. See if we can't learn to understand her. She's intelligent—she speaks some kind of language."
We sped through a quiet, sleeping village. It was a long drive, around this way through Jersey. The night was well advanced toward the new dawn when we were again in Manhattan.
We had stopped once on a lonely Jersey road. Stopped by Nanette's voice.
"Alan! She's trying to talk to me!"
We drew down the car curtains; lighted the tiny dome light. The girl was much smaller than Nanette; she sat, with her blue robe crushed about her, enveloped in Nanette's long cloak. She was smiling, gesturing.
"She's beautiful, Alan. She's been talking—I can't understand."
Her voice was soft; queer liquid syllables, queerly intoned. A voice like music; the wind in harp strings, stirring them to murmur—but it meant nothing intelligible to us.
But there were gestures.
I said: "She understands! She's trying to show us she understands—"
Nanette demanded: "Is she looking at me? Look, dear—I'm Nanette—understand? Oh, you can see—and if you can see, you must understand! I'm Nanette." She laid her hand on her own breast. "Can you say it? Nanette—"
The girl said, quite clearly, "Nanette!" And laughed with a low ripple of pleasure. "Nanette! Lea! Nanette! Lea!" She was indicating herself. "Lea!"
"Her name is Lea! Yes, dear, we understand you."
I murmured: "And at Bellevue—"
With quick hearing she caught the word. "Bellevue," she said. She had evidently learned it while there. "Bellevue." She repeated it, frowning. She made a gesture, meaningless, and sank back, huddled against Nanette.
Alan switched off the dome light. "We'd better get started—some one might see us." He drove on. "Keep on trying, Nanette."
We decided to take her to Alan and Nanette's apartment. The Turber staff at the hospital would report that Turber and his assistant and the girl suffering from amnesia had vanished. What else could they say? Charlie probably would not talk; and Alan doubted if himself or Charlie had been recognized. Our connection with the mysterious midnight disturbance at Turber's might never be established.
We were in the quiet, mid-town streets of New York when Nanette called us again.
"She understands the word 'tower'! She just said it. Lea, what do you mean? Try! Say something else to Nanette!"
Lea was murmuring: "Tower! Tower!" She seemed trying to look out of the side window. I leaned back and drew up the shade.
"That all right, Alan?"
"Yes. What does she want to do?"
She was peering through the window. We went on a few blocks in silence. Alan said nothing. But he had told me he intended crossing Forty-Second Street to the East Side. He did not. He went north to Fifty-Ninth. Then turned east. Soon we were passing along the southern edge of Central Park.
Lea had been peering intently. She recognized the park. She murmured: "Tower! Tower!" Insistently. She even turned and plucked at Alan's shoulder. "Tower! Tower!"
Understanding swept me. "Alan, she—"
"Yes. Wait, Ed! Don't say anything—just watch her."
He silenced Nanette's questions. We turned up Fifth Avenue. The dark, tree-dotted park was on our left. Nanette sat quiet, trying to fathom the sudden tenseness which had come to us. Lea stared through her window at the park. Intent. Motionless.
We came into sight of the Metropolitan Museum a few blocks ahead. Alan slowed the car.
"Lea—"
She turned at the sound of her name. She smiled; gestured at the park; reached toward the door of the car.
I exclaimed: "She recognizes it, Alan! She wants to get out. What are you doing?"
He had turned into the cross-street. "Stop here. See what she wants to do."
We opened the car door. I stood at the curb. This cross-street was dim and deserted.
"Lea." She turned again as Alan spoke. She smiled and gestured again toward the park. And pulled at Nanette.
"What is it, Lea, dear?"
"She wants you to get out, Nanette."
"Shall I, Alan?"
"Yes. Help her, Ed."
I guided Nanette. Lea plucked at Alan. He put the lights of the car out and locked it. His fingers were trembling.
"You walk with Lea, Nanette. Let her guide you. We'll follow. See what she wants to do."
Four of us; unnoticed by the great, sleeping city, all unaware of us. And what would it have cared?
We crossed the avenue; plunged into the shadows of the park. To the east the leaden sky over the house-tops was brightening with the coming dawn.
We crouched in the shrubbery by the edge of a path. Trees were over us; a lake near by; a winding park roadway off there with lights along it; the shadowy building of the Museum at the edge of the park was in the distance.
Lea had marked well this landscape! It was familiar to her, as it was to Alan and me, who had been here so often, and had seen the vision of it on the screen last night. This open spread of lawn here, with the lake near it, this path bordering it.
My mind swung back. A forest glade was here, three hundred years ago. Three thousand years ago, what? A virgin forest? And three hundred thousand years ago? Primitive man, hiding here—as we of 1945 now were crouching?
This same Space; the spread of this lawn in Central Park—what would it be in another hundred years? Or a thousand? This little Space, from the Beginning to the End so crowded with events and only Time to hold them separate!
Lea was in advance of us. I whispered to Alan. "That tower we saw here—coming again?"
"Of course! Don't you think so? She's waiting for it—expects it."
This empty lawn—no! Not empty!
The tower materialized all in an instant. It stood gray and silent. We were on our feet—Alan and Nanette off to one side.
The tower doorway opened. The young man stood there with the light behind him. Stood gazing—
No vision this! Reality! Empty space, two moments ago. Then a phantom, a moment ago. But a real tower, now! Solid. As real, as existent—now—as these rocks, these trees!
Suddenly, even nearer at hand, another shape materialized. The Turber vehicle! It came from nothing into visibility. It settled like a giant airship upon the lawn. Its door opened. Figures sprang out.
There was a moment when we were all too surprised to move. Lea gave a cry. The young man from the tower rushed toward us. From the Turber aero three men came running. They were no more than twenty feet away.
"Ed! Run!" I became aware that Alan had turned to run with Nanette. She stumbled, fell, and before he could pick her up they were caught.
I leaped for them. It was Turber; and his Indian; and a huge, half-naked man in an animal skin. He swung a stone ax. Alan was fighting; he fired his revolver, but missed. The ax struck him; he went down, but he was not badly hurt, for from one knee he fired again. The giant with the ax swayed and dropped to the grass.
I leaped for Turber. Another man came running from the aero. Turber was holding Nanette; he flung his coat over her to stifle her screams. I did not dare fire. I launched into them. From behind something struck me. I dropped; but I recall that I was still struggling—gripping Turber's legs, but he kicked me off. Then some one leaped on me; struck me again. I fell insensible.
Alan was again on his feet. Turber was carrying Nanette away. Alan dared not fire at them; he swayed on his feet, trying to run after them. He saw the Indian strike me. And then the Indian whirled. Incredibly swift. Alan was hurt. The dim park swayed before him. He saw Lea and the young man from the tower standing together. Both seemed unarmed. They stood horrified, undecided what to do.
Alan, reeling dizzily, was no match for the Mohican. He blindly fired his revolver; but he missed. The Indian's tomahawk caught him a glancing blow on the head.
He must have recovered consciousness in a moment. Lea and the young man were bending over him. The aero was gone, taking Nanette and me with it.
Alan was not badly hurt. He sat up, then he stood. Lea urged him toward the tower. But he resisted her. And then she used force. The youth with her seized Alan. He was too weak and shaken to withstand them. They hurried him to the tower. He saw upon the grass the motionless body of the giant, with a primitive stone ax lying beside it.
The tower door closed after him. Lea sat him in a chair; the young man went to a table of instruments.
Alan felt a flash, a reeling of all his senses and of all the world.
CHAPTER VI
FIVE THOUSAND YEARS INTO THE FUTURE
Alan did not lose consciousness. But it was a terrible sensation of falling; a soundless, clattering chaos. The room seemed going dim; glowing silver-bright, with every smallest detail sharp and clear—and then fading. There was the sense that his body was suddenly spectral, with a lightness of thistledown, whirling away in all this soundless confusion.
The sensations were momentary; the room presently was almost normal again. Alan sat still and gazed around him. A solid, white metal floor; gray-white metal walls; a metal ceiling, windows and doors, all closed. A solid room, unmoving—standing in the bottom of a tower planted solidly upon the ground. It felt like that. Almost normal. But not quite. For under his feet Alan could feel the floor vibrating. A whirring, infinitely tiny, infinitely rapid vibration. It thrilled up into his body like a gentle current; it gave him a sense of lightness, buoyancy.
Alan knew that the tower was traveling in Time. Into our Past, or our Future he could not tell which. Across the room at a table of instruments Lea and the young man sat gazing at a bank of whirring dials. They talked together in low tones; words unintelligible to Alan. Lea, glancing over, caught his gaze and smiled. He stood up; stood trembling and dizzy. At once she came and took his arm.
"Let me see the dials," he said. He knew she could not understand the words, but he gestured, and she understood and steadied him to a seat by the table.
"San," she said, and pointed to her companion.
The young man smiled, and offered his hand in the fashion of Alan's time. He was a trifle taller than Lea; similar of aspect—a gentle-looking youth, but with strongly masculine features. Blue eyes, like Lea's, brown hair, long to his neck; a robe of fabric, dark-blue, in form not unlike hers. It revealed his delicately molded limbs. A very gentle, handsome young fellow, but there was nothing girlish, nothing effeminate about him. He stood up with a quiet dignity—almost an unconscious aspect of superiority, as though he were a gracious little prince, shook hands with Alan, and sat again at his dials.
Alan surmised he was Lea's brother. Certainly they looked alike. Alan made them understand that he wanted to read the dials. Most of the dials were unintelligible, but there was one, with a slowly moving pointer, which Alan could read. It marked 1980 A.D. Into the future! Alan cursed the fact that he could not talk to his two companions. His mind leaped back to Nanette and to me. Captured by Turber. Taken—where? He did not know. But one thing was clear, Lea and this San were friendly to him. They had forced him into the tower because they knew it was the best thing for him. They were taking him now—ahead, into what we call the Future. Doubtless to their own Time-world.
Alan believed it must be far into the future—a time when English was lost and forgotten, a dead language of history. But once there, Alan thought that they would have a way of communicating with him. Their smiles were reassuring. Lea examined his head and shoulder wounds. They were no more than severe bruises.
"Nothing," said Alan. "I'm all right. But Nanette?" He tried to gesture to make it mean something.
"Nanette," said Lea. She smiled again, but then her face went solemn.
San said abruptly: "Lea—San—Alan." His gesture included the three of them. And then he pointed to the dial. Alan understood. He was indicating the year to which they were going.
It was the year 7012 A.D.
"But Nanette," Alan insisted. "Nanette? Turber?" He swung his finger over the dial. But they both shook their heads. They were solemn, perturbed. They did not know Turber's destination. Alan's heart sank, yet there was nothing he could do but wait.
Presently Lea was showing him about the tower room. It was some thirty feet square, occupying the entire base of the tower. There was furniture which seemed to be of metal. A gray-white room, windows closed now and covered by opaque metal plates, a dim glow of light, the source of which he could not determine, lighted all this gray interior.
Two small sections of the room were divided off by hangings of what might have been a gray metallic fabric—one inclosure where it seemed food was stored; the other, an instrument room. A low hum came from there. Alan saw lines of tiny wires of cobweb fineness, which began there and spread like a tiny white network woven into the walls and ceiling and floor of the room. And, in one corner, there was a small metal staircase—an incline spiraling upward through a trapdoor of the ceiling. Lea gestured.
"Want us to go up?" said Alan.
She evidently did. She showed him the dials again. They were passing the year 1995. She spoke to San. He remained at the instruments; Alan and Lea went up into the tower.
Amazing sight! They stood on the narrow balcony which girdled the small tower room near its top. Alan had not dared to look down as they climbed the ladder. It seemed that around him was a gray, luminous fog. On the balcony he clung to the breast-high railing and stared.
A gray monochrome of city—blended colors of whirling days and nights, seasons, years—all blended into this flat, shadowless gray. A blurred scene, crawling with movement. Melting outlines, changing with the progressive altered aspect of the passing years.
1995! 2000! Our great city of 1945, here just a few moments ago, now seemed so small and antiquated! What a tremendous giant, rearing itself here now around him! And it was still growing. Its great buildings had come up and were encroaching upon the park. They loomed far higher than the tower.
He saw, off where Broadway traversed its diagonal path, a roof appear over the street. A great shadowy spread of roof—over Broadway—then over other streets. Growing giant of a city. The outlines of the huge buildings came nearer. The park was dwindling as the city flowed over it. Structures which Alan fancied might be great airplane stages rose high on stilted tower legs. One was quite near. It came up all in an instant—twice the tower's height, with an enormous platform upon its top. Once, for just an instant, Alan fancied he saw the shape of an airliner resting there. A thing which, because it persisted long enough for him to see it, must have been lying there for many months.
The city seemed a single solid structure now—a vast building of tumbled, storied wings, and walls, towers and spires. A city, roofed over. The roof was over the tower now. The buildings had long since flowed over the park. No trees here now. No sky; no light from nature. The persisting man-made lights now were visible, blurred spots of dull yellow-red glow. It seemed suddenly a city infernal. Teeming multitudes here under one vast roof. Spider-like aerial bridges and viaducts were everywhere.
The tower presently was set in the space of a street. Alan could see very little of the city's extent—a street of many pedestrian levels one above the other, flanked with great lights.
The street had come into being, risen around the tower—endured for a moment. And then, as though leprous, it began dismembering. A portion of it melting away; then another. But other buildings—other viaducts—other towers rose to fill up the gaps. And always larger structures.
The tower now seemed traveling faster. Alan could imagine the city—this one vast roof with the rivers flowing beneath it. Staten Island with the space of Turber's hospital, was doubtless under this same roof. And all the upper bay; and the New Jersey shore of the Hudson; and Brooklyn and all this end of Long Island.
Incredible millions of people, living here in this enormous, monstrous beehive—living pallid; some of them perhaps, in the poverty-stricken sections, never having seen the moon save as its light might struggle through their translucent roof; not knowing the sunlight rays; never having seen the sea, with only gloomy rivers flowing through tunnels to represent it; wondering, perchance, what grass might be, and things that people richer and more traveled spoke of as trees. Pallid people of the monstrous city, slaves to their own machinery!
Alan clung to the balcony rail, with Lea beside him. Her hand was on his arm as though to steady him. Occasionally she met his glance and smiled; or gestured to indicate the gray shifting wonders of the scene around them.
Alan noticed now that in this constricted area where the tower was set, there seemed few changes. These vast structures, of a material the engineers of this age may fatuously have termed indestructible, were enduring over larger periods. They melted away occasionally and others took their places. But the form was about the same.
As though now mankind here were resting. The peak of civilization here, and perhaps upon all the earth, was reached. Man resting upon the summit of his achievements. But in nature there is no rest! A thousand years, here upon civilization's summit. And then—a little step backward! Mankind, softened by ceasing to advance, turning decadent. A little backward step.
As though this city here were a symbol of it, Alan could see the decline. A rift in the street—and it was not rebuilt. Another rift. A leprous slash—a hole that gave Alan a wide extent of vista to the east.
Doubtless, upon an earth so unified by transportation as this age must have been, it was not only New York decaying—but also a decadence of all mankind over all the world. Alan saw it here. By what might have been the year 5000 A.D., the shadows of the vast city lay in ruins around the tower. Broken buildings, crumbling visibly as Alan stared at them. Fallen roof—the whole ramified and multiform structure everywhere lowering as nature pulled it down. It lay piled in shadowy mangled fragments.
There were trees now! Vegetation springing up. A wild, neglected growth. A forest growing in the ruins of the city, where the occasional broken spires still stood like headstones; and then melted down.
The forest grew around the tower; the city was almost buried. Lea plucked at Alan. She murmured something.
"Shall we go down?" he said.
She smiled. She said, quite distinctly, "Yes."
She led him down the ladder. He felt more secure now. There was no sense of movement of the tower; the ladder-steps were firm and solid. Alan saw the forest melting. A sylvan landscape seemed coming.
In the lower tower room they found San still intent upon his dials. He drew Alan over and indicated that single dial which to Alan was legible. It marked 6650 A.D. The pointer was traveling much faster than when Alan had seen it before; but as he watched it now he could see that it was slackening. He sat regarding it; listening to the musical, unintelligible words of his two companions.
Then they gave him food and drink. And Lea again examined his bruised shoulder and the gash on his head. But they were not serious; he had forgotten them.
6700 A.D. 6800 A.D. The tower's flight was slowing; the hum of the room seemed progressively at a lower pitch. They were nearing their destination; preparing to stop in 7012.
Alan's mind again went to Nanette and me. Where were we in all these whirling years? A sense of loneliness, depression swept him. He felt utterly baffled, helpless. But he tried to shake it off. He said aloud, as though to cheer himself:
"Lea—see here—I've got to talk to you. Understand?" It seemed almost that she did. "My sister, Nanette—that villain Turber has her—he's always wanted her, understand? I've got to get her back, Lea. Damn it, I've got to find him—get her away from him!"
But all Lea could do was touch him sympathetically.
Baffled. This cursed barrier of language! "Lea, what is Turber to you?"
San, with readier wit, pointed again to the dial. Indicated 7012, and then gestured to his lips.
Alan nodded. "Yes, I understand—when we get there we can talk."
They came to the year 7000. Traveling slowly now.
Then Lea had an idea. In the automobile, coming from Staten Island, she had been wrapped in Nanette's cloak. It was discarded now; but it lay here in the tower room. She picked it up and stood before Alan. Fragile, beautiful little creature! The soft folds of the sky-blue drapery fell about her figure; the golden tresses lay in a mass over her shoulders. Her eyes, clear pale blue as a morning sky, were fixed on Alan. A wave of emotion swept him; it seemed that he had never seen a girl so beautiful.
"Nanette," she said, lifting the cloak.
"Yes," he responded. "Nanette's cloak. I understand. But what—"
She took Alan's finger and moved it over the dial. Aimlessly. She said: "Nanette—Turber—Edward—"
And shook her head. She did not know where we were. But then she indicated the cloak again, and smiled, and said, "Yes—yes."
What could she mean by that? Was she trying to convey that with Nanette's cloak they would be able to learn where Nanette was? It seemed so.
A tenseness had come to San. He was alert at his mechanisms. He spoke sharply to Lea. Her hand went to Alan, steadying him. Alan braced himself. San flung a switch-lever. The tower seemed almost to lurch physically.
They had reached their destination. Alan's senses had suddenly reeled; but they cleared at once. The tower room was vibrationless; the hum was stilled. San opened the door. A warm sunlight streamed in.
The Space of Central Park, five thousand years in our future!
Lea and San led Alan from the tower.
CHAPTER VII
OATH OF VENGEANCE
They went down a flight of stone steps to the ground. Alan found that the tower now was set in the midst of a garden of gloriously vivid blossoms. The air was redolent with their perfume. A brook of sunlit water flowed near by. There were cool bushes and shade trees, green and brown; cool green lawns of sward; little winding paths.
A garden of a few acres. It was all inclosed by a wall of masonry—a wall some twenty or thirty feet high, looped and turreted. The figure of a man was on the top of the wall, over a gateway fairly near at hand. As they stepped from the tower his arm went up with a gesture of recognition.
Realization swept Alan. This garden, this wall, this pacing sentry—all this we had seen on the television. We had witnessed then the tower's departure; by some vagary of Nature's laws the etheric waves carrying this image had come to us of 1945.
They passed through the gateway of the wall. The guard on its top called down something; and stared at Alan curiously as they passed through.
Beyond the wall a sylvan landscape was spread to Alan's gaze. The Space of Manhattan Island. He could still recognize it. A river behind him. Another river ahead a mile or so. The Hudson shimmering in its valley. He could see the cliffs of its further bank.
Near at hand the open country was dotted with trees, checkered with round patches of cultivated fields. There were figures working in the fields. And occasional habitations—low, oval houses of green thatch.
A road of dull smooth white wound from this gateway over the countryside toward the river. Animals, strange of aspect, were slowly dragging carts.
A city was off there, along this nearer bank of the river—a stretch of houses more closely set. City! It seemed some primitive village. All this—primitive; as though here might be some lost Indian tribe of our early ages. The field workers, garbed in vivid colors. Their squat little carts, slow-moving with broad-horned oxen. The quiet village strung along the calm-flowing river. All picturesque and primitive.
But Alan knew it was not barbarism, but decadence. Civilization had reached its summit, and declined. Fallen back, to this.
Lea was in advance of Alan and San. She turned into a small gateway. They passed through a garden profuse with flowers. A low house stood here, half hidden by the verdure. An old man was at the doorway—a stalwart old fellow with a furious white beard; a shaggy white mane of hair; a robe of sober gray, monklike with its rope about his bulging middle.
He greeted Lea and San with a gesture of affection. He stared open-mouthed at Alan. Lea explained to him swiftly. And then came relief to Alan. This old patriarch spoke what he doubtless called the ancient English. He said slowly, with a meticulous, careful intonation:
"I thank you for saving Lea from Wolf Turber."
"But we've got to locate them," Alan insisted. "How can we? With this cloak? Yes, it belongs to my sister."
"I will take you shortly to my instrument room," said the old man. "I have had Lentz, my assistant, preparing the Time-vision—we cannot do it more quickly."
They had talked now for perhaps half an hour—old Powl, as he was called, interpreting for Lea and San. He was their grandfather. It was he who had discovered the secret of this Time-traveling tower. He had built it; and had constructed also a series of instruments which he called Time-vision. He was, in this age of decadence, one of the few living scientists. And he was a language student as well—he had trained himself in many of the dead languages of the past.
"My son," Powl said, "the father of Lea and San took my tower and once stopped in the year you call about 1925. He paused for just a moment, but when he returned here there was found a young man with him. A stowaway, as you would call it. That man was Wolf Turber."
It was all presently clear to Alan. Turber had come here; had stolen the secret of the tower and the Time-vision, and getting followers had built himself his Time-vehicle—and departed.
"He said he was in love with Lea. But she was afraid of him—his attentions were unwelcome. We told him so."
Like Nanette! "I understand," said Alan bitterly. "My sister—"
"He has her now, you tell me. That is bad. You must get her back. And kill him."
The old man's mild blue eyes suddenly flashed. Lea spoke. He interpreted.
"She says, I must tell you—we have sworn to kill Turber. He murdered my son—father of Lea and San. Stole our platinum treasure—and murdered my son, who was defending it."
Alan thought he had never heard such intensity as came into the old man's voice. "We are careful with our tower—we do nothing evil with it. Turber's vehicle is all for evil. My son died—and there as he died we swore—myself and Lea and San—that some time we would kill Turber and destroy his vehicle."
Lea and San understood what he was saying. They stood beside him, with faces white and solemn. He added: "But there seems little that we can do. There are no weapons here. We have no need in this age for any scientific weapons. I cannot travel in the tower—I am too old to stand the shock. San must always stay with it—to guard it. And so it all falls to Lea. She has passed through the different ages in the tower. There are weapons in the Past, of course. But I have not wanted Lea to stop. And Turber is very powerful, very elusive."
Lea interrupted again. Powl said: "We know that Turber has a strong-hold in the year 2445 A.D."
"Five hundred years in the future of my Time-world," said Alan.
"Yes. Your city of New York is then about at its height. Turber is powerful there—impregnable. There is only one other Time in which Turber habitually stops. The year 1945. Lea went there. But it was foolish, we all realize now. As you know—she could accomplish nothing. And but for you, Turber would have had her!"
Again Lea interrupted. Powl translated: "She wants me to say that now she will learn your Ancient English. There are so many dead languages—but she is very quick to learn—when interested."
"Interested?" said Alan. His gaze went to Lea's eager face. A wave of color swept her; but her eyes remained level and she held out her hand. Its touch thrilled Alan. As though the clasp were sealing a compact; unspoken, but he could read her eyes and feel, surprisingly, the sudden answer in his own heart.
San, too, held out his hand. Powl said: "My children find in you a friend—sorely needed." Again the old man's eyes flashed. "We have sworn that Turber will die. He has your sister, and your friend. Your own purpose—"
"To get them back," said Alan. "But where is he? I don't think he will return to 1945. You say he is impregnable in 2445—"
"Yes. But he is not there now. If he stops—in some earlier age, as we hope—then will be your opportunity."
A man came to the doorway of the room, spoke to Powl, and disappeared. Powl stood up. He said, with brisk energy:
"The instruments are ready. Turber, we think, is still traveling in time. We will try, with your sister's cloak, to locate him as soon as he stops anywhere."
They left the house, crossing the gardens toward an outbuilding in which was the instrument room. Alan's mind was tumultuous with his thoughts. This incredible catastrophe into which so unexpectedly he and those he loved had fallen! Alan had always been one to walk alone in life. He made few friends; his friendship for me, his love for Nanette—to these he could now add an emotion, as yet barely understood, his feeling for Lea.
Into this, his world, Turber had suddenly thrust himself, abducting Nanette; capturing, perhaps killing me. What could Alan do about it? Suppose they located the Time-world to which Turber had gone? Alan could go there—with this girl Lea to help him and San to guard the tower. Hopeless adventure! He had one small weapon, his revolver. And a frail girl for companion. There seemed no one else from whom he could get help. No one in this Time-world of Lea's.
His mind roved the possibility of getting help elsewhere. His own world of 1945? Who could he get there to do more than smile incredulously at his fantastic tale? He envisaged all the other centuries. But to go to any one of them for help—for weapons and men—was hardly practical. He would be a stranger; he would fall into a strange civilization with only this same incredible story to aid him. He would be imprisoned perhaps—or, at best, be disregarded as a lunatic.
Lea had faced all this. She had tried it in 1945. It was not feasible. Alan saw now that he would have to depend upon himself. The tower would transport him. The rest lay with himself, his own wits. He felt that very probably I was dead. He would rescue Nanette from Turber's clutches if he could. For the rest—this oath of vengeance sworn by Lea and her brother against Turber—Alan gritted his teeth; and as he thought of Nanette's gentle beauty and Turber's grinning, satanic visage, he swore to himself a similar oath. He would kill Turber if he could!
"This way," said Powl. "Stoop down—you are so tall for our door openings."
It was a low-vaulted room, dimly illumined. A laboratory crowded with strangely fashioned apparatus. Powl made no attempt at explanation of his devices. Nor was Alan interested, except in one—the Time-vision which might disclose Nanette.
"My assistant," said Powl. "He is called Lentz—he speaks a little of your ancient language."
A man of about thirty rose from a seat before one of the instruments. He offered his hand. Powl added to Alan:
"You may speak openly before Lentz. He is my trusted helper—the only person besides ourselves who knows the secrets of my Time-vision and of the tower."
He was an undersized, heavy-set fellow, garbed in a short robe like San's. His black hair was clipped close on a bullet head. He wore goggles which now were pushed up on his forehead.
"I speak very little," he said as he shook hands. "I am ready if it is you have the cloak."
The tubes of this instrument might have been Neon lamps by their aspect. There were coils; a multiplicity of wires; a tiny series of amplifiers; a system of prisms and mirrors; beams of lights, whirling from tiny mirrors swiftly rotating. There was a metal tube like a small microscope; a rack beneath it, upon which a dull red light was focused. There were rows of dials—tuning dials, and indicators; and a large fluorescent screen which seemed under electronic bombardment from the rear. The whole apparatus occupied a table some six feet long, with the dials to one side and the screen upright at its end.
Lentz placed Nanette's cloak upon the rack; he focused the red light upon it; then stood gazing into the eyepiece of the tube as one might gaze into a microscope.
Lea and San stood by Alan. Lea gestured toward the screen; it was empty of image. Then she pointed to one of the dials. Alan saw it bore figures he could understand—figures ranging over thousands of centuries. Some of it B.C.; the rest A.D. There was a point on it marked zero. The indicator stood there at rest.
"Your ancient calendar," said Powl. "With this garment belonging to your sister we may be able to tune our receivers and make connection. The image of her is here in the ether—if we can adjust to it."
Lentz was twirling the tuning knobs. The pointers on all the dials stirred a little; images seemed trying to form on the fluorescent screen.
A minute. Ten minutes. Then Lentz relaxed.
"Not now," he said. "It will not come. Presently we try again."
"They may still be traveling," said Powl. "It would be difficult to get the image—"
They waited; then tried again, but failed. Where was Nanette? Despair flooded Alan. Over all these diversified centuries, how could they ever find her? She seemed so hopelessly far away. And yet he realized not far in Space. A few miles from here probably, no more.
"We will never find her," said Lentz.
Alan gazed at him sharply. "You think not?"
"No." The fellow seemed confused under Alan's eyes. "That I mean—I hope so, but it seems not."
"We must keep trying," said Powl. "The other instrument is more sensitive. Have you the tubes for it connected?"
"No," said Lentz.
The tubes were in an adjoining room. Lentz went in to prepare them. The connecting door was open; Alan heard Lentz moving about, and heard presently the hiss and snap of a current as he charged the tubes.
San and Lea sat murmuring together in low tones. They addressed Powl. He listened. He said to Alan:
"Lea wants me to explain—if Turber takes your sister directly to the great city of 2445, still it is not quite hopeless. We think we have located a weapon—a single very powerful weapon—"
The old man's voice lowered. Lea and San bent forward intently. There was a weapon—a projector, Powl called it—which was mentioned in history. It had been built as an historical curiosity. It stood in a museum of Greater New York. The contemporary history of that Time—when weapons of such a kind were long since abandoned—said that this specimen in the museum was in perfect working order. Its operation was described. It was scientifically preserved in the museum against the ravages of time.
Lea and San—traveling in their tower—had seen the Time-world when the city was crumbled into ruins. The museum was abandoned; there would be no one there to stop Lea if she went and searched in the ruins of the museum for the projector.
Powl was talking very softly. A tenseness was on him.
"This we have told no one."
"What Time-world?" Alan asked.
"We think the best year to try for it would be about 5000 A.D."
It chanced that of the four of them, only Alan was facing the doorway of the connecting room. The sound of Lentz moving about was suddenly stilled. The realization of that struck Alan.
A segment of the other room was visible through the open door; Lentz was not in sight, but it seemed as though a shadow of him lay on the floor near the doorway.
Alan whispered sharply, "Quiet." He leaped to his feet; he darted noiselessly across the room with the startled glances of his companions upon him. Beyond the doorway he came upon Lentz standing close against the wall. A tube was in his hand; he was polishing it with a piece of cloth.
"Oh," said Alan. "I didn't know you were here."
"The instrument will be ready quite shortly." Lentz moved back to his work.
Alan returned to his seat. He murmured to Powl: "Let's talk about that later—not now."
Lea touched his arm. She whispered: "Yes—yes, understand—not now."
The thing startled them all. There was a brief silence; they could hear Lentz moving normally about the other room.
Alan asked Powl at last: "Can you operate your instrument here? Without Lentz to do it?"
"Lea and San can," said Powl. "Though not so well as Lentz."
"Let's try it again, but wait a minute."
Alan went to the door. "Lentz, how soon will you be ready?"
Lentz looked up from his work. "Quite shortly."
"Good. I'll close this door. Knock when you're ready." He ignored the fellow's surprise, and dropped the door closed with a bang.
"Now," said Alan. "Try it."
With Nanette's cloak again, Lea and San tried the instrument. Almost at once results came. The screen showed an image. A starlit night. A forest glade. Turber's aero lay glistening in the starlight. Figures were moving about the glade. Strangely garbed, burly figures of men; and a group of half-naked, feathered savages stood near by, upon the shore of a river. A canoe lay there. To one side, a camp fire showed its dull yellow light through the forest underbrush.
There was an air of inactivity about the scene. Turber came presently and stood in the cabin doorway of the aero. His familiar hunched figure, with the starlight on him and a yellow-red glow from the camp fire. Turber, waiting here for something!
The dial marked 1664 A.D. Powl was trembling with eagerness. Lea and San snapped off the instrument. San had recognized the location of the scene. It was the Hudson River shore of Manhattan Island, no more than a mile from the tower-space. Powl said hurriedly: "San has the exact reading—the year, month and day. Turber will not expect you, that night there in the forest. If you can creep up on him with your revolver—"
It might be possible, in the gloom of the forest, to get up to the aero unobserved.
They made a few hurried preparations. San and Lea would not be able to talk with Alan; they made their plans now, with Powl for interpreter. Back at the tower, Powl stood by its steps.
"Good-by. Do your best." He gripped Alan's hand.
The tower door closed upon Alan, Lea and San. A moment, and they had started. The room reeled, but this time Alan was prepared for it. He recovered in a moment. He stood by Lea and smiled. He said: "Not so bad this time."
"No," said Lea. "All right."
There was a sound in the humming, vibrating room. A rustling behind them. From a shadowed corner a figure rose up.
Lentz! His swart face was smiling. He was by the door. He had followed them in. He said to Alan: "I thought better I come, so I can talk for you and them. We must plan carefully what we do. I want to help you."
CHAPTER VIII
UNFATHOMABLE SCOUNDREL
I must go back now to that time at dawn in Central Park, when we were set upon by Turber and his men. I recall that something struck me and I fell. Turber was holding Nanette. I caught him by the legs as I went down, but he kicked me off. Then I was struck again and everything went black.
When I recovered consciousness I was lying on a bunk in a small cabin of Turber's aero. I seemed not greatly hurt. I sat up, wholly confused at first; then lay down again, listening to the hum of the room, feeling the metal bunk vibrating beneath me.
My head was roaring; my hair was matted with blood from a ragged scalp wound, and I was sore and bruised all over. But I lay and felt my strength coming back.
I was alone in the tiny cabin. It was not much more than twice the size of the bed. There was a vague silver glow in it; I could see a small window with a transparent pane. And a door. The door stood ajar.
I got to the floor on my feet and stood swaying dizzily. I felt queerly light-headed—as though I were about to float away. My revolver was gone; so were my overcoat and hat and outer jacket.
I lurched to the window. The aero seemed poised a hundred feet or so above the ground. I gazed, incredulous, at a blurred, shifting, melting landscape.
The aero was traveling in Time. But I recall that in my confusion, only half conscious, I could not realize what this might mean. And suddenly I was faint. I tumbled back onto the cot. I fainted—or drifted away into sleep.
I was awakened by a sound near me. I sat up abruptly, this time fully conscious and clear-headed. Turber stood in the cabin regarding me.
"Well, you've come to yourself at last?"
I sank back on one elbow. "Yes. What are you doing to me?" I gulped with a sudden thought. "Where is—where's Nanette?"
"So you're worried about her? Be consoled—she's worried about you. And she has cause."
He stood toying with his ribbon, dangling his glasses. He was dressed as I had seen him at the hospital. He regarded me sardonically.
"You're alive—let that suffice."
I moved to get up, but he waved me back. "Don't bother. You will annoy us if you come out. Are you hungry?"
"No," I said.
"Nanette and I will be breakfasting presently."
I added, "I am hungry."
That amused him. My mind was active now—fully alert. I asked: "We're traveling in Time, aren't we? Where are we going? What do you want with Nanette and me? This is all very strange."
I was trying to gauge him. I managed a smile, as though my situation were annoying, but nothing more. "Shall I come out and have something to eat with you?"
His smile broadened. Satanic scoundrel. Inscrutable. He said:
"Yes. I'll call you." And then his whole face changed as though a mask had dropped upon it. He rasped: "You, Edward Williams—what are you to Nanette?"
It took me wholly by surprise. I stammered: "Why, an old friend."
"Yes?" He changed again. He purred it. His hunched shoulders were exaggerated as he leaned forward, and his fingers were unconsciously stroking his waist-coat. "Yes? Nothing more than that?"
More than that! It flooded me now; I knew in that instant what all my life I had not known before—how dear Nanette had grown to me—of all the world, most dear.
I must have been stammering. He cut me short. "Strange that Fate should have delivered you into my hands." Purring again; he seemed like a cat, licking his lips. His eyes roved me. "She loves you."
I gathered my wits. "What are you talking about? Nanette love me? What nonsense!" My tone sounded hollow; his black gaze was boring into me. I said boldly: "Why should it bother you?"
I wondered why he had not already killed me. He answered, not only my question, but almost my thought.
"A girl who amounts to nothing, but it happens that I love her. Wolf Turber—the great Wolf Turber—you would not think it of me, would you?"
Unfathomable fellow! There was almost sincerity mixed with the irony of his tone. "And because I want her love—she has just a little hold over me." He added wryly: "I've just now promised her I would not kill you. She thinks of nothing else, so I promised her—to get it off her mind."
I managed, "Well, I thank you both."
"You need not. Her brother Alan—there is no complication with him since we left him dead back there in the park."
It sent a shudder over me; but somehow I did not believe it.
A man stood at the door. "Wolf Turber, will you come?"
"Coming, Jonas."
Turber leaned smilingly over me. Against all my will, I shrank back from his grinning, massive face.
"I will not kill you. But this you need not mention to Nanette—there are things not so pleasant as being swiftly killed. We will take you with us. She and I—we'll take you to my great city. And when we get there she will see you as a hideous object, Williams." His chuckle was gruesome. "If she has love in her heart for you, it will vanish when she beholds you as you will be then."
He straightened. "Lie where you are. When I call you can come out—if you promise not to be troublesome."
He closed the door upon me.
CHAPTER IX
THE WOMAN JOSEFA
This Time-voyage in the Turber aero seemed in duration four or five hours. Crowded hours! A cosmorama of whirling eons. Turber flung us far backward in Time. I did not see any of this part of the trip. I lay in the cabin, pondering what Turber had said—wondering what I could do to escape with Nanette. And wondering if Alan really were dead.
Then Turber called me for the meal. I found Nanette white and solemn and very silent. She spoke to me, casually, it seemed cautiously. I had always known Nanette to have a will of her own; and she was nimble-witted. I saw now that she was wholly on her guard. She was silent, apparently docile with Turber. Watchful. She found opportunity once to press my hand. And to murmur, "Careful, Edward—do not anger him."
A new mood was upon Turber. He seemed in a high good humor. He was courtly with Nanette. Pleasant enough with me; but there was an edge of irony to his pleasantness.
"A long trip, Williams, but we are comfortable enough. If you cause no trouble you may sit in the control room later. A wonderful view from there."
I asked, "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere," he said. "In Space we are not moving. I have us poised over what you and I used to call the shore of the Hudson River. You remember it? About the foot of Eightieth Street."
He seemed pleased to talk—probably for Nanette's benefit, to please his vanity by exalting himself. "I'm taking us back in Time—back near the beginning of life on this earth. Then coming forward. I have several stops to make. Mere pauses—though in the year 1664 we shall have to make a longer stop. Stay there perhaps for the passing of a night. It's a quaint world here, in 1664." He chuckled. "It is to yield me, I hope, quite a little treasure. Gold and jewels. Money, as you know, is an all-powerful thing."
There were just the three of us at the meal. The interior of this hundred-foot aero was capacious, but there seemed only a few people on board. Turber once made reference to the fact that upon this, his last passing, we had many people to gather. But what few I now saw made a motley crew indeed! There were several men, brown, white, hairy of body, clothed in crude animal skins; heads which showed retreating foreheads upon which the tangled, matted hair grew low; dangling, gorilla-like arms. Men from some primitive age, snatched up by Turber. They seemed stupidly docile; animal-like.
There was a fellow who seemed the opposite extreme. Turber called him Jonas. A man of about thirty, small and slender, with a long white robe, a golden-tasseled sash, and a gold band about his forehead. His wavy brown hair was long to the base of his neck. His skin was pale white. His features delicately molded; his nose thin, high-bridged; his mouth loose-lipped. He was obsequious with Turber. He suggested Lea and San a trifle. I surmised that he might belong to their Time-world.
The giant Indian, he of the flat, broken nose, was operating the controls of the aero. Turber called him Bluntnose. He was, I learned later, a Mohican Indian of New York State.
Motley crew! And there was one woman. Turber addressed her as Josefa. She served us the meal. She wore a waist and a gaudy skirt with a vivid sash. Her thick black hair fell on her shoulders. Her face had a barbaric beauty with a mixture of races stamped upon it. She spoke English, with occasional Spanish words intermingled.
She served us with what seemed a defiant sullenness. It contrasted with Turber's good humor. He reached for the woman once as she passed him—reached for her with a coarse caress. But she drew away; and his grin at me was a leer of amusement.
This pantomime—which Nanette did not see—was to be plain enough. And a moment later, as I chanced to look around, I saw the woman standing watching us; staring at Nanette and Turber. And there was upon her face a blazing intensity of hate. She stood tense, hands upon her hips. Her fingers were writhing; and in the folds of her sash I saw protruding the handle of a dagger.
CHAPTER X
PLANNING THE ESCAPE
We finished the meal. Turber rose. "Come into the control room. We can see better from there."
There was only Bluntnose in the control room. He sat at his instruments and dials. His face was inscrutable as he looked up and saw Nanette and me.
"We will sit here," said Turber. "Here, Nanette—by me."
He pushed me away with silent vehemence. I sat down by a window. The door to the corridor which ran the length of the aero was behind me. I saw the woman Josefa out there; she was staring after us, but in a moment she moved away.
Turber spoke to his Indian. "You have been pausing, Bluntnose?"
"Yes." The Indian spoke with a low guttural intonation. "Yes. Saw nothing where could stop."
"No," said Turber. "Well, we'll go forward now." He turned to me. "We had hoped, along here in these primitive ages there might be some great reptile lying dead. One with tusks." He grinned. "In civilized times, ivory is very valuable."
He sat beside Nanette. "I'm not sure that we shall stop, child. Except in 1664. I am impatient to get back home with you. We will have a wonderful life, Nanette—riches and power. Master and mistress of all the world. Wolf Turber—master of the world. You'll be proud of me."
I could not catch her answer. I could see her involuntarily shrinking away from his caress.
I sat alert with roving thoughts. Nanette and I would have to escape; but how? If the aero paused in one of these primitive ages, could I snatch Nanette and leap out? Unthinkable! But in 1664? If we paused there for a night, I would make my play then. Nanette and I, to live out our lives together in little Dutch-English New York.
There was nothing I could do now, and presently I was engrossed, listening to Turber's voice, and regarding the vast scene spread before us through these windows. The control room was in the bow-peak of the aero. Banks of windows on both sides gave nearly an unobstructed view.
Tremendous cosmorama! We were still poised motionless about two hundred feet in the air. My mind went to my own Time-world. New York City of 1945. Beneath me here would be the New York Central Railroad tracks; Riverside Drive; the Hudson. Grant's Tomb, just a short distance to the north. And behind me, the spread of New York's streets and solid buildings.
This same Space, how different now! Turber was saying to Nanette: "We are about one billion years, B.C. That's a long time in the past, isn't it? But we are traveling forward very fast."
I gazed out upon a landscape gray and misty; blurred, unreal as a shimmering ghost. The colors of nature were blended into gray; melting phantoms—the changes of a century encompassed within an instant of my consciousness. It created a pseudo-movement; a blurred, changing outline.
An unreality, a ghostly aspect upon all the scene. Yet I was the speeding phantom; and these things at which I stared were the realities.
A vast area of gray land and water lay spread around us. The water lashed and tumbled; swirls of mist and steam rose from it. The land lay with a gray look of movement. A naked land. No vegetation here yet. No soil. A land perhaps almost viscous, congealed from the lashing ocean. It spread like a great gray plain; the mists and vapors rose from the land-crust as from the sea. Mists and swirling masses of steam, surging up into the orange-gray of the sky. Condensing, dissipating, forming the atmosphere.
I fancied as we plunged through these early centuries that vast storms were here. Vast cataclysms of nature. Torrential deluges of hot rain pouring down from the clouds that these mists were forming. Dire winds that plucked and tore at the sea; earthquakes that rocked and tumbled this land and swept this sea with tidal waves gigantic.
Life here? This was the Beginning. There was a shore line quite near us. It wavered and blurred as the centuries altered it. A reach of shallow water where the waves rolled up against the bleak land-rocks. Life was beginning there. In the shallows of the sea I could envisage the microscopic protoplasms, like algae that form the green scum on a pond, lying here in the shallows. Restless, irritable organisms! Desiring food to eat. Urged by the primitive spark of life to eat and grow and multiply.
Unending sweep of changing land and sea and these living things within it! A million years swept into the Past in a moment. An unfamiliar scene here now. A different sweep of land—a different reach of sea. A land rising to the west as though a great serrated mountain chain had heaved up in those whirling centuries. Gray, shadowy mountains—bleak ghosts of rocky peaks. Dark valleys dank with heavy vapors; a coastal plain against which the sea was beating.
I could fancy that on the lower steppes of this more solid crust vegetation now was taking hold. We were passing too fast for any details. There were fleeting glimpses of what might have been vegetation. A forest—springing from nothing, existing and vanishing while I blinked. But I could seem to see a forest, springing into lush life from the heated soil; growing to a jungle; whirled away in a cataclysm that tore and ripped all this land and water. Or a forest that grew, lived and decayed; enriched the soil with other, different giants of trees to live after it.