Mists of Dawn (42 page)

It
was
a
long
night.
The
storm
whistled
around
the little
lean-to,
and
the
cold
wind
and
the
rain
sighed up
the
mountain
valleys.
Twice,
Mark
crawled
over and
put
fresh
wood
on
the
fire—and
twice
he
saw TIaxcan’s
eyes
open
and
watch
him.
The
man
evidently slept
like
a
cat,
and
no
more
intended
to
put
himself at
Mark’s
mercy
than
Mark
cared
to
put
himself
at TIaxcan’s.

Mark
thought
of
his
uncle,
there
in
the
night
and the
howling
storm.
His
uncle
would
be
terribly,
frantically
worried,
he
knew.
Mark
was
all
he
lived
for,
and if
something
happened
to
him,
there
was
no
telling what
might
happen
to
Doctor
Nye.
It
was
very
difficult to
shake
off
the
notion
that
every
minute,
every
hour, that
passed
was
torture
to
his
uncle,
far
away
in
time, but
such
was
not
the
case.
Hard
as
it
was
to
understand,
the
fact
was
that
time
was
not
necessarily
going by
at
the
same
rate
of
speed
for
both
Mark
and
his uncle.
That
is,
for
every
hour
that
passed
here
in
the long-ago
world
of
the
Old
Stone
Age,
another
hour did
not
have
to
pass
for
Doctor
Nye
in
1953.
Mark could
see
that
a
little
ingenuity
would
save
his
uncle most
of
his
suffering.
For
instance,
if
he
could
once
get back
to
the
space-time
machine,
he
could
set
the
controls
for
a
time
not
more
than
fifteen
minutes
after
his uncle
had
first
dashed
upstairs
to
answer
the
telephone. Thus,
even
if
months
or
years
passed
here
in
the
dawn of
time,
even
if
Mark
lived
his
life
and
became
an
old man,
only
fifteen
minutes
would
have
passed
in
the life
of
Doctor
Nye.
It
was
hard
to
believe,
but
Mark knew
that
it
was
true.

As
the
black
night
wore
on
into
morning,
Mark
grew drowsy
and
gradually
relaxed.
It
was
good
not
to
be alone
any
more,
and
even
though
he
could
not
talk
to Tlaxcan
he
felt
a
genuine
kinship
with
him.
He
looked across
at
his
dark
sleeping
form,
and
the
night
seemed somehow
less
cold
and
fearful.
How
strange
it
was,
he reflected,
that
they
should
have
met.
What
were
the odds
on
any
two
people
meeting
in
the
twisted
destinies
of
the
world?
What
were
the
odds
on
them,
two who
had
lived
their
lives
separated
by
a
gulf
of
almost fifty-two
thousand
years?

Mark
did
not
know
the
odds.
There
in
the
shadows 
of
early
morning,
with
the
dying
storm
sighing
around their
small
shelter,
he
knew
only
one
thing.
Man
had met
man,
across
the
ages,
and
he
was
glad.

Mark
slept,
and
his
heart
was
lighter
than
he
had thought
it
would
ever
be
again.
When
he
awoke,
the sunlight
was
streaming
into
the
lean-to
and
the
storm was
over.
He
rolled
over,
and
the
cold
laughter
of
despair
once
more
mocked
him
in
his
mind.

Tlaxcan
was
gone.