CHAPTER 2

Vision of the future

Jeffrey looked about him and could scarcely believe what he saw. He was apparently on a rising stretch of ground outside a city. And what a city! It climbed in cathedrals of blue metal to a cloudless sky lighted by the brilliant sun. He stepped down to soft grass and took a breath of warm yet curiously invigorating air.

Five thousand years, Dr. Whittaker had said. Presumably, then, this was the world of 7012 A.D… Jeffrey wanted to explore that city, but to do so would involve leaving the time machine, and if it should operate on its reverse mechanism when he was not there? On the other hand, Whittaker had said that some weeks might elapse here whilst only an hour of normal Time passed in 2012. And after all, there was a reason for having made this amazing journey—to discover if Whittaker were still alive.

So Jeffrey began walking towards the city—down a long slope of smooth grass, which almost imperceptibly shaded off into blue metal roadway as the outskirts of the metropolis were reached.

Now, for the first time, Jeffrey saw the canyons of streets with metal bridges spanning them. Upon these bridges traffic moved in unending lines. Higher still were people going back and forth. This metropolis of 7012 was a gigantic termitarium of industry, and wherever he looked Jeffrey could see no end to its extent. He slowed to a halt, feeling dwarfed and incapable of understanding, much as a Neanderthal man might feel if he came suddenly upon a metropolis in 2012.

After several minutes Jeffrey glanced back to where the time machine stood on the rise of ground, then again he went forward, impelled by the fascination of it all.

Before long he came to the end of the roadway where it expanded into one of the central ground-level streets. Here there were men and women on the move, but no sign of traffic. Uncertain as to what would happen to him Jeffrey kept on going and so came into the midst of the passers-by. To his relief they paid him scant attention, probably accepting him as one of the community. The reason was not puzzling, for in clothing the men and women were little different to 2012, except perhaps for a greater richness of texture. In any event, Jeffrey’s tweed suit was not so outlandish as to make him a figure of curiosity.

Gaining more courage, he moved with less furtiveness, studying the mammoth buildings as he went, and it gradually dawned in him that things were not so vastly changed after all. The names on some of the edifices were still recognizable as the English language, except for phonetic spelling.

Presumably, then, language would not be so much different—so when he came to an angle of the street where the human traffic was less dense Jeffrey took a chance and addressed a passing man. He looked very much like a 2012 lawyer, carrying a briefcase made of some curious metallic substance.

“Excuse me…” Jeffrey got the words out and waited. To his relief he was answered in a perfectly normal tongue. He seemed genial, and disposed to help.

“Certainly. Can I help?”

“I don’t want to take up your time, but what is this city? I’m a stranger here.”

“I judged that from your suit!” The passerby surveyed Jeffrey’s attire and gave a faintly puzzled smile. “From the provinces, I suppose? This is London, my friend.”

Jeffrey wrestled mentally. The time machine had not moved in space at all and had started on its time journey north of Birmingham it could only mean that in the interval London had spread up to the Midlands.

“London? Thanks. Don’t think me too ridiculous, but what year is this?”

The man hesitated. “You look tired. How about something to eat?”

“Well, I don’t want to be a nuisance—”

“Not a bit of it. I’m in no hurry.”

Accordingly they went to an automat where, by radio control, a meal was supplied as he and his friendly guide sat at a quiet corner table.

“Now,” the citizen of 7012 said deliberately, as Jeffery began to eat, “what’s this all about? I’m probably more curious than most because I’m one of the historians belonging to the Central Pool of Information. You are wearing clothes, which, to my experienced eye, suggests a period five thousand years old. Where on earth did you get them?”

“I’ve come out of Time,” Jeffrey replied frankly. “Believe it or not, as you wish, but the machine which did it is not very far from here. I am on a tour of exploration to see what kind of a world it is five thousand years ahead of twenty twelve. Now laugh all you like.”

“I’m not laughing. This is another age of miracles, my friend, when only an idiot laughs at that which he doesn’t understand.”

“Thanks.” Jeffrey gave a smile. “May I ask more questions?”

“Surely. In turn you can answer some of mine and confirm puzzling historical points. My name, incidentally, is Arlin Jag.”

“I’m Jeffrey Collins. Tell me, Mr. Jag, is there a familiar figure at present dominating the world called Irwin Whittaker?”

Arlin Jag shook his head firmly. “No such person as Irwin Whittaker—though there is most certainly a world ruler.” He hesitated and glanced about him, then lowered his voice. “I’m risking death by saying that the Mind is the most ruthless person I have ever known. Efficient and brilliant, yes, as well he ought to be with five thousand years of knowledge behind him, but definitely cruel. I don’t give much for the chances of Mira Sandos who goes before him today on a charge of treachery.”

Jeffrey frowned. “Mira Sandos? Who is that?”

“The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The Mind will destroy her after torture, as he always does. Everybody loathes the Mind, but all obey him because they must. He rules the world and knows everything. Five thousand years have seen to that.”

“Five thousand years,” Jeffrey mused. “In that case it must be Irwin Whittaker, but his name has dropped out. Where can I see him?”

For some reason an extraordinary expression had come to Arlin Jag’s face. It was one of uncertainty and apprehension. Abruptly he got to his feet and put some queer currency down on the table.

“I must go,” he said briefly, taking up his case. “That money will cover the meal. Put it in the receiver box by the door. Goodbye.”

“But, Mr. Jag—” Jeffrey jumped up, but it was no use. Arlin Jag was on the move, and he kept going, finally vanishing in the street. Puzzled, Jeffrey stared after him, then feeling self-conscious in his ‘ancient’ clothes with the stares of men and women fixed upon him he too began to move. For some reason people got out of his way almost with deference as he headed for the doors. The money he put in the receiving box, which automatically opened the door for him—and so he stepped out into the street.

To him it seemed perfectly evident that Whittaker had survived the age-destroying drug and become master of the world. But how to make sure? Well, there might be a way to do that.

As he began walking, he again became aware of people glancing at him, and some of them appeared to shy away from him in fear. Finally he arrived at the conclusion it could only be his ‘old-fashioned’ clothes that were responsible.

At length he singled out an amiable-looking passer-by.

“Pardon me, but where can I attend the trial of Mira Sandos, who is to go before the Mind, today?”

The man looked astonished. “With all the telecasts blazing it and every newscan full of it, you don’t know that? The Temple of Justice—there, across the street.”

“Thanks.” Jeffrey crossed the street and entered the majestic edifice, ignoring the curious, puzzled glances cast at him.

So dense was the audience he could get nowhere near the front, so he took a position at the back, half concealed by an alcove. From here he could see the solitary stand in the centre of the vast floor whereon the prisoner would answer the charges; but the high seat of the judge—the Mind, ruler of the world—was hidden from him. Though he would not be able to see if the Mind were Irwin Whittaker he knew he would recognize the voice. In any case it had to be Whittaker. Had he not lived five thousand years?

Then came a solemn hush and the banging of a gavel. Jeffrey strained his neck but could not see the Mind. He did however see the prisoner as she was led out by two massive guards, slender chains fastened to her wrists.

Jeffrey realized he was looking upon the most lovely woman he had ever seen. She epitomized everything ho expected in a woman. She transcended Betty as the sky transcends earth. Despite the distance between them he made out her graceful figure, lightly clad in curious draperies, the copper of her hair and the perfection of her features. She looked no more than twenty-five. Her stance when she came to a halt was one of queenly defiance. In a matter of seconds Jeffrey fell in love and forgot he was five thousand years ahead of his own Time.

“Mira Sandos, you stand accused before your ruler and his dignitaries of high treason. What have you to say?”

Jeffrey tried to recognize the voice, but he could not. Possibly it might be that of Whittaker, changed by the centuries, but even then it sounded unfamiliar. Yet if it was not Irwin Whittaker, who else could have survived so long? Unless the drug had been marketed, and perhaps some other person… Jeffrey lost himself in depthless speculation.

He heard the clear, sweet voice of Mira Sandos answering the charge against her, and that was as far as he got. Two guards had unexpectedly come up behind him and were motioning towards the doorway. Jeffery had no alternative but to go. Out in the corridor the reason was made clear to him.

“You have no pass,” the Chief Guard told him. “Produce that and you may enter. Otherwise you have no right to be here.”

“I have no pass to offer,” Jeffrey answered, shrugging. “Tell me, what do you think will happen to Mira Sandos?”

The guard studied him intently and Jeffrey saw in his eyes the same look that had been in the eyes of Arlin Jag before he had hastily excused himself. There had to be a reason for it, of course, but what?

Abruptly the guard turned away, motioning to his colleague, and Jeffrey was left alone.

Puzzled, Jeffrey stood thinking for a moment—then he made his way into the street and again became the focus of interested but respectful attention from the passers-by, and those still waiting to get into the Temple of Justice.

He started to walk slowly, disregarding the attention given to him, his mind centred chiefly on the lovely girl he had seen before the invisible figure of the Mind. Irwin Whittaker? Possibly. Possibly not. There might be a way of finding out if there were records anywhere…

Having become accustomed by now to asking questions, Jeffrey asked a few more and towards mid-afternoon, beginning to feel hungry again, he found himself in the great Hall of Records wherein were kept the historical archives. The uniformed attendant gave him an odd look.

“Identification permit, please.”

“Is it compulsory?” Jeffrey asked impatiently.

“Certainly. You ought to know that everybody has to…” the official broke off, and to his face came that peculiar expression that had appeared on the visages of Arlin Jag and the guards at the Temple of Justice.

“I merely wish to study the records. I don’t need to identify myself for that, surely?”

“I’m afraid you do. Regulations demand it.”

So Jeffrey left again, his mission unfulfilled. It infuriated him in one sense, but in another he reflected that perhaps it was just as well. Back of his mind was the constant fear that if he delayed too long the time machine might start back without him, stranding him in this perplexing era—unless Whittaker could somehow contrive to send the machine back again to rescue him.

He made his way back through the gigantic city towards the road along which he had made his arrival, and to the rising stretch of ground where, to his infinite relief, the time machine was still standing. He got into the saddle and looked back towards the mighty city, He thought again of Mira Sandos and the strange drift of circumstances that had led him to see her. He knew he would never be able to forget her…. Never.

Disconnecting the automatic mechanism he set the controls of the machine into reverse and moved the pointer to the 2012 mark. Then he closed the starting switch and instantly went reeling into the terrifying grey gulf.

Since he assumed the machine had not moved in space since his departure from Whittaker’s laboratory, he also assumed he must return to the same spot—and his judgment was correct. Out of the murk there presently appeared the laboratory’s familiar outlines, and then the big clock pointing to 7.45. Otherwise nothing was changed. The machine ceased functioning and he sat breathless and shaken, aware that he had been absent just ten minutes of normal time.

Dr. Whittaker was not in the laboratory, but the lights were still on. Possibly he had slipped into the house for a moment.

“Doc!” Jeffrey called eagerly, striding towards the connecting door. “Doc, I’ve come back! I’ve seen—”

Jeffrey stopped, his attention frozen to a hand lying motionless just behind the leg of the main bench. It was the bench upon which there stood the various phials and reagents with which Whittaker had been mixing his age-destroying potion.

Jeffrey moved forward until he had a full view of Whittaker sprawled on the floor. The fixed, frozen look on his face made it unnecessary to take his pulse. He was dead.

Very slowly Jeffrey got to his feet again, too shocked to know what to do for the moment. His eyes strayed over the bench where still stood the various ingredients for the age-destroying drug. There was also the empty glass from which Whittaker had taken his dose—and, further away, the formula from which he had worked. Jeffrey picked it up, pondered it, and then put it in his wallet.

Being a sensible man Jeffrey knew he had only one course, so he took it. He telephoned the local doctor and the police, and when he’d done it he realized with a shock that he had put himself into an extremely difficult position. He certainly would not be able to explain about Time travel. And if he did if was doubtful if anybody would believe him.

The local sergeant came presently and took the particulars. The body of Dr. Whittaker was removed, then, cautioned that he must stay in the district, Jeffrey was allowed to go. It was 9.30 when he entered his own home.

“Well, it’s about time!” Betty exclaimed. “Where on earth have you been until this time? You said you were only going to make a few local calls.”

“Which is exactly what I did do. I called on Whittaker, though, on the way home. And…and many things happened.”

Irritated by his late arrival Betty flounced out of the room and presently returned with the meal she had been keeping hot in the kitchen.

“If the electric bill’s gone up, don’t blame me,” she snapped. “I had to use up current keeping this confounded meal warm for you.”

“Thanks, Bet,” Jeffrey said. “Sorry if I put you out by not coming earlier—but as I said, things happened.”

“What things?” Betty’s mood changed suddenly. “Or do you mean something to do with that stuff for killing old age? The stuff we’re going to make a fortune out of?”

“That’s no longer a certainty,” he said. “And Dr. Whittaker is dead, Bet.”

Betty stared. “Dead? Dead! But—but what happened?”

Jeffrey rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead, and gave the details briefly. “Either he died from natural causes, or there is the more horrible possibility that the drug he took killed him. If that should be true I’m going to have the devil of a job explaining myself.”

“But—but why should you? You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Jeffrey gave a look and then compressed his lips. He motioned to the teapot and, mechanically, Betty drew forward the cups and saucers. After she poured the tea, Jeffrey explained exactly what had happened and it left Betty with her mouth sagging.

“And do you actually mean to tell me that you travelled five thousand years into the future?”

“I did.”

“But it’s ridiculous! It’s—”

“I tell you I did!” Jeffrey roared. “Stop bleating!”

Betty blinked in amazement.

“Sorry,” Jeffrey muttered. “My nerves are shot to bits after what I’ve been through.”

His mind was clouded with a multitude of worries, predominant among which was the death of Irwin Whittaker. More dimly still he remembered a lovely young woman who would not be born yet for nearly five thousand years. Mira Sandos… How different from Betty! How different indeed that whole city had been. Efficient, massive. The product of careful organization.

He ate his meal because he knew he must, then when it was over he took the formula of the age-destroying drug from his pocket and studied it.

“What’s that?” Betty asked curiously, pausing in the act of clearing the tea things.

“Never mind.”

Feeling he could not tolerate her any longer Jeffrey got up and strode from the room slamming the door behind him. This formula, handled in the proper way, was worth a fortune—certainly not the thing for his talkative and empty-headed wife to gabble about to her friends. Jeffrey made up his mind that later he would study the formula privately. For the time being it would be best to hide it.

Going to the bedroom he put the formula in an old steel cashbox, which rarely contained any savings. Locking it, he tossed it through the window into the back garden. Coming downstairs again he found Betty in the kitchen washing up the dishes.

“Finished running about?” she asked. “Usually you help.”

“I’m busy.” Jeffrey grunted, and went out into the garden.

He was absent about ten minutes. In that time, with the shovel from the woodshed, he had buried the steel box near the solitary apple tree. He came back into the kitchen with dirty hands and a preoccupied expression.

“Been gardening?” Betty asked sourly.

“Oh leave me alone, can’t you? I’ve got a lot on my mind!”

With a sniff Betty swept from the kitchen. Jeffrey scowled, washed his hands and then followed her—to locate her coiled up on the chesterfield before the fire, a novel in her hands.

Settling in the chair opposite Jeffrey surveyed her without being conscious of it. There had been a time when he’d admired her rounded figure and dimpled chin. That was before he’d discovered how lazy she was—and before he had seen Mira Sandos… He could still see her in his mind’s eye, the chains at her wrists, her superb figure as she had stood before the invisible figure of the Mind—

“It couldn’t have been Whittaker!” he found himself saying unexpectedly, and Betty lowered her book to look at him.

“Now what are you talking about?”

“Whittaker. I wondered whether it was he or not five thousand years hence. It couldn’t have been since he died tonight. Point is—who is it? Who will it be?”

“How should I know? If you’d behave like an ordinary husband instead of getting tangled up with mad scientists maybe we’d be happier.”

Jeffrey got to his feet. “I’m going to bed, Bet. I feel pretty much off-colour after all I’ve been through...”

All he received was a shrug, so he left the room and hurried upstairs.

Jeffrey lived in constant fear of how much he was going to be involved in Whittaker’s death. Three days later, he arrived home in the evening to find a police car in the street outside the house, and in the living room a chief inspector, a sergeant, and a startled-looking Betty.

“Evening, sir,” the heavier of the two men greeted as Jeffrey came in, and he rose from an armchair. “You’ll be Mr. Jeffrey Collins?”

“Yes. I’m he.”

“I’m a police officer. Mr. Collins.” The chief inspector held out his warrant card. “I’d like a few words with you privately.”

“My wife knows as much as I do. There’s no reason why you can’t talk in front of her.”

“Sorry, sir. This is personal.”

Betty left the room slowly and closed the door, Jeffrey motioned to the armchair and the chief inspector seated himself again. Jeffrey crossed to the mantlepiece and leaned against it.

“I suppose it’s about Dr. Whittaker?” he asked.

“It is, sir. We have the post-mortem report on his death and there are quite a few details that are obscure. I believe you were a friend of his?”

“An acquaintance would describe it better.”

“And a partner, Mr. Collins. His personal effects have revealed that much. A partner in some mysterious kind of business connected with science.”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Whittaker was a scientist and an inventor. I went into partnership with him because I believed that between us we could market quite valuable products.”

“Just so. Including a peculiar type of potion?”

Jeffrey was silent. The chief inspector got to his feet.

“Mr. Collins, I am not going to question you further because in doing so I’d step outside the letter of the law. What I am doing is charging you with the murder of Irwin Whittaker, and I have to warn you that anything you may say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.”

Still Jeffrey did not say anything. He had been expecting all this.

“You will be formally charged at headquarters,” the inspector added. “I must ask you to come along, sir.”

Jeffrey stirred. “Before we go, might I ask what I am supposed to have done to Dr. Whittaker?”

“The medical report says poison. In the analysis there is a predominance of potassium sulphacyanide, a deadly poison. There are other elements mentioned, all of which tally with the dregs in the glass on the laboratory bench. As to the motive—you were apparently not on very good terms with Dr. Whittaker.”

“I was on the best of terms with him.”

“Not according to your wife, sir. You quarrelled with him before you became partners.”

“True, but it was nothing serious. In any case a wife can’t testify against her husband.”

“I am aware of it. Mr. Collins. Nor will she, Mr. Collins. You have admitted you weren’t on good terms with Whittaker at one point in your association. That’s all I wished to verify.”

Jeffrey compressed his lips. “I suppose I can tell my wife what has happened?”

“Certainly.”

* * * *

And three weeks later Jeffrey’s trial began—a trial conspicuous for many unusual features. He did not have an eminent lawyer to defend him. In fact he doubted if the most eminent legal man alive could defend him in such a complex dilemma. He was almost resigned to the belief that he was doomed. And with good reason when he heard the accumulation of evidence against him.

Where had he been during the period when Whittaker had died? To this there was no alibi—except the preposterous story that he had been five thousand years in the future! Had he, before the partnership, quarrelled with Dr. Whittaker? Yes. They both stood to make a fortune from some kind of formula? Yes. Jeffrey was forced into a corner by the very nature of the questions and felt himself going further under each time.

When had he administered the poison? He had no reply. His fingerprints were not on the glass which had been on the bench, but they could easily have been removed and Whittaker’s hand clasped around the glass instead… The fact that he could not prove where he had been at the time of Whittaker’s death was the most damning factor.

What was the strange product which, placed on the market, was going to make a fortune? Here again Jeffrey was silent—for two reasons. Since he could not make use of the formula, and because his death seemed inevitable now, he was determined nobody else should get it, analyze it, and discover why Whittaker had died instead of prolonging his life. He also felt convinced that a jury would not accept the idea that a potion for indefinitely prolonging life even existed. So again it was silence weakening his case.

And the queer machine in the laboratory? What was it? Silence. How was it possible to explain that it was a machine to travel Time? Not even scientists themselves would be able to help because none had been told of Whittaker’s amazing journey, or Jeffrey’s either. They might, of course, find out the machine’s possibilities by tinkering with it, but embittered as he was Jeffrey saw no reason to enlighten anybody. It did not occur to him in his confusion that to have explained the facts, fantastic though they were, might have been the means of proving his innocence.

He gathered that the time machine was in the hands of the police at the moment, together with the late Whittaker’s effects. Not that it mattered…

When he was brought back into court after the jury had considered its verdict he learned that there were several points not entirely proven by the prosecution. He was not guilty of murder, but manslaughter. He accepted the edict in silence and heard the judge pronounce a sentence of fifteen years…

Jeffrey compressed his lips. He caught a glimpse of Betty in the crowded courtroom, and then he was led away—and it was a week later before his thoughts came back into focus amid the grey, impregnable walls of the penitentiary.

Fifteen years! And with what deadly slowness they passed. 2013—2014—2015. At first Betty visited the prison regularly; then gradually she became less attentive and finally stopped coming altogether. Jeffrey did not know what had become of her. He was left to himself and with only one thought that pleased him.

He could still dwell on the vision of Mira Sandos, and it was this that made him increasingly determined to find the time machine when he was released from jail. Unless scientists had discovered its powers he was the only man on earth who knew how to operate it. And he meant to depart from this Age completely, to go ahead again in a few years in precedence to Mira Sandos and learn all about her before the grim incident that had brought her before the all-powerful Mind.

From newspapers and broadcasts allowed into the prison he discovered that the queer contraption invented—so it was supposed—by Whittaker, was now in the British Museum as a curio, no scientist having been able to find out what it was supposed to be. So perhaps for that reason, it was relegated to the department for archaic and ‘peculiar’ discoveries. Apparently no scientist had investigated the matter.

This was probably because Whittaker had always been contemptuous of other scientists because they had failed to acknowledge his underlying greatness.

Jeffrey was resolved that upon release from prison he would somehow break into the Museum and, after that—

But in making this resolve Jeffrey reckoned without the tide of affairs in the world. The third World War exploded in 2018.

To Jeffrey and the inmates of the prison, it was a cauldron that bubbled and surged around them without actually affecting them. Times without number they were compelled to seek shelter far below the penitentiary, and night and day they heard the scream of jet planes and missiles and thud of bombs, merging with the months into the mightier concussion of atom bombs.

Their livid, unholy light blazed through the prison and inflicted ghastly burns on those inmates who happened to be directly in line with the blast. Perhaps because he was not really interested in whether he lived or died Jeffrey escaped unhurt.

Prison regulations were relaxed a good deal so that constant radio and television news could be received by the prisoners—and the more they heard the more they realized that there seemed to be no ordered generalship on either side any more.

Nearly every city was in ruins; there were millions of maimed and homeless, but Earth as a planet still existed when the war abruptly ended. The peoples themselves of both sides, sickened of bloodshed and ruin, had turned on their leaders and called a halt.

In 2019, Jeffrey was assigned to a labour group clearing up war ruins. There was a small bare subsistence wage and a hell of a lot of work—but at least he was in London, or the twisted remains of it, and the last thought in his mind was to help rebuild this wilderness of twisted steel and blasted masonry. He had in mind the vision of a city where it climbed to the cobalt sky—of grace, and balance, and achievement, and a lovely girl named Mira Sandos.

His one aim was to find the British Museum quickly. This, though, proved more difficult than he had expected for the guards of the labour gang were exceptionally vigilant, with orders to shoot any breakaway worker on sight.

Exactly who was ruling the country Jeffrey had no idea. It was clearly not military law, and apparently neither side had won a decisive victory—so evidently civilization had degenerated into a few ‘stronger than the rest’ men taking control in their respective countries in an effort to restore order out of chaos.

Now and again Jeffrey wondered about Betty—not with any affectionate feelings, since she had evidently abandoned him; but he did remember that she had been his wife and there had been a time when he had genuinely loved her. He had to know what her fate had been…

He was no longer a quiet-spoken traveller but a grim-faced man nearing middle age, the lines hard around his mouth. Good-looking, yes, he had always been that, but with the stamp of immeasurable bitterness upon him. Life, so far, had been a pretty grim business and shot through with rank injustice.

Then, at long last, came his chance to make a dash for the British Museum. The labour gang he was with moved to the rubble of Bloomsbury. And the museum was still there!

Jeffrey slid from the truck as it wheeled round a corner and hid himself amongst the ruins. He waited until it was dark and then headed down Great Russell Street. But only the walls of the museum were standing—the interior was utterly destroyed. He could have cried with anger and disappointment. The whole museum was an illusion—a shell that looked normal from a distance. The shell of a massive building with the interior lost forever. Gone with the destruction was a machine that could travel from this mad, desperate Age into an assured and majestic future.

All night afterwards he wandered about the ruined city, too disconsolate to care much what happened to him. It was not far from dawn when he came to Hampstead, on a higher level than the shattered metropolis. He sank down on a high mound of ground, oblivious to the cold wind blowing through his thin working clothes, and surveyed the fires of the survivors winking in the night like fireflies. Human beings, intent on building up their lives again through many weary years. At that moment, as he thought of the grim vista ahead of him, Jeffrey came to contemplating suicide as any man can…

He was deeply depressed. Then he remembered something. Somewhere to the north of Birmingham there was a steel box buried under an apple tree. In the intervening years, so intent had he been on considering the possibilities of the time machine, he had forgotten about the formula he had hidden. If it could be recovered he could study it and perhaps find out what was wrong with it to bring about the death of Irwin Whittaker. He might, if he could rectify the error, market the product even yet and secure for himself some financial stability.

There were trains running and he had just enough money from his wages to pay a one-way fare to the Midlands. That he looked a hard-faced, half-bearded man in the dirty clothes of a worker did not signify.

He expected to be arrested, but was not. It meant that having made good his escape from the labour force he had been written off. In any case the authorities had far more to bother about than try to find one man; so Jeffrey found himself more or less undisturbed.

Birmingham proved to be in better shape than London. The region where he had once lived was almost untouched by bombs. Even his home was still there, dilapidated and needing paint. He opened the gate, strode up the short walk, and rapped on the door. A window opened in the weak morning sunlight and a round face with grey untidy hair wisping about it peered out.

“Betty!” Jeffrey gasped, staring up at her.

The silence was intense for a moment as Betty went through the effort of recognition—then when the truth dawned upon her she slammed down the window. Jeffrey half expected she would hurriedly come to open the door, but nothing happened.

Raising his elbow he smashed the glass, then reached inside and unfastened the catch. Swinging the door wide he strode across the small hall and up the stairs. At the landing he stopped, taking in the scene.

Betty was just outside the main bedroom door, a frayed dressing gown dragged about her floppy figure. She had become old-looking and fat in the intervening years. Not that Jeffrey paid much attention to her: his eyes were fixed on a man of uncertain age in a soldier’s trousers and shirt. He was a little in front of Betty and seemed to be preparing for trouble.

“How—how did you get here?” Betty whispered.

Jeffrey did not answer. He gave a long, bleak stare and then hurried down the stairs. Going into the kitchen he hunted for food, packing his pockets with what meagre provisions he could find. This done he went into the weed-tangled garden and began digging under the apple tree. He knew that every move was being watched. Though be did not take the trouble to glance up over his shoulder he could feel two pairs of eyes fixed on him from an upstairs window.

He dug up the steel box. It was somewhat rusted but the corrosion had not bitten right through. A blow of the spade snapped the hasp and Jeffrey yanked the lid back quickly. The formula was still there, just as he had left it. Musty, but undamaged.

Throwing the shovel to one side he put the formula in his pocket, then without so much as a backward glance left the garden by the back gate and kept on walking.

By noon, Jeffrey had convinced himself that Betty no longer existed. For all practical purposes she was dead and he was a single man again—and in his pocket was a formula which might give him financial eminence in the years to come—the hard, gruelling years while Man patched up the ruins he had brought down for himself.

And for Jeffrey it was the start of a hard road, too. He did not stop to investigate the formula: there were more immediate matters to settle. He had to have money to keep him alive, some kind of a job with enough leisure to permit him to study. Things being what they were there was no difficulty in finding employment and the fact that he admitted he was a deserter from a prison gang made no difference. Harassed authorities were no longer concerned with a man’s depredations—only the fact that he was strong and willing to work.