"Yes."
Beresford refilled their glasses and lit another cigar.
"Let's just say I'm prepared to play along with your rum little game, Edward," he said. "You say you require my help. In what manner may I be of assistance?"
"I need you to purchase for me a complete set of watchmaker's tools."
"For what purpose?"
"I have to repair my suit's control unit. I'm hoping that watchmaker's tools will be fine enough for such work."
"Control unit?"
"The circular object you saw on my chest."
"And am I to take it that when this `control unit' is repaired you will once again be capable of flight through time?"
"Yes."
"Phew! I have never heard such a tale in all my born natural! Yet I have it in mind to humour you! You will remain here as my guest and I shall get you your tools!"
"There is something I can tell you," said Oxford, "that might lend credence to my story."
"Really. What is that?"
"Five days from now, you will have a new monarch."
Slowly, over the next seven days, Henry de La Poet Beresford's amused disbelief began to waver.
The death of King William IV at Windsor Castle had, of course, been expected and came as no surprise. The fact that Oxford had predicted Victoria's ascension to the throne on June 20 wasn't particularly amazing-more a lucky guess, in all probability.
However, after extracting a vow of silence from his host, Oxford revealed a great deal more about the world he'd come from, especially about the different technologies and power sources available to future man. The human race, it seemed, would lose none of its inventiveness as time progressed.
It was the way the man spoke and moved, though, that most convinced the marquess. There was something indescribably foreign about him, yet, conversely, the longer he spent with him the more Beresford believed that his odd visitor was, as he claimed, an Englishman.
"You are evidentially a sophisticated individual," he said one morning, "yet-if you'll pardon my bluntness-you lack the social graces I would expect from a gentleman."
Oxford, who was seated at a table and using the watchmaker's tools to poke at the incomprehensible innards of his "control unit," responded without looking up.
"No offence taken, Henry. I don't mean to be rude; it's just that in my time social interaction is far less ritualised. We express our feelings and opinions just as we please, openly and without restraint."
"How barbaric!" drawled the marquess, dangling a leg over the arm of his chair. "Are you not permanently at one another's throats?"
"No more so than you Victorians."
"Victorians? Is that what we are now? Why, I suppose it is! But tell me, my friend: what possible advantage can there be in the abandonment of our ritualised'-as you would have it-behaviour? Are not manners the mark of a civilised man?"
"The advantage is liberty, Henry. From this century forward, the concept of liberty becomes central to personal, social, political, economic, and technological developments. People do not want to feel suppressed, so great efforts are made to establish, if not true freedom, then at very least a sustainable and overwhelming illusion of it. I doubt there's ever been a time when human beings were truly free, but where-or, rather, when-I come from, more people believe they are than in any other period of history."
"And what do they gain from it?"
"A life in which they are able to pursue opportunities without restraint in a quest for personal fulfillment."
"Fulfillment?"
"The sense that you have explored your inherent abilities to their utmost."
"Yes, I understand," replied Beresford, thoughtfully. "But surely if a person's opportunities are unbounded, then the possibilities increase? Doesn't that make it impossible to explore them all, and extremely difficult to settle upon any one area which can be explored to the point of fulfillment?"
Oxford looked up and frowned. "You make a good point, Henry. It's true that many people in my time are frustrated not by limitations but by an inability to make choices. They feel their lives are without direction and struggle to find their place in society."
"Whereas the humble `Victorian' labourer," mused Beresford, "knows his place almost from birth and almost certainly never gives thought to an idea so ephemeral as `fulfillment' except, I venture to suggest, in reference to a hearty meal and a pint of ale!"
"Done!" exclaimed Oxford.
"What?"
"The control unit. Fixed! It's a makeshift repair but it'll get me home, where I can give it a proper overhaul before coming back."
"To 1837, you mean?"
"I have some business in 1840 to take care of first, but yes, I'll come back, Henry. I'll bring you a gift from the future as a token of thanks for the hospitality you've shown me these past few days."
"For how long will you be gone?"
"My Lord Marquess, the concept still eludes you, doesn't it? I'll be back mere seconds after my departure, even if I'm away for years from my perspective. Would you have Brock fetch my suit from upstairs?"
"Certainly," responded Beresford. He pulled a cord that hung beside the fireplace. "You intend to leave at once, then?"
"There's no time like the present." Oxford smiled.
The valet appeared, was given his instructions, bowed, and departed.
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.