Beresford lifted a bottle of red wine from beside his chair and took a swig from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Oxford eyed him disapprovingly. "It's a little early, don't you think?" he asked.
"My dear friend-it's never too early!" advised the marquess, languidly. "Besides, it's a wonderful restorative."
"Curing a hangover with red wine is a sure way to become an alcoholic."
"Nonsense! Besides, I can assure you that if you really do disappear into the future right before my eyes, the shock is liable to kill me unless I take a spot of wine to soften the blow!"
Brock reappeared carrying the time suit with its attached cape, the boots with their stilts, and the helmet. Oxford took the items, picked up the control unit, and followed Henry Beresford out of the room, along the hallway, around a corner, and into the big ballroom. They crossed this, opened the veranda doors, and exited the house.
The man from 2202 slipped into his suit and affixed the control unit to his chest. He placed the helmet on his head, pushed his feet into the boots, heaved himself up onto his stilts, then bent and shook the hand of the man from 1837.
"You really believe it, don't you?" said Beresford.
"Yes. Wait here. I'll be back in what for you will be just a moment."
He strode out onto the grass.
Oxford had managed to restore a channel between the control unit and the helmet. It transmitted his instructions, which were read straight from his brainwaves, but the connection wasn't stable enough for the augmented reality function.
He set his destination: ten o'clock on the evening of February 15, 2202; location: the garden of his house in Aldershot. He hoped his supper hadn't gone cold.
It was a sunny day and his batteries required less than two minutes before they were fully charged.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Let's go home and start again."
He waved at the marquess then bounded forward and jumped into the air.
"Now!" he ordered.
Reality blinked.
He fell and landed on flat ground beside a tree.
It was night.
It was not his garden.
He looked around. The lights of a small town shone behind him. A tall fence lay ahead, on the other side of a road. Low buildings were just visible in the darkness beyond it. Beside a gate, he saw a sentry box and standing in it, a man in uniform.
The man lifted something to his mouth and a spark of light flared.
Bloody hell. He was smoking! No one smoked in 2202.
Oxford, concealed by the tree, took a couple of steps until he was better able to see the sign above the gate. It read: British Army. North Camp. Aldershot.
This was not possible.
There had been a military base there since 1854 but it had been demolished in 2079 to make way for the town's expanding suburbs.
"Right place, wrong time!" he muttered, moving out of cover.
He approached the sentry rapidly, his stilts making a metallic clacking on the road surface. It attracted the man's attention.
"Christ Almighty!" the soldier exclaimed as he saw the tall gangly figure. "Stop! State your name and b-"
Oxford slapped the weapon aside and, in a sudden fit of temper, took the man by the throat.
"What's the date?" he demanded.
The sentry's face went slack. "Wha-wha-wha-?" he gibbered.
"The date!" spat Oxford, and struck the soldier's face with the flat of his palm, once, twice, thrice, until some semblance of comprehension crept into the staring eyes.
"What's the date?" he repeated. "Day, month, year?"
"Fri-Friday, M-March the ninth," stuttered the soldier.
"Year?" urged Oxford, shaking the man.
"1877."
Oxford's hand dropped and he stepped back in surprise.
The soldier fumbled for his rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger. A bullet scored the side of Oxford's helmet, jerking his head painfully. A shout came from off to the right. He heard the sound of booted feet running on the road. He turned, paced away, ordered his suit to take him back to Darkening Towers, leaped into the air, and landed in sunshine.
"You were gone less than two minutes," called the marquess. "I'm convinced, Mr. Oxford! You vanished right before my eyes! It was simply astonishing! I say, what's wrong with your helmet?"
The time traveller stumbled across the grass and collapsed to his knees at Beresford's feet. He reached up to remove his headgear and yelled in pain as heat blistered his hands.
"Careful! There's some sort of blue flame dancing around your head," advised the marquess. "Wait a moment!"
He ran into the mansion and emerged moments later holding a curtain, which he'd ripped down from inside one of the veranda doors. Wrapping it around the helmet, he lifted it from Oxford's head and dropped it onto the grass. The curtain started to burn. Beresford used the tip of his boot to pull it away. The blue fire flickered around the uncovered black dome then shrank and died.
"I didn't get home," said Oxford, yanking his boots off.
"To the future? Why not? Where did you go?"
"I went to Aldershot, to the place where my home is, but it wasn't there yet. I landed in 1877."
"Forty years from now," said Beresford, picking up the stilt-boots. "Come inside. My guess is you no longer object to alcohol?"
"It's still too early for me, Henry. If you don't mind, I'd like to sit alone for a bit. I have to work out what happened."
"Very well. I have business in London today anyway, and will probably stay overnight, so I'll leave you to your contemplations and will see you tomorrow morning. Treat the mansion as your own."
"Thank you, Henry; you continue to be very generous. I don't know how I'd manage without you. You have been a great friend."
"Not at all; think nothing of it! As a friend, may I make an observation?"
"Of course."
"You're beginning to look a little wild about the eyes, Edward. Since your arrival here you have worked on that control unit without cease. Perhaps you should rest up for a few days. Do something different. You could come to London with me. I'm going to the Athenaeum Club. Brunel will be there, the famous engineer-have you heard of him?"
"Of course! He's still famous in my time!" said Oxford. "But I can't, Henry. I can't leave Darkening Towers. This seclusion is bearable but if I step beyond these walls I'll be confronted with a world very different from my own. Too different! It's liable to cause a severe form of culture shock from which I may never recover."
"Culture shock? What is that?"
"Think of all the things that make you the man you are today, Henry. What if they were all replaced with entirely different things? Would you still be the same man?"
"I would adapt."
"Yes, up to a point adaptation is possible, but beyond that point, destruction beckons."
"Very well, if London is too much for you, then rest here. Sleep, drink, but leave off working and thinking for a few hours at least."
"I'll try."
Just after midday, the Marquess of Waterford rode out of Darkening Towers, leaving Oxford to his own devices.
Brock served a light lunch that the time traveller ate without tasting. Despite his host's advice, his mind was entirely occupied with his unsuccessful jump home. Later, he prodded and probed his helmet's hardware but without the proper tools repairs were impossible. He had to get back to 2202!
He brooded through the afternoon and into the evening, slumped in an armchair, oblivious to Brock, who occasionally appeared to tend the fire, to bring tea, and to offer food.