Free Prehistoric Clock by Robert Appleton

take her up for a lengthy reconnaissance. I don’t know how we wound up here, or if we can ever return, but by God we’re going to find out. Last night’s fireworks started in this vicinity, in this very factory I believe. Whosever experimentation is to blame, whosever insanity smashed us through time, that person is going to have to make himself known— if he or she is still alive.”
    Verity swallowed bitterly, wiped her clammy brow with the sleeve of her tunic. The immediacy of the dinosaur attack had not given her chance to consider anything beyond surviving tonight. And neither had her deep sea diving ordeal really sunk in. She nursed the acute throbbing at the back of her head. She was too tired, too beset by impossibilities to think any more tonight.
    “If you’ll excuse me, my headache is…I find myself overcome.” She got to her feet and, without engaging any of them, stole away to her B-deck cabin fighting a tight, irrepressible ache in her heart. The urge to sob rose and rose like a vinegary high tide until she sank into her pillow and let hot breaths smother her thoughts.
    But she didn’t cry.
    “Oi, Garrett, where’s everyone goin’?” Little Billy Ransdell finished nibbling on his chunk of cheese and snatched up his book instead, protecting it from the exodus. The crewmen muttered to one another in their own tongue as they poured out of the low-ceilinged fo’c’sle.
    “Djimon says they’re holding a big meeting on deck.” Embrey, rested and lucid after a sound night’s sleep, didn’t want to miss the start of this crucial confab. Lieutenant Champlain had apparently invited everyone to attend—an ideal opportunity to hammer out the specifics of surviving as a group in this hostile world. Frankly, he didn’t know what to make of her as a woman. Her masculine attire and not-exactly-maternal attempt to engage the boy last night had been a little cringe worthy, but as an officer she had displayed bravery, and she certainly had the respect of her crew. A natural candidate for leadership of the camp. But the notion of anyone having autonomy over him, after what his family had suffered at the hands of British “justice”, stuck in his craw as he and Billy clambered up two flights of steps to A-deck.
    “Good morning, Embrey.” Reardon still hadn’t run a comb through his silver mop of hair, but at least it wasn’t a stuck-up brush anymore. He was standing on his own against the port bulwark, as far from the other civilian contingent as possible, one hand twitching nervously over the steam-pistol Embrey had given him for protection.
    “You slept well?” asked Embrey.
    “Quite. I gave a great deal of thought to our situation, though, and to our wayward journey through time. I will explain later when we are alone. Billy, my lad—” he turned to the boy, “—how would you like to help me in the workshop later? I’d love to show you my machine—it’s the only one of its kind in the world.”
    “Ain’t it dangerous?” The youngster peered at the ruins of London-that-was.
    “Not in the least. I’ll explain how it works, and you can—”
    The ship’s whistle sounded thrice, drawing everyone’s attention to the rear of the quarterdeck. The thirty or so African aeronauts immediately formed two fore-to-aft parallel lines at the foot of the stairs leading up to the poop deck. Embrey sighed and leaned back on the bulwark beside Reardon. This ceremony might be standard practice on a Gannet ship, but he fancied it was more for the civilians present, a display of discipline to assert a captain’s right of overall command.
    How would this gaggle of male politicians react to a woman calling the shots? And she was only a youngish lieutenant at that. No, it would be far better for diplomacy’s sake if one of them took up the mantle or, better still, someone as proficient in upper social circles as he was with a rifle.
    Why not himself, the son of a marquess?
    The two columns stiffened at the