Mists of Dawn (98 page)

The
green
light
looked
at
him
like
an
inviting
eye from
the
panel.
The
space-time
machine
was
ready to
go.

Wiping
his
sweating
hands
on
the
fur
of
his
clothing, Mark
examined
the
timing
dials
before
him.
He
had to
be
very
careful
now,
he
knew.
He
wanted
to
set
the space-time
machine
to
arrive
back
at
his
uncle’s
lodge as
shortly
as
possible
after
he
had
first
left,
in
order
to spare
Doctor
Nye
unnecessary,
frantic
worry.
His
uncle was
in
good
health,
and
was
far
from
being
an
old
man, but
Mark
well
knew
that
he
was
the
only
thing
that really
counted
in
Doctor
Nye’s
life.
He
lived
only
for Mark
and
for
his
trip
back
to
ancient
Rome,
a
trip
that Mark
had
unwittingly
deprived
him
of.
He
had
lost his
dream,
and
if
he
lost
his
adopted
son
as
well
.
.
.

The
small
pointer,
like
the
fine
second
hand
of
a watch,
was
exact
almost
to
the
second,
and
Mark
decided
that
fifteen
minutes
would
be
an
acceptable safety
margin.
That
would
not
give
his
uncle
time
to worry
unduly
about
him,
and
would
give
Mark
enough of
a
margin
to
prevent
a
spine-chilling
possibility
of getting
back
too
soon.

For
example,
he
thought,
what
would
happen
if
he got
back
to
1953
fifteen
minutes
before
he
had
left? Would
there
be
two
Marks
in
the
basement
of
Doctor Nye’s
house,
and
two
space-time
machines?
What would
happen
when
the
explosion
occurred
and
there could
only
be
one?
Or
would
he
simply
somehow
fade into
that
other
Mark,
waiting
there
with
his
uncle,
and talk
with
him
until
that
fatal
phone
call
and
the
blowup —and
then
go
back
in
space-time
again,
repeating
his adventures
in
the
Ice
Age
endlessly,
forever?
Would he
be
destined
always
to
go
back
too
soon,
caught
up in
an
eternal
circle
of
his
own
devising?

These
were
unanswerable
questions,
and
they
were questions
that
Mark
was
fully
content
to
leave
unanswered.
He
took
his
time
and
set
the
dial
with
infinite precision.
It
had
been
nine
o’clock
when
the
space-time
machine
had
left
on
its
strange
journey,
and
now he
set
it
for
the
return
at
precisely
nine-fifteen.
He
adjusted
the
other
dials
with
equal
care
for
the
day
and the
month
and
the
year
and
then
he
paused.

There
was
nothing
else
to
do
but
throw
the
knife 
switch
that
would
send
him
back.
He
was
keenly
aware that
he
was
not
an
expert
at
the
handling
of
the
controls,
and
a
nagging
fear
in
his
mind
told
him
that
he must
have
made
a
dreadful
mistake
somewhere.
And the
space-time
machine
itself
was
new,
untested.
It had
gotten
him
back
to
the
dawn
of
man,
but
could
it get
him
safely
home
again?